SUN
Something happened today
That is pretty much the story. I had spent the day inside big ideas, systems, stories, plugins, companies, problems, all the usual mental traffic. Then there was a bowl on the counter with vegetables in it, and a tomato that had come from our own greenhouse. There is a danger in a book like this that every ordinary thing begins looking like it is auditioning to become a metaphor.
I liked the simplicity of the tomato precisely because I had begun seeing metaphors everywhere. Once you discover that an ordinary event can open an interesting question, there’s a danger of treating every event as unfinished editorial material. A meal becomes a thesis, a vegetable becomes a symbol, and before long the poor tomato has been given responsibilities it never asked for.
I wanted to let the tomato remain a tomato. That sounds almost comically unambitious in a book devoted to insights, but it felt important. There had been so much thinking, writing, organizing, and wondering. Then I made a salad, and something we'd grown was on the plate. The pleasure didn't require a lesson about patience, sustainability, or the miracle of life, although all those thoughts were available if I went looking for them.
I could simply enjoy the fact that the tomato was there. Not everything lovely needs to justify itself by becoming a metaphor. Sometimes the most generous response to an ordinary pleasure is to let it stay ordinary for a while. And then, of course, I found myself writing about it. The tomato was apparently not quite off duty.
The tomato made me smile because it was almost aggressively ordinary. After all the abstract conversations and technical complications, there it was: something from the greenhouse, grown into actual food. I didn’t need to tell the tomato about the projects I had been working on. It was perfectly happy being part of a salad.
The contrast reminded me how much I enjoy the tangible world when I remember to notice it. A day spent among ideas can still be brought back to earth by something I can hold, cut, taste, and enjoy. The little moment didn’t need to justify itself by becoming a profound lesson. Supper was enough.
The greenhouse detail was enough. Something had grown, it was part of our meal, and I enjoyed it. I didn’t need to turn the experience into an argument about gratitude or sustainability or the mysteries of life. There was a pleasing freedom in allowing a small pleasure to stay small. Sometimes attention means recognizing that a thing is good without asking what it can teach me.
The tomato does not need to represent the fragility of civilization. It can be a tomato. It was good. I ate it. Doggy treat. I actually think this matters because attention can become another form of greed. Once you discover that ordinary life contains meaning, you can start squeezing every ordinary moment until meaning comes out. Leave the poor tomato alone. Notice it. Enjoy it. That is enough. Not every treat needs a lesson attached. Sometimes lunch is lunch. Thank God.
