A Watermelon’s Second Life
I was busy
cutting up a watermelon and thinking about the drought, and my poor little tree
in the front yard when it hit me. Watermelon, water, tree. I
changed gears from putting the watermelon in the city compost bin to finely
slicing the watermelon. I was going to
water my tree with watermelon. Of course,
it is not the deep soak, a tree at the end of summer was needing but it was
something, right? The water would drain out of the melon, into the grass and soil
and somehow nourish the tree with life giving water. It took me five trips with my little filled
blue bowl of watermelon slices, partially crawling under the tree bent over so I resembled the Hunchback of Norte Dame. I flung the precious cargo
against the tree. By the end of my
efforts with an aching back I wondered what I was doing. It was an act of love.
My husband's only remark was, “So you are fertilizing the tree.” Nothing about my noble and
extensive effort to save a tree, feed the bugs and insects. “Well, the raccoons will like it,” was his final
remark before he headed into the house. Some of us are the dreamers, the
inspiration behind the dreams and others simply headed into a house for dinner.
Often, I find myself deep in philosophical thought and filled with a fantastic belief I can move mountains, save the world, work on changing the weather and without a doubt have another piece of chocolate. It happens in the kitchen. During the period of slicing my vegetables and working on cooking, I am filled with gratitude for the bounty before me. I delight in the colors of the different carrots, peppers, tomatoes, and sample them as I go. I marvel at the firm flesh of potatoes. I am grateful and I feel one with universe. I am in a Zen moment.
The real magic happens at night as I start figuring out recipes in my mind as I rest in my bed waiting for sleep to overcome me. Not all are masterpieces, truthfully, none are anything to boast about, or share the ideas on Facebook. Simple, hearty, and healthy. I wish my mind could always be so. There is so much excessive junk in the news. It can be wearing on the spirit.
Spirit, hmm,
it is a mouthful whenever you say it or a brain overload when you think it. I believe it to be the real me.
Not this body I am in. This blob of organs, muscles, and bones in a unique
structure capable of being a miracle each day. Spirit, I am it somehow. Hidden
like the redness of a watermelon beneath the green striped rind. The only
difference is the watermelon doesn’t worry about what it is, it simply is. For
the most part, I don’t worry either but it has taken over half a century for me
to reach a point where I can say “This too shall pass.” In the end, I will be
like a watermelon thrown beneath a tree undergoing a second life and it will be
okay.
