I often chastise myself for not believing in God. The secular cathedrals that I've built in my brain's cities are still girded by Catholic guilt. Today, as I peeled an orange, as I pulled apart the rind, my poet mind immediately wrote, "O, this fruit—this sweetness born and blessed of seed and root— is protected by the loveliest of armors." Then I thought of my screenplay in progress where a homeless Indian swipes his underarms with orange rinds, hoping that those shards will work as improvised deodorant. "O, this fruit—this sweet scent— that lives beyond intent and enters imagination." And then I sigh at my mortal arrogance. Who am I to think that oranges only happen by chance? Who am I believe that beauty is an accident? Why do I claim that every miracle is only coincidence? I don't have any answers for these questions. I suppose that is a form of faith. I only know this for sure: I happily ate that orange because it was good for my body. And ain't the body part of the soul?
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Thank You Sherman as well. The orange is a symbolic fruit for me too. I remember watching a tv series on A & E Networks called Oranges are Not the Only Fruit. I learned that even a simple orange has deep layers of emotion. You must peel off the skin in order to achieve its pleasures. Orange is the visible colour of the sun as well as the soft drink Sunkist.
🍊 "Who am I believe
that beauty is an accident?
Why do I claim that every
miracle is only coincidence?"
I'm dreadfully far behind but loved this (and will love catching up). Thank you, Sherman.