The Tangerine

The small tangerine is not tired, having traveled such a short distance from its home on the branch of the tree, into my grateful hand. The sturdy limb cried three tears when it let go, tears of joy it borrowed from a late night rain.

I know the brilliant orange fruit was ready to pick because ripe tangerines leave a piece of their peel on the tree when plucked. This one feels fruitful and feminine. I can gaze right into her navel, her place of connection, the center of her world. The pores of her skin are so like my own, a tight community of uniform speckles, covering every possible part of us.

Her discolorations are mapped in random, organic shapes, becoming separate continents on the smooth ripples of an orange sea, a peculiar planet, totally alive, like ours. Far richer than just one color could describe, my tangerine would need the whole family of “almost orange” crayons from a box of 128 Crayolas to express the full range of her personality, saving the deepest and most vibrant hue for her fruit inside.

Raised on rain, trust and sunshine, she is not shy in offering the culmination of her life’s purpose, shedding her skin easily, revealing spidery white veins holding her sections together, each gift individually wrapped.

I am transformed in the presence of this great teacher. I feel the delicate web of life wrapped around the different sections of my self and I trust the perfection of what will emerge when I shed my skin and become a world unto myself.

Copyright © Bentley Kalaway 2009