A brief but torrential downpour drenched the farm shortly before I arrived, so the paths between the green bean rows were shimmering pools of water. I toed off my sandals, cuffed my capris, and ventured gingerly into the mud.
Crouched between plants I chatted with a woman in a sunhat about pickling, and then with a friend from shul about hoping we have a minyan tomorrow morning. It didn't take long to fill my bag.
As I walked back up to the barn, I realized it had only been a few hours since I took a handful of this same Berkshire earth -- loose and crumbling in my fingers -- to drizzle atop a plain pine coffin, a final act of respect.
It seems right somehow that the same earth in which we bury our dead also gives rise to the glorious cornucopia of produce that sustains us in life.