The Thanksgiving Watermelon

Perhaps someone else out there is afraid. Perhaps someone else is also facing uncertainty. May I tell you a story?

It is November 28, 2008, which was Thanksgiving morning…

I suppose that before you actually hear the words of my story you must first understand about the magic. Not many folks are privy to such teachings, I am sorry to report. These learnings are old and only given to those who really want to hear. There is a great difference, you know, between hearing and truly wanting to hear. If you are one of the latter, I invite you to join me. If you only listen on the surface, without wanting to enter into the words, this story will be a waste of your time.

You see, there is much more to hearing than audible sounds. And much more to sight than what one sees with the eye. I guess I am now qualified to tell you this. I am writing with eyes closed.

Six weeks ago I had cataract surgery. It was the regular and very normal cataract surgery, the one where they remove cataracts and place an implant lens. Easy, cataract surgery veterans say. So easy!

But for me, it wasn’t.

Specialists, eye shots and then emergency surgery. I cannot say this is easy. I am scared.

As I look out into the world with one Seeing Eye, in my mind I talk to my students about walking in beauty. I talk about true vision. But the reality is, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being blind. I’m afraid of what is next.

The “what if’s” loom large. My life work is helping others: the bereaved, cancer survivors, and everyone else who wants to attend. And yet it was today, in this mystical magic, that I remembered and decided it was time to write down some of what was unfolding. Perhaps someone else out there is afraid. Perhaps someone else is also facing uncertainty.

Today is Thanksgiving. I live in the desert. Last night we had rain, lovely rain. It washed the air and then gave the mountains snow. I am sitting here in my garden; the fragrance of lavender is merging with the rustling bamboo leaves. A smell of cinnamon is wafting in from somewhere. And hummingbirds are enjoying the pink trumpet flowers; they know my garden will always offer them a safe refuge and food.

Before this very routine cataract surgery I saw a “whisper” (as I call it) of my father standing in the corner of the surgery room. That happens sometimes. Before my father died he told us, his children, that he would be helping us. I’ll be there, he said. And he is. He is what I call “in the whispers”… those places that aren’t clearly defined like the tabletop where my computer sits. The whispers are when you almost see the old calico cat who died last month, the one I buried under the fig tree where she loved to play. Her quiet purring presence still fills my house, I almost see her on the bed, sleeping, in her regular spot. And my dad, well, he shows up at different times. He always seems to know.

It is my childside who recognizes him; that is the part of me where wonder lives and the magic thrives. My father taught me wonder at an early age. And now I live in this, despite circumstances.

Today as I sit quietly, I am aware of yesterdays emergency surgery and I say to the constant surging fear, “Let’s talk…” And the fear within, often quiet and taking a backseat to the courage side of me that most folks see, spills out in endless tears. They are soft tears. I look at her, this fear, and say to her, I love you. And in the tears my fear tells me how she is so very afraid. This last week has been very difficult. She has felt terrified, especially when the one doctor at the retina practice, not her regular doctor, told her she had to drive to Los Angeles all by herself, with only one eye working. He acted as if that was nothing, she confides. And I didn’t know what to say. He ordered me not to talk; I was to only answer his questions. He was measured and I didn’t know how to communicate with a steel wall.

“Ahh,” I nod and say as I listen. “Ahh.”

And then that beautiful lady who appears in my dreams is here, sitting on her white Arabian horse. She speaks to the fear as she would to a young child. She speaks with clarity that cannot be disputed.

“That doctor acted like a jerk. It’s OK to say that,” she states.

“He was a jerk.” And even in that admission, the young one so full of fear begins to understand something.

“That man was under a lot of stress. He was afraid of what he saw when he looked in my eye and just kinda freaked out,” she offers.

“Yes he did,” the wise and beautiful woman says. “Yes he did.”

“I’m glad he is not my REAL doctor,” the fear sighs. And she smiles just a wee little smile…

And we, all the parts of me, began to walk through my garden. We walk beyond the lavender to the fig tree and the sprawling sage plants. We walk in the glistening of the rain and the new morning.

We look at the lemon tree, laden with lemons and then on to the narcissus that didn’t know not to bloom in November.

In the side yard the old cucumber vines are shriveled. The leaves and twigs for mulch are spread upon the sand and there, in the midst of fall and all that which is dying into winter, lies a single watermelon. I did not plant watermelons. This is not a large watermelon; it is the size of a lemon. But it is a watermelon nonetheless.

I pick it up in my hand and realize with awe that I am holding The Thanksgiving Watermelon.

The younger one within, who had been so full of dread, looks upon this miracle as if the sky had just spoken. And indeed it had. She remembered, years ago, living in the watermelon story. She recognized this as one of her life themes, and the magic of the moment covered her in a deep balm. She stopped and picked up the small watermelon, knowing that the largest miracles sometimes appear to be smaller than life.

She holds that small watermelon, remembering:

There was a time, long ago, when a little girl wanted desperately to plant a watermelon garden. She did not know where that idea came from; she just knew that it must be so. The Michigan summer was in full boom and if this little tyke had any gardening knowledge, she would have known that building earth mounds and planting seeds within each mound was not done in the last week of June. But she did not know, nor did her father and mother, who never planted watermelons before. They had no knowledge of such things.

So her father who loved her helped clear away the sod in the lawn to provide a small patch of bare earth. She could watch her plants grow from her bedroom window.

Her father watched his beloved one’s joy as the tiny plants grew into sprawling vines with soft yellow flowers. She remembers how he smiled at her radiant surprise when she discovered a very small watermelon was beginning to form, just days before her August birthday. And on her birthday, much to her amazement, she discovered a HUGE watermelon on the vine.

“Look!” she danced. “Look!” And her father shared in her delight, declaring it must be magic for a watermelon to grow so quickly in honor of her birthday. “Watermelon magic” they called it, as they feasted on the ripe red fruit and laughed as they spit out the seeds

And later that day, in an ever so gentle manner, her father told her how he had purchased a full-grown melon at the market and placed it upon the vine. He told her how he snuck it out of the car and tied it to the plant, as if it had always grown there. Her father’s story did not take away any of her joy. Instead, she always remembered the watermelon story. She knew of miracles and her life was now full of gardens and earth.

She had eaten of the magic in the Watermelon Garden.

And today, in the midst of fear and unknowing she found courage. The Thanksgiving Watermelon was growing where it had not been planted. There was still Watermelon Magic to be found…