Artichoke, Pears and an Onion

I often write at the kitchen table and since today was one of those days, I've been glancing at this still life for hours.

The bowl sits to my left, on a shallow counter below the original glass-doored cabinets in this, our 1925, blue-collar Tudor. We've lived here for fifteen years now. The longest either my husband or I have lived in the same place, multiplied by 5. Our children--though born on another continent--have no memory of a different home.

I think this is good.
I think this is rich.

Our yard sprouts plants dug from friends' yards; plants divided from our own yard, year after year: hosta, bleeding heart, day lilly, iris, rudebeckia, veronica, penstemmon, lavender, holly hock, rosemary, oregano, peonie, echinacea . . . the list goes on.

This house--this home--is our community. People come in for dinner; they share a meal, a glass of wine, a conversation over tea. We walk the neighborhood; we know the children, the dogs, the elders who have lived their entire lives on this block. This is my life, and I love it.

I thank God my children have not been forced to wield guns in the streets. I thank God for this oasis--this home in the city--where people can come together.

Today, I have an artichoke, three pears and an onion . . .

What more do I need?

Photo: in my kitchen, seattle, WA