The rhubarb patch at the front of my house soaks up full sun and produces a crop robust enough to nourish many families in my community. My neighbours know they are welcome to wander down any time and harvest a few stalks. Goodness knows, I could never use all that rhubarb.
Sharing my rhubarb wealth takes me back to my roots on a farm outside a small town where neighbourhood sharing was the norm, not an aberration, and where natural foods grew wild for the picking. I smile when I see my friends bent over the huge leaves looking for thick, juicy stalks. (I will need to thin the plant next year. They stalks are getting a little spindly.) I reminds me that as a child I broke off rhubarb stalks and munched them down raw. It makes my mouth pucker at the memory of bitter chokecherries we picked to make sweet jelly, or salivate at thoughts of juicy, tiny wild strawberries plucked carefully from their tender plants growing close to the forest ground.
My community rhubarb makes my city home feel like a country place. It reminds me that nature can never really be owned but is there for the picking.