Self

Years ago we planted an apricot tree in our yard. It was a tiny twig of a thing, but we knew that if it survived it would someday bear fruit. Over the years it has borne fruit, ranging in amounts from five to 20 individual apricots. Apricot trees bloom so early that often the blossoms will freeze killing the infant fruit. But about one year in five, the blossoms do not freeze.

This is that year. It is the first time that the tree has been large enough and the spring mild enough to produce a tree load of apricots. The ones in this picture are what remains after I already came through and picked all the perfectly ripe ones. Two bags full of fruit sit on my counter and the tree is still full of fruit that is almost ripe.

Two neighbors have also been through to glean from the tree. And still the branches are all bent over instead of reaching for the sky.

Apricots are a good thing. We love them. So when we realized that the tree was going to bear fruit this year, we rejoiced at the hundreds of tiny green fruits. The rejoicing was only in passing, because our schedules were insanely busy this spring. We never got out to the tree to thin out the fruit. The fruit ripened and became heavy. Branches began to bend and the poor tree drooped all over.

Inevitably some of the branches broke. The fruit on the broken branches is not lost. They were close enough to ripe that they can finish on a window sill. Nor is the tree permanently damaged. We’ll prune off the broken branches and the tree will recover just fine. In fact the tree will be a little stronger at its core for losing some of the over-extended branches. So long term nothing was lost. But I feel a deep sympathy for that tree when I look at the broken branches.

See years ago we started a business. For a long time it produced nothing that could sustain us, but lately many of our projects have come to fruition. I have been straining under the weight of numerous good things. Inevitably some of them fall to the ground and are wasted, like the apricots that squished under the soles of my shoes while I picked from the branches. I simply can’t process all of the good things and this might lead me to feel like the over abundance is bad. It is not bad, it’s just a lot of work right now. I’ll take those apricots I picked and turn them into jam. That way this summer’s crop will still bring me joy in mid-winter. Similarly I need to store up my good life-things so that they will be with me when times are a bit more bleak.

Up on a ladder, pulling fruit from branches, I discovered something that made me very happy indeed.

I am not the only one who is enjoying the fruits of the tree I planted all those years ago. I do not begrudge the birds their nibbles. I have so much fruit that I’m glad to share. I’ve shared with birds, I’ve shared with neighbors, this weekend I’m hauling fruit off to a retreat to share with friends. Sharing turns an over-burdened tree into a source of joy. I need to remember that when I’m pondering my currently over-burdened schedule.

Tomorrow I am on vacation. It is a retreat with some friends not the whole family. Retreat is a perfect name for it, because it is about time for me to admit that I’m outnumbered and overwhelmed. I need to get to a place where I’m not struggling to survive so that I can assess what to do next. A well executed retreat is often the key to winning the war.

Not that my life is a war. It isn’t. No one is being injured and the enemy is stress, most of which I piled on myself. But getting away to reassess is going to be very good. I’ve always wanted to go on a retreat, particularly a retreat with other writers. I’m glad I finally get the chance.

“Mom, are you sad?” Patch asked as he hugged me around my neck. He’d found me sitting on the stairs with my head on my knees.

“I’m just tired.” I replied, but then honesty drove me to expand. “And maybe a little bit sad.”

“What are you sad about?”

I looked at his seven-year-old face and his big blue eyes. He did not need a list of all the things I still have to do, for which I have a short supply of energy. Nor did he need a list of all the things which I have completed which drained my reserves dry. He was just a little worried about his mom who doesn’t usually spend time sitting in the middle of the stairs.

“Sometimes being tired can cause sadness.” This seemed to be enough for Patch. He let go and slid past me to continue his game. I thought about my answer after he left. It really is true. Today has mostly felt bleak and sad, but this is not because anything has gone wrong. There is no cause for the emotions. They simply exist because I’ve over-taxed my emotional reserves. My life is good. The things that are coming are exciting and interesting. I just need to figure out how to rest before they get here. I am oh so glad that one of the upcoming things is a retreat. I really need that right now.

I really should have gone straight home after I finished helping a friend move a load of boxes to her new house. I found that I did not have it in me to go back home and start working on the list of chores. Instead I drove to Zupas, bought lunch, and ate while reading. I even found a table in the corner where I could tune out all the other patrons. So I narrowed my focus to the world in the pages, transmitted to me through text. When I emerged, all my food was gone and an hour had passed. I gathered up my things and proceeded home. On the drive, business thoughts re-settled themselves over me. The to-do list resurfaced in my brain. But somehow it did not feel quite so heavy. A little bit of running away can be a good thing.

My high school friend Chrissy had orange hair. I suppose some people could have called it “red” or “strawberry blonde”, but what it really was, was orange. I thought it was gorgeous and wished my hair were that exact color. It was like sunlight distilled into long, sleek strands. I lost touch with Chrissy a few years after we graduated. That happened a lot in the days before facebook and email. But I still have ice cream dishes she gave me for my wedding and the card she sent me when Kiki was born.

I’m thinking about Chrissy today because of the ice cream sandwiches. I had a hankering for some, and Howard bought them at the store. In a quiet moment, I curled up on a couch away from the kids and peeled the wrapper off the chocolate and vanilla goodness. The problem with ice cream sandwiches is that one is never enough, but usually they are a rationed commodity. Whenever they appear at family events or group picnics there is only one per person, to make sure everyone has one.

Chrissy and I lamented this rationing, and so one afternoon we hopped on our bikes and pedaled down to the little market on the corner. With our own money, we each bought a box of six ice cream sandwiches. If we took them home, sharing with siblings would be required. So we tipped our bikes over in the grass and lay in the sunshine while we proceeded to eat our way through both boxes. We laughed as we ate, knowing it was a bit silly to be triumphant over such a small thing, but somehow it represented freedom. We’d made the plan, earned the money, and made happen a goal that mattered to no one but us. When the treats were gone, we biked back to a world of homework and rationed ice cream. We intended to repeat the adventure, but now I can’t remember if we ever did.

These days I have enough money that I could fill my freezer with ice cream sandwiches. I could create a world for my children where ice cream is not rationed. They would love it, but it would not be good for them. Children who have everything they want are robbed of the opportunity to triumph. If I’d had all the ice cream sandwiches I wanted, I would not have the bright memory of an afternoon with my friend, nor that first taste of adult freedom.

For today, I’m going to go have another ice cream sandwich and send happy thoughts to Chrissy, wherever she may be.