Ripening

Two apple trees grow at the top of the hill, situated near the edge of the road and surrounded by lawn grass. When the apples ripen and fall the property owner mows over them, and I see no evidence they are ever gathered. With red skin and sweet, white flesh, each one is about the size of a large (maybe jumbo) egg. Small for an apple, they fit easily three in each hand. They have a comfortable, familiar weight and balance in my hand, that muscle memory from girlhood farm chores.

Today I carried home six apples. They weighed a pound and a half. I had four others from my walks on previous days. I washed and cut up all ten apples, cutting away all the bruised and wormy parts, saving out the pure, sweet flesh. I sprinkled a little Truvia over the pieces, a little cinnamon, a little time in the microwave, and they were delicious. Let nothing go to waste.

Last evening at journaling group one of the prompts took me to memories of the farm where I grew up. There was an orchard there, and we picked the cherries, pears and apples. Last evening, I remembered how I loved being outside at dawn, the energy of the sunrise hour when everything was fresh again, the cows patient in their walking, dew or frost trimming the grasses and such. All the sturdy, dependable, reliable routines.

I also remember how I loved the end of day. I used to experience such a just-right feeling back then as I moved through the atmosphere of mowed lawn, tidy garden, tended and quieting creatures in chicken house, barn, meadow, cultivated fields and woods. In the years when I knew I had been a primary contributor to the maintenance of the order that felt so peaceful, I had such a feeling of ownership and attachment. The lengthening shadows of a summer day seemed to wrap everything in a blanket of serenity. In winter, the starshine seemed like a blessing flung out over all, including all the heavens. Clouds created a mystery of their own, and storms as well.

For today I carry a quiet energy, an end-of-day energy, full of memories of all sorts and also a serene sense that all is well, and all shall be well, all manner of things shall be well.