I felt blessed this morning at the farmer’s market on Isham Street in Inwood. 

The air was sweet and fresh and the folks were in good spirits, up here in the northern tip of Manhattan.

My sense was that, despite the thrum of frustrating news pumped at us from all sides in this 24/7 media vortex — and that is certainly part of being a Real New Yorker — the blessing of the day took precedence. 

The crowd here was reminiscent of Park Slope’s farmer’s market, circa 1988.  I got the sense that these people weren’t particularly rich, but that they lead rich lives.  They are considerate.  They read books.  They love their children, their neighbors, their pets.  Themselves.  They know right from wrong.
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No, this was not a sharp-elbows crowd of the self-entitled.  This was a sweet crowd, quietly considering the attributes of one unwaxed apple over another, selecting fresh breads from upstate New York, and fish from the deep green seas off the East End of Long Island.

At every turn, I saw beatific smiles on the faces of these Real New Yorkers.  And why not?  The skies were blue.  The wind was calm.  The air was fresh.  It was chilly but, hey, it’s December.

Maybe times are harder, but here we all were, finding our way, picking healthy vegetables, poultry, honey — nature’s bounty — to make a hearty, nourishing meal for family and friends.

It’s the holidays.  For goodness sakes.  It’s the holidays.  We’re alive.  And that’s more than enough for a small celebration, in my book.