Just when finances are feeling tight, the gods (goddesses, angels, et al) smile down on my worrisome human head.

A Sunday with Mary bestows abundant gifts.

There are the tender roselles, freshly picked, for making vibrant, sweet red tea. A pile of sun-kissed tangerines from the valley below. Kale, arugula, basil, green beans.

The chard’s so large it grows up to my thighs. Enamored, I take a macro lens to the stalk and veins. I’m a palm reader, tracing the lines that zig and zag through chlorophyl valleys, holding life keys of photosynthesized destiny. I am in love with this Nature art.

And still there’s more!

The honey pour. There remains a batch of thick, golden nectar harvested from the hive on Beltane. Mary pours the 5 gallon jug through the funnel into my one gallon glass jar. We marvel at the beauty of the honey bee. Wax poetic on the gift of spreading the ambrosia of flower essence on our toast. How many people in the world have seen a 5 gallon jug of honey? It takes muscle to wrestle this treasure.

If I were to tell the whole truth, I’d admit that the last time we poured this honey, I was jumping over the fire in ritualistic prayer. Holding Beltane visions for the Fall. Deep in my heart were scenes set on an Italian coastline, my hands warming by some stone hearth in October seaside mist. A thick rug beneath my feet, the Swiss Traveler by my side. Infinite possibilities stretching out as deep and ancient as the Ligurian sea.

This autumn I’m still here at home. And after all these riches are loaded in the car, we gather around the backyard fire and eat an Italian meal. Manigotti and homemade bread. My feet warm by the flames. Occasional sparks fly toward my toes. The moon – almost full – is rising above the heads of these close friends, my family.

I am far from Cinque Terra. The Swiss Traveler is on another journey. But the terra firma beneath me is fertile, yielding love disguised as honey, chard and citrus.

Tonight in firelight there is not disappointment. Only curiosity. Contemplation of the essence of all things.

What’s at the heart? What really shapes these objects: flicking sparks, moonlit shadows, the sticky nectar I lick into my bloodstream?

It’s all love I’m harvesting. And it’s filling up the passenger seat of my car.