Poet in the orchard
In praise of the life of the senses, and of pie
Deep bows to those who find themselves drawn beyond the particulars of sensory experience in search of Oneness. Me, I grew up next door to an abandoned apple orchard, and I’ve been captivated ever since by the mortal, glorious, heartbreaking, incessant Each-ness of things.
2020 Whenever I hear the mystics talk about appearance and detachment and illusion, I want to walk out back into the apple orchard, rest my weight against one tree’s trunk and low-angled boughs, and feel its bark scrape close along my skin. Whenever I hear the mystics talk about the via negativa and silencing the senses, I want to go and stand in the apple orchard under a dapple of turning leaves, to hum in harmony with drunken bees that gorge on autumn’s sun-fermented windfalls splattered wanton and brown among the weeds. Whenever I hear the mystics talk about dissolving the self into the All, the One, I want to fill a basket with apples from the orchard, sun-warm, picked one by one from low-angled boughs, carry them home to peel and slice before they cool, enfold them in spice and soft pastry and heat them again, then go to the mystics where they talk in this mortal moment, in the Eternal Now, and invoke their reverent silence with a slice each of blessing — of apple, orchard, earth, sun, spice, and for an added consolation, spoonfuls of ice cream melting on the top.
The mystics can sit in silence and meditate all they like, but it won’t bring them apple pie, unless they have a friend in the Here-and-Now who will bring it to them. Thank you, Elizabeth, for baking this delicious poem.
I had just pulled my 'first of the season' Apple Pie from the oven and was enjoying its cooling fragrance when I read your beautiful tribute. Praise Indeed! Thank you, as always, Dear Elizabeth.