Chapter Eleven - Part Three - Peach Pits

>I am so gratified to know that one can still grow peaches from peach pits. I live in some state of fright that Monsanto, and like-minded studios, have taken over peach growing and movie-making completely, by all means necessary including rendering the pits of peaches infertile, or the minds of humanity without a spark of their own in favor of "reality."

I will, therefore, resist the urge to have someone help me along with a sapling to graft my heirloom peaches to for quick growth. Finally, I have fully accepted that my writing takes time and nurturing that I can't get from working with quick-fix coaches. No one is going to tell me how and when and where to plant but the memoired expertise of those I admire. There I go making up words again. But, really, I want to only study those who have planted peaches from pits, or written from their beating hearts.

Sure there is always a ticking clock on progress. It's called "death." I do actually want to write my work before I die, and who knows when that fellow will come knocking and so there is always a sense of urgency along with my efforts to be patient with myself.

The Spaniards who brought the peach pits over on rickety-rockety sailing vessels probably thought about the fact that it would be at least 4 years before those peaches might bear a few fruit, but it didn't stop them from bringing their dreams along. Think about that. They came here with a long-term plan. They weren't here with the understanding that they'd raid a few Native villages for gold and leave. They planned to stay, to settle in, and to make new homes. To me, in this fast-paced, hurry up and make your million world, that is an astounding thing. They trusted at some level that they would survive until the peaches bore fruit, and they had zero evidence for this but a trust in God and their worthiness.

I know that they were naughty, naughty in taking over Native lands, and obliterating Native Cultures but still I find something very admirable in their vision. I know for instance that the Ladino Sephardi culture traveled across swamps and prairie to get right here to Southern Colorado in the 1500s, escaping Isabella's wrath against the Jews who ironically had allied with the Islamic Moroccans that had occupied Spain for 150 years or so. I can't really fault those Spaniards for wanting to find a new place to live. They brought peaches with them because they planned to stay.

And, so for me growing peaches from pits, or writing from my heart instead of for a quick buck, is all about staying, stability and presence in the life I live today and the hopes I have for tomorrow. Let others grow commercial peach orchards, and write blockbusters with all the bells and whistles. I trust that my heirloom peaches grown from pits, oddly shaped perhaps, subtle in their texture and color, will eventually get a reputation for sweet, slobbery goodness that cannot be forgotten easily, and that attract an audience who appreciate them for years.

Marching into Birthdays

Somehow I managed to have my children 3 years and 361 days apart, thus making their birthdays a mere 3 days difference. I LOVE birthdays. Normally. When my kids were little I was one of those "overboard" moms. The parties I threw! OMG. I was insane, frankly. I would plan them for six weeks, starting sometime in January to consider the theme...

My favorite party for my daughter was the Japanese birthday. I went to downtown Denver at the Pacific Mercantile to search for little goodies and all things Japanese, like Hello Kitty favors, unusual Asian candies and plastic chopsticks, of course, all in take-out containers. My daughter is a huge fan of Udon noodle soup, so of course, I served 30 kids Udon noodles. There were lots of paper umbrellas in fruit punch, and the top of the day was cake and Mochi! Mochi are little hollow rice pastries stuffed with ice cream, coated with rice flour -- the perfect carry around ice cream treat for a bunch of six year olds. SIX YEAR OLDS.

The best birthday for my son was two years ago in the midst of my new romance, a party at a local hotel with a poolside wizard's theme. We rented two rooms since my apartment was too small for anything like a slumber party. Kids from his class came and swam and then had wizard cap upside down ice cream cones. Then a few boys stayed for an overnight extravaganza that included pizza in the restaurant with a live blues band. The boys who stayed, swam themselves to exhaustion and then destroyed a hotel room. We took the dog, and she temporarily escaped to explore the neighborhood. The boys got up and swam some more until their parents arrived and picked their soggy little bodies up. Perfect for SEVEN YEAR OLDS.

When I think of these parties, I am aghast. Aghast. What have I done? Now, that I have sobered up from who knows what infection that was, my inclination is to go to the nearly extreme opposite. It's not that I want to ignore them, but just to give small, quiet acknowledgment of how much my children mean to me. HOWEVER, what I've done cannot be undone, and anything small now looks like Mommy no longer cares. The fact is that now that my priorities are straighter and more practical, I simply cannot afford to do these extravaganzas anymore. It's not that I wouldn't love to do them if it were within reason and my budget. But those parties are memories of another time, another me, and I can't allow them to hold me hostage, even as they may, and probably will hold my children hostage.

I've put planning their celebrations off, hoping for a windfall that would allow a little more, but with hospital bills, dental bills, new glasses and a new timing belt for my car, it seems no amount of extra flow will catch me up in time. I am somewhat demoralized, and gritting my teeth about telling them that the celebration will be small this year, and that I love them and hope they can accept me as I am today because I will always accept them.

March was my least favorite month until I moved to Los Angeles years ago because the weather in Colorado is wet and cold just when everyone is ready for spring. Then it became my favorite month because of the birth of my two precious teachers and the endless celebration of birth. Now, oh my, it is a month of conflict for me to finally do the right thing for my children and for our stability.

Can we so easily be reduced to economy? Is there any way to celebrate without celebration's costs? Parties in the park are iffy propositions in Colorado in March. It could snow a foot. Our cozy home maxes out at four kids. Sigh. Do you think I could talk my kids into postponing their celebrations until the sun shines more surely upon us? No. There is only one birthday a year for each of us. The beginning of our yearly sojourn around the sun. It must be acknowledged as we can, in the moment, and then let go for another year.