I took a long walk this evening--about five miles--on a search for Loquat trees in my neighborhood. Even though I'm normally a germaphobe, I like to rip the ripe fruit right off of the tree, rub the dirt off, and pop it into my mouth.
Loquats are soft and sweet and tangy. You can eat them in a single bite, and the seeds are big enough to spit out easily. I like to think I've planted new loquat trees in yards all around my house.
Loquats only ripen in the spring, and once you pluck them, they rot quickly. You have to eat them right away. Just like life, you have to savor the moment, the precious few weeks every year when the fruit ripens. It's sad to find so many trees bearing delicious morsels that goes to waste.
Last year in April, I visited Charleston, South Carolina to attend a workshop with Natalie Goldberg. The air was warm, and all the trees were in bloom. She said it looked like the landscape was making love.
I feel the same way about my hometown now. It's the end of the season for orange blossoms, and the confederate jasmine and gardenias are just starting to bloom. The birds on the lake are nesting. A simple walk down the road is an aromatic bouquet, and I feel so peaceful, so hopeful. Winter is over, and the stagnant heat of summer has yet to arrive.
Every season (as subtle as one might be in the South) possesses characteristics to be savored, but to me, spring is about hope. I'm hopeful about my writing. I have ideas brimming, waiting to be born, and nine more months to birth them.
Wherever you are, I hope you feel the same. I hope the world is warming for you, and your best idea yet is gestating.
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