Growing
Ripe
“Ripeness
is
what falls
away with ease.
Not only
the heavy apple,
the pear,
but also
the dried brown strands
of autumn
iris from their core...”
Jane
Hirshfield (“Ripeness”)
I pick the last ripe
tomatoes—the sweet little grape ones—from yellowed vines. They
peek shyly out of pink and white flowers still in mad bloom, volunteers from the
compost soil I used to fill the pots. These are far tastier than the
heirlooms I purchased from the farmer's market. Like orphan children,
they have found home and are giving back whatever they can muster.
When serendipity produces such sweetness, we are surprised and
delighted, but we shouldn't be. This earth is designed to provide,
and so far, it has.
Always in autumn, I think
of my grandmother, Mayda, who became melancholy when the leaves began
to tinge brown, and acorns littered the driveway. “Everything is
dying.” she would say, even though she knew that spring would come
again. Red-ripe tomatoes on yellow vines reminds us that the harvest
will be followed by the darkness of winter. Death of a sort. The
great wheel turns, and we turn with it.
Autumn should also remind
us that, if we do our soul work, all the unknowns we face will be met
with equilibrium—at ripeness we will have trust in the wisdom of the
cycle of life. There is ease in the falling away. I met a friend on
the street today as Liza and I walked. He has just visited a
bankruptcy lawyer to see what his options are in the face of losing
his job. He's in the ripe stage of life, and in the calmest of voices
told me, “This doesn't scare me like it used to. I know everything
will work out.”
All living systems have a
beginning, a middle, and an end. Fortunately for us, we have the
option of consciously living each of the moments we are allotted. We
can grow ripe with contentment, even joy. We know the green blade
will rise again, and so will we.
In the Spirit,
Jane
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