Contemplation, Self-Reflection

olio

Late October we gathered together in community around thousand-year-old trees.

On this bright Saturday morning, to kick off the start of the long weekend, the children were graciously asked to volunteer to pick the olives from the school orchard. This is so they can be turned into oil and later sold it to us to raise money for the school.

Fishing nets are thrown and spread out on the ground at the feet of trees… ready for the catch.
Little hands handle little plastic sand rakes, ingeniously stuck to the ends of long broom sticks enabling them to reach up to the just-out-of-reach branches above their heads.
With wooden limbs and plastic claws they scrape at the prize.

Little oval fruits, purple, green, brown and black come tumbling out of the sky.
Showering us all like hail stones.
The waxy texture makes them bounce and roll around underfoot. Little feet squish them, as little feet are prone to do, while they stomp and stumble around, unsteadily.

The nets are filled, then emptied into baskets. We take a break.

Bread and olive oil.

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