There is a brief period in the life of an almond that most people never encounter.
Before the shell hardens and before the familiar almond fully develops, there is the green almond. Fresh, vibrant, and fleeting, it exists for only a short moment each year. Farmers know it well. Chefs anticipate its arrival. For most people, however, this stage passes unnoticed.
The green almond occupies a fascinating space. It is neither the flower that came before nor the mature almond that will eventually emerge. It exists somewhere in between.
June is filled with moments like this.
As Red Summer unfolds, gardens become fuller, fruit begins to form, and the landscape shifts almost daily. The season carries a sense of movement. What was planted earlier in the year has begun revealing itself, yet much of the harvest still lies ahead. Everywhere there are signs of growth, though very little has reached its final form.
Nature appears remarkably comfortable with this stage of becoming.
An apricot does not rush toward ripeness. A berry does not concern itself with how quickly another fruit develops. The moon moves through its cycle without anxiety about when it will become full. Growth unfolds according to its own rhythm.
Human beings often struggle with this reality.
Modern life encourages constant measurement. Progress is tracked, milestones are celebrated, and timelines are created for nearly everything. Careers, relationships, creative projects, and personal goals frequently become attached to expectations about where life should be at any given moment.
Yet the natural world offers a different perspective.
A garden in June is not judged by what it has not yet become. It is appreciated for exactly where it is in the process.
This understanding sits quietly at the heart of the season.
The green almond became part of this month's collection because it embodies that idea so beautifully. Harvested before maturity, it serves as a reminder that potential has value long before completion. Its freshness speaks to possibility. Its brief season encourages attention. Its existence challenges the assumption that only finished things deserve celebration.
Most of life unfolds in this middle space.
Creative work spends far more time developing than it does being completed. Meaningful relationships evolve gradually. Personal growth rarely arrives as a dramatic transformation. Much of what matters most remains in a constant state of becoming.
Red Summer offers a chance to notice this more clearly.
The season is often associated with abundance, yet June reveals that abundance begins long before harvest. It appears in the first signs of fruit, in branches heavy with promise, and in the steady unfolding that takes place beneath the warmth of longer days.
There is a quiet confidence in the way nature approaches growth.
Nothing rushes.
Nothing forces itself forward.
Nothing apologizes for being unfinished.
The green almond carries that wisdom within it.
Its future is already present, even if it cannot yet be seen.
Perhaps there is comfort in that reminder.
Perhaps the season asks something different from endless striving.
Perhaps it invites an appreciation for what is still unfolding.
After all, the most beautiful things in nature spend very little time finished.
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