yellow papaya—what’s new is ancient

The fire blowing in the furnace is music. The lemon tree dances, empty of its lemons. It’s startling to see the missing yellow. Only the tree’s green leaves remain.

In the kitchen, a friend shaves off the papaya’s yellow skin. Its orange inside revealed. She holds it. The sweet and sour of the fruit is on my tongue before tasting.

In the other room, the day is yellow in a mild sun. It’s the color of the lemons that are missing.

The furnace blows heat into the room. For some reason there are no songbirds, no city roosters, no hawks soaring over fir trees. There’s only the knife chopping the papaya. The hands of a friend moving up and down with the knife. The orange chunks of papaya sit, their seeds excavated. Is it possible for morning in the city to be quiet? Yes, when it’s early enough and folks are still sleeping. No mystery.

The new day is not a mystery waiting to unfold. We try to bring new things into the world every day only to discover that whatever it is may not be wanted, may not fit, or more than that, is not new. It’s ancient. Time and space are ancient. Humans are ancient. Could a new day be a chance to remember what has been forgotten? Maybe in a new day we are to remember our alignment with the stars and planets. Perhaps in a new day we remember our own eyes as portals of peace when we stare at them in a mirror. In this new day, we remember that papaya being chopped, the tree empty of its lemons dancing in space, the moon leaving the sky, has been the way forever. Can we rest in what has been forever?

When I think of my grandparents, whom I never laid eyes on, I feel that they’re still on the planet, inside of me. We are forever people, because every drop of humanity that has ever been is still here. We’re all forever beings, evolving. So, when a new day comes, there’s no mystery in the unfolding. We’re not creating something new as much as remembering what has always been.

My friend starts to toss away the skin and seeds of the papaya. The morning becomes loud with the anxious song of a mourning dove. A crow caws in the middle of the mourning. My friend stops, listens, and then continues to throw out the papaya scraps, except the orange and luscious insides. She stops. There’s something inside her that remembers. She later finds out that papaya seeds are ancient medicine for humans. The bones of her ancient self said, “Save the seeds, save the ancient medicine.” This is new news she researched but also old news that rose within her and caused her to pause.

What we think is new has actually been planted in our bone marrow long ago. Life is ancient. A new day will be lived out as the day before and the same for the day after this one, despite the events that will make us laugh, cry, or go crazy. To live a new day, although ancient, is to smile upon the day as if it’s a newborn. And although we have seen newborns many times, most of us still see the fascination of a new life coming from the womb of its mother. And when the evening comes and the new day starts to slip away, although it’s an ancient cosmic ceremony, we might smile upon the dying day as if we’re staring into the eyes of a dying loved one. We can look upon the dying day as if we’ve never seen such a thing, be fascinated with the coming and going and watch the day slip from our imagined grasp.

Despite the green leaves, I miss the yellow of lemons from the lemon tree. My sorrow doesn’t last long when I remember the act of regeneration has happened for millions of years—the blossoms will appear and then the lemons will appear again. The lemons are ancient in that way. Papaya is ancient in its ability to continue through many generations. Its black seeds lined up in orange, wrapped in yellow skin, have been known forever. Its medicine has been known forever. We are ancient and forever people eating ancient and forever fruit, in ancient time and space.

The sun is down. Stillness hovers. I look back on moments old and fading. Thoughts are left over from the day, meals have been eaten, and laughter treasured. Time has passed as usual with the unexpected. Night birds sing. The turn of the earth has darkened what was seen, so when we see again, life appears new. In the dark, the body reclines. Silence reaches out, seeps in, if we let it. And perhaps, just perhaps, peace is felt.