Monday, February 6, 2012
I have a memory of unbundling pomegranates in our band uniforms at football games in high school. After the halftime show, we'd sit in the stands for the rest of the game, play when instructed, and goof around otherwise. The band leader would bring a barrel of apples to share. Spats. We wore spats. And white gloves. And Nancy and I would take apart a pomegranate each with our white gloves still on, and not get one mark on either glove. That was the goal. Pull the rind off just enough to get a sense of the structure. Feel for segmentation, analyze with eyes closed the torque required to separate. The sound and the feel. Not there. Here. Push more and spray will erupt. Balance push pull. Yin yang pressure. I unbundled a pomegranate yesterday at halftime 45 years from those football games. I like the tarty crunch. I love the meditation still. Pomegranate meditation. Secret sheathing molded to the seeds. This unveiling cannot be hurried, requires concentration and calm. Relaxed mind; nimble, gentle fingers. I feel the texture, shape; see the color, contrast. A fresh new pomegranate surrenders seeds with a snap, fruit launching from the rind. An older pomegranate seed clings to its fibrous perch, snoozing. An older pomegranate takes more tenderness and time. Pomegranate meditation. At any age, a joy.