“All goes back to the earth, and so I do not desire pride or excess of power, but the contentments made by men who have had little: the fisherman’s silence receiving the river’s grace, the gardener’s musing on rows…” A little Wendell Berry goes a long way. As the gardener’s rows are getting tucked in for the winter, it behooves us to relish in contentment. It is so easy to get caught up in the rush of summer, to make long lists of waiting accomplishments, that we neglect to see the corruption of pride, or excess of power; supposing we are the masters of our fate, the boilers of our potatoes. The disappointments we attribute to drought, or improper spacing of seeds, the best laid plans that did not come to be must be received from the conductor like a line of music, a dissonance that will make the resolve all the sweeter. To be content with little is to make room for much. Here my apron-full of green tomatoes lie in wait, banished to the pantry in an old Hannaford bag, awaiting their time to come to their full glory. Benedic, Domine, nos et haec Tua dona, quae de Tua largitate sumus sumpturi, per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen