Marina del Rey—July 7
Yesterday I visited my bluff…again. It was the six month anniversary of the last full day living in my cottage…my haven….little did I know it would be the last. But yesterday I breathed in the silence all ‘round. No humans, no activity, only the sound of the wind in the trees, the feel of it on my face and in my hair, and I felt the sacredness of it all. The temporaryness of everything.
And the beauty.
The five fruit trees that greeted me every morning are in various stages of recovery, each dancing to its own tune very clearly, just as we all are.
The apricot tree, which never matched the fruit delivery of the others was dancing and laughing in lush greenery. The lemon tree, which had always been queen of the hop, no matter what, with an abundance of giant juicy bright yellow orbs, stood naked with a few shrivelled up brown marbles on its branches, with only a few new green leaves beginning. The nectarine tree, always fickle, now laden with strange hard as a rock fruit, and the orange tree is just now beginning to blossom as if it is spring,
THEN…., my fig tree….my sweet friend who perched right in front of my door. Her beauty made me cry. She is trying. She has broad shiny haphardly spaced leaves and lots of tiny figs that don’t seem to want to grow, but THEN…there, hidden behind one branch, the two most gorgeous ripe majestically purple figs I have ever seen.
I picked them, held them, and laid them on the steps of what used to be my home as an offering.
Joy.