Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Arils


We eat pomegranates at Rosh Hashanah, depending upon whom you ask because they're seasonal or because they're round or because of how many seeds they contain. I love the ruby droplets for the way they stain the counter and for the thrill of puncturing, and for how they make me think of the moments from this past year that I want to retain.

In the present tense time is everything but as it moves behind us to past it's not; it's just little encapsulations, now, and maybe yours are ruby red and maybe I sheathe mine in a luminescent indigo but we wrap them with varying degrees of tenderness, those moments that were once the life I'm living and now small treasures in a back basket. There are L's wide-eyed facial expressions and the night I lost my mind so the lovely husband canceled on his evening obligation to parent in my short respite from and when E was petrified, literally, too still to breathe, of kindergarten, and that little morsel from just this morning when I dropped her off at her old daycare for a day visit because her big-girl school is closed and she informed me of her reluctance, because daycare is so much BORINGER than kindergarten. There were my toes in sand on two coasts and the company of a beloved friend now fourteen time zones distant and the winter that was notable for being so less wintery than the one preceding. There was an earthquake and a hurricane and first words and new opportunities and, gratefully, only a few sorrowful losses. Encapsulated, each, and some still dripping.

The traditional Jewish metaphor of the pomegranate is not my personal perspective on the fruit: my favorite thing about it, really, is the way I get to whack it with the back of a spoon to release those arils. I might be saying, "come out, you sweet and sour fruits of life" or "release, for I have a holiday feast to prepare for people I love." I might be.

But I'm not, because what I'm really saying is, "get out now, you stubborn clots. Let me dispense with you."

I have a new year to begin. And I love a blank slate.

Whether you're Jewish or not, shanah tovah, my friends. May 5772 bring new focus to your dreams and new opportunities for achieving them, and many, many sweet morsels for your baskets.
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