None of this requires grand gestures.
Just a cucumber, sliced thin, left to steep in a pitcher of water overnight.
Or tossed with mint and a drizzle of olive oil at supper.
Or eaten slowly, on the back porch, as the sun sets.

The earth doesn’t shout its gifts.
It offers them softly—
a cool crunch,
a green scent,
a quiet promise:

“I AM HERE.
LET ME HELP YOU REMEMBER HOW TO BE WELL.”

So the next time you hold a cucumber,
pause.
Feel its cool weight in your palm.
And know this:
You’re not just eating a vegetable.
You’re tending a friendship—
with the earth,
with your body,
with time itself.

—
With gratitude for the small things that hold us up.