Running Barefoot Through the Apple Orchard

My friend Courtney is always encouraging me to start dating, making me online profiles, offering to start small fires at my house when she visits from Alaska, so we can call the firefighters.

(She knows how much I love a hunky firefighter–I mean come on, those muscles, that devotion to caring for people–I mean if anyone needs to be carried out of a burning building right now, it’s me.)

I feel like my whole life has become a burning building lately and I could really use a little help fighting the fires and getting the hell out.

In any case, I have always loved romance and courtship. I love a gentleman bringing me gifts, laughing at my jokes, eating my cookies… I adore a generous soul, a caretaker, and someone who loves sparkles and twinkling lights like I do, so when I ran into a certain guy at the store the other night on a late night shopping spree with my friend, Cristie, I texted Courtney and said, “Guess what? I’ve been meaning to tell you I met someone. He’s wonderful–husky, kind, generous, loves cookies and twinkle lights.”

She replied “No way!! Who is he??”

I said, “Nick.” And sent a photo of me and the adorable little Santa I stumbled upon at the grocery store. I walked by Santa, he caught my eye, and I decided he was perfect for me. I couldn’t stop laughing at myself, but Courtney wasn’t amused. She texted me back an emoji of rolling eyes.

Or maybe she was amused–there’s a reason she’s one of my best friends–we make each other laugh until we are rolling on the floor holding our stomachs. I met her thirty years ago when we were both working graveyard shifts at Canters Bakery in Hollywood. She was working to pay off debt, I was working five jobs to save money for a semester in Paris. I was paid $5.11 per hour. She was only one year older than me, but she seemed so wise back then.

She keeps telling me to get out there, and I keep saying no, I’m not ready. Why in the world would I spend an evening away from the people I love the most–my kids–to go with some person I don’t even know. I can imagine nothing worse than going on a date with someone who knows nothing about me, not even the names of my kids, or my father, or my friends.

How can I possibly go out with someone when my life is in shambles? What would I say? “Hi, my life is a burning building. I am drowning in grief. How are you?” It seems impossible. What if they are awful? Liars? Bad breath? Dandruff? Like my ex? Yuck! No thank you.

Also, my divorce isn’t yet final and for me–if I make a vow, it’s nearly impossible for me to break it, even if it was made with someone who didn’t honor their end. Super ridiculous, I know, but here we are. I’m trying my best to let go, over and over, all day long.

Then Courtney sent me this quote by Louise Erdich.

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
Louise Erdrich

Well said, Ms. Erdich. I love an apple orchard and I always have.

I grew up running barefoot through Mr. Farley’s apple orchard. I can still see the red apples, my ten-year-old hand twisting and tugging until they came off the tree, the red skin warm from the sun, and that first juicy crunch, the sweet liquid dripping down my chin. I can still smell the trees, the fallen apples rotting back into the earth, the branches rough to the touch, and perfect for climbing.

The branches slope in a way that cradles you, so you can lie comfortably for hours in an apple tree. I still remember the stillness and quiet of the orchard as I cut through it on my way home, the grass up to my knees, the sun beating on my head, my hands and chin sticky with apple juice, the only sound was my footsteps. And occasionally, a pheasant would startle me, lifting off the ground right in front of my footstep in a flurry of wings, making my heart jump so high it would take several minutes to get it back to it’s normal pace.

I suppose those surprise pheasants were good training for life, because really, I was just walking along through my 40’s, marveling at the beauty of life when:

“SURPRISE! Flurry Flutter!” Your father’s gone!

“SURPRISE! Bam!” Your husband’s gone!

“SURPRISE! Thwack Smack Crush! Your best friend’s gone!

I’m still trying to get my heartbeat back to normal.

But you know what helps?

Apple orchards.

When I taught preschool on Martha’s Vineyard, I would cut an apple sideways and show the kids the star-shaped house for the “Baby apple trees” (AKA seeds) and I would tell them a story about the baby seeds. They loved to gently cup the seeds in their little hands and sometimes we would plant them and nurture them and they would be a foot tall by Spring after lying under the soil all winter without any sign that they were growing at all. It was pure faith that kept us watering those pots all winter when we we could see nothing growing.

And even now when I feel like I will never love again, I call my friend Jacquie and say, “Are you SURE that life will get better? Are you POSITIVE that other doors will open?” She replies, “I’m 100% positive.” And I want to believe her. She has faith for both of us when mine is MIA.

Here in New England, I go to the apple orchards in the summer, take off my shoes and climb the strongest-looking tree barefoot, just like I did as a child. I sit on branch, quietly breathing, just letting the tree branches support me. I know I look cuckoo–the crazy lady who sits barefoot in the apple trees but I don’t care. It’s important.

And I think about my Dad. He loved apple orchards, and some of my favorite memories of him involve lying on the grass under a tree in our backyard, eating apples and looking at the sky.

Then I think about my daughter. When she was five months old, I wanted to honor her first food and her first steps away from me. I took her to an apple orchard and helped her tiny chubby fingers pick an apple. I made her a batch of apple sauce and told her I hoped that the same sunshine and wind and rain that grew those apples would nourish her soul and her body so she could grow strong, strong enough to withstand any storm. She was a baby and didn’t understand a word I said, but I hoped it floated around her like a fairy wish and would sink in somewhere, making magic for her. Then I gave her a bite and she made a face like it was the most disgusting thing she had ever tasted. The applesauce was bitter–I should have added sugar to sweeten it for her.

But I suppose it’s an important lesson that sometimes beautiful things taste bitter, and sometimes they taste sweet. And maybe that’s what I need to do as I move on from my marriage: acknowledge that sometimes the apples might be bitter, and sometimes they will be sweet, but the only way to know is to start tasting.

As long as I’m not sitting next to my little sister. We were on a road trip when we were little, and I was sitting next to her eating an apple and looking out the window, feeling the warm mountain air on my face, when she suddenly grabbed the apple out of my hand mid-bite and threw it out the window. Literally. I was left with my hand in the air and my mouth open. What the heck?

I don’t know, but I do know a good place to think about the philosophical constructs of apples, is in the little farmhouse at the orchard. I love to go in late Autumn near sunset and sit on the wooden rocking chair in front of the roaring fire, with a cup of hot cider in one hand and a hot cider donut in the other. I rock in the creaky chair and think, wrapped in my faux fur, feeling cozy and warm inside and out. And I think, maybe I don’t need to find a firefighter, maybe I need to be a firefighter myself.

As my daughter, now fifteen, reminds me every day, “MOM! YOU ARE the hero!” And she’s right–I rescue the kids all day every day, and will forever. But I can’t do any rescuing of anyone unless I am standing tall and strong myself.

The only way I can start tasting apples is knowing my sisters, and Courtney, and the rest of my amazing tribe are nearby so I can share every part of my experiences, the good and the bad. Even if they occasionally rip an apple out of my hand and toss it out the window. I know they will boo the bad and cheer the good, and that gives me a little more courage to maybe get out there.

But not right now. Right now, I sit in front of the huge crackling fire, my cheeks red from the heat, and imagine myself not fighting the fire, but enjoying its wild heat. I dip my donut in my cider and taste the hot melting apple taste in my mouth and ponder.