The Quiet Man on Saint Antoine
When you stroll the market in the city, look for bunches of crisp tender greens attached to the Autumn roots for sale. They are the mark of the freshest produce. There's one man along the riverside who places things thoughtfully down on his table, as if he wants to stay in harmony with that which nature has given him. Amongst the burgeoning splendor of crops on the move at this market, this zen kind of presentation can hit you quite squarely. He does not impose strict order on his table, nor does he make his activity seem like a daily grind of repetitive stacking and selling. He does not shout, pile things up or line up splendorous rows of the same thing over and over. He does not shine his goods with colored lights or erect red umbrellas to cast a rosy glow on everything. He lets the natural beauty of what comes from his garden speak like quiet poetry on an Autumn morning. A bunch of this, a group of that, a flourish, a swirl. Some wild things, some which he's planted in rows. Fifty-fifty him and nature. No matter what the pace we choose to profit from this labor, or how we present the fruit, it will continue to grow. I find that heartening.