There’s an old apple orchard tucked behind a bend in the creek, long since abandoned by the people who planted it. Time and weather have had their way with it, branches broken, fences swallowed up, nearby adobe houses now melting in the rain.
In the late part of the year, the trees still give.
Apples fall thick in the tall grass, soft with rot, sweet with sun.
I saw a young mule deer buck step out from the cottonwoods and into that orchard.
He moved quiet, careful. His coat was turning with the season, and his antlers still wore the last threads of velvet. He stood there for a long while, listening. Then he lowered his head and began to eat.
Just a few apples. Slowly. Like he understood something most of us forget: you don’t have to take everything just because it’s there.
Later that same day, a black bear came through.
Older, heavier. He knew this orchard. Knew the scent of fruit starting to ferment in the grass. And he went at it hard, snuffling, tearing, crushing overripe apples in his jaws. Gorging himself drunk on the sweetness. By the time I saw him again, he was stumbling, weaving through the orchard like someone who’d had too much at the back‑porch barbecue.
That, too, felt like a lesson.
The orchard offers.
It gives, even a hundred years later.
And the difference between the buck and the bear was how they received it.
There’s a grace in knowing when enough is enough.
It’s easy to believe that to be poor and hungry is always noble, and that comfort or abundance is some kind of moral failing.
But maybe it’s not what you have, or even what you desire, but how you receive the gifts given to you. Whether you receive the gift with reverence and stewardship… or consume it without thought.
🔥 A thought to ponder around the fire:
Not every blessing is earned.
Some just fall to the ground like apples.
What matters is how you step into the orchard.Whether you enter with humility.
Whether you walk away with balance still in your body and heart.
Perhaps how we receive and steward the gift we receive is everything.