Some of us are the rind, some are the fruit, some are the seeds. Some of us are juicy and tasty, and the whole world wants to eat us up. Our value is immediate and immediately used up. We provide nothing that future generations would want.
Some taste awful, and the world spits us out and we do nothing but rot on the ground. Perhaps if you pickle us, we might taste all right to a few who have peculiar tastes.
A few are spit out by the world, and go into the ground and bear more fruit. We will not survive our time here on earth to witness the fruit we bear.
It is almost impossible to be two of the three. Most who rot away and are good for nothing alive or dead do not bear any fruit from their dying. Most who bear fruit long after they are dead do not taste good to the world of their generation, their time and place.
I’ve long since given up on being the fruit, and my only hope is that I don’t end up discovering long after my death that I was nothing but a damn rotten rind.
Those are my rather paltry and unoriginal thoughts for the morning. I’m afraid I have nothing more than that to offer. It is a day in July like most any other day I’ve experienced in my adult life, except that the work involves going to Greek class, and the leisure time is generally spent reading poetry instead of wandering up and down an urban jogging trail.
The vacation begins in about a week and a half, and I am trying not to get too excited about it, because adult vacations generally mean a lot of work to make sure you get where you need to go and the place you booked is still there waiting for you, and to make sure you don’t spend up all of your money while trying to relax and not worry about money.
I’ve almost entirely warmed up to the idea of simply going back to work, renting for a year, then buying a cookie cutter in the suburbs and being a good suburban dad for twenty to thirty more years while the children become adults and reach the place where they are financially and emotionally stable enough to bear and raise children of their own. Then, a few sad European vacations and cruises on wornout bones, and a happy death at eighty in an assisted living home.
This gives me twenty-thirty more years to read books, write, and contemplate my existence. Why? Who? How? etc.
I am too big of a sinner and a selfish, petty man to ever become a pastor. I don’t have the largeness of self and heart to constantly give of myself to others while maintaining a family that clearly sees I can also make time for them as well. Some weekends, I just want to drift off into books, dreams and old movies and not care one whit about the problems of this world. Perhaps this will ultimately mean I go to hell, but I think that I will be in vast, good company if that is how it ends up being.