My blooming flowers are a simple and powerful way to do good. It costs me nothing to bring people fresh flowers, and I can brighten their day. The human soul wants it.

I look at the news once a day, sometimes twice. I’ve learned to plan a soul-cleansing ride after I soak up some poisonous anger, grievance, cruelty, fear, hatred, and bigotry the devil has unleashed into the world to test our humanity.

I hope to pass.

But for me, it takes vigilance and discipline, and hard work. Maria will tell you I am not the most cheerful person in the world.

After the news, I take some deep breaths, meditate for a while and then think of a small act of great kindness I can commit. Most of the time, it’s free and very simple.

These acts of good are a selfish impulse because it is what grounds me and makes me feel good, hopeful, and proud of myself.

It’s like a windshield wiper of the heart; it wipes away the bad stuff and lets the good stuff come up. It works for me. It channels the poison into good; I’ve learned you can make hatred and fear work for you.

Hatred and grievance are not natural human conditions, I think we all want color and light and some love in our lives.

My garden is ready for some bouquets.

I knew right away what I would do for soul-cleansing this morning. I cut some flowers (my third bouquet of the week) and drove four or five miles onto the background to a rusting and tilted old RV used to house some migrant farm workers.

It’s not visible from any well-trafficked road; you must drive on dirt to get there; it’s out in the open sun a dozen yards from a vast milking house full of dairy cows.

You get the idea. When I lived in cities, I had no idea this culture existed, apart from political arguments over immigration.

About a dozen people live in this trailer in a small space meant for two or three people, and they are rarely seen beyond the confines of their farm and trailer. None of the local people are ever invited to go inside.

It’s a secret but well-observed social contract: we don’t bother them; they don’t bother us.

If you go to Wal-Mart early on a weekend morning, you might see them pile out of rusty vans, do their grocery shopping quickly, and slip away.

They never met local people, spoke to them, socialized, or interacted with them. I am told that some of them have been living and crammed into those small trailers for years.

I have no idea if they are legal or not. Nobody wants to know; they don’t wish to be seen. I have spoken to some of the migrant workers once or twice over time, but few speak English or want to draw attention to themselves.

They are never comfortable talking with me.

They work hard in the heat and cold mud, manure, and fertilizer.

I drove to the front door of the old RV (the farmers buy them and use them for housing) and tapped on the door. Visitors are not welcome here and are rare.

The door opened a crack, and a thin young woman in jeans, a T-shirt, and a bandana opened the door. She was sweaty and covered in dirt, she had been working.

I took to be Mexican or South American most because that’s where I always heard the migrant farm workers came from.

We brought food to one family a couple of years ago during the worst of the Trump Administration’s terrifying manhunts, and they told me it was a lawless world. They could never call the police about theft or abuse or complain to government agencies about their living conditions.

They all sent money home so their families could eat and be safe. Some don’t see their families for many years, if ever. Most have cell phones now and can communicate with their families, a new luxury.

This seemed a good place for my good act of the morning.

I peered at her, and she waited for me to explain myself.

She looked frightened, suspicious, and most of all, bewildered. It was as if she had just seen a ghost.

“I brought flowers,” I said, holding up the Mason jar I had just filled with flowers from my garden and a few from Maria’s. “From my garden!” I said proudly.

“No buy,” she said, about to close the door. She had no idea what I had said.

(“No, sell,” I answered, “el obsequio, gift, these are free, a gift for you,” seeing she was confused, I put them down on the ground, waved, and walked away.

I turned back and shouted “gratis!” and kept going, smiling and nodding to her. She opened the door. Another figure, a young man, stuck out his head behind her. I should say that I have an English-Spanish translation App on my Iphone.

It’s a curious world. In some ways, we are farther apart from one another than ever. In others, we are closer.

When I got to the car, I turned around and saw that she had stepped out and picked up the flowers, I saw a big smile break out on her face, and she waved and shouted something I couldn’t hear. The man stepped out and waved to me also.

All the poison had gone away.

I was happy to be returning to my farm and get to work.

You don’t have to spend or raise money to do good. I know that flowers brought smiles to people’s faces and left their spirits.

“La Semana Proxima,” I shouted as I pulled away in my car.

It means “see you next week. I’ll be back to the trailer next week with a new bouquet.