Lemon
I don’t know how to write a story, she thought, as she gazed down at her blank sheet of paper in consternation. It looked very white and very empty. Where do you begin? How do you stop it from becoming a story that has already been told? Shouldn’t there be a whole ream of work already done? A detailed story arc, a cast of characters, a planned message for a reader to seek, discover and take away, that will have mad the whole effort of reading worth it? And what if I change my mind part way through? It could get very messy…
She sat and pondered, allowing her gaze to defocus, to wander. It was caught by the branches of the lemon tree shifting outside the window. Summer school would be more fun if being outside were not so tempting. No matter that this was something she had chosen, romantic ideas of wooden desks, flowing dresses, pretty notebooks and sandaled feet in the sunshiny sanctuary of an unused classroom, children long fled and words flowing to a first novel, published with a shy smile, no it wasn’t hard, somehow everything was just there.
From the seed of a lemon.
What was there for her in those six simple words? What was the path? Because she needed a path, she was lost, more than lost, she was drowning in this sea of opportunity and possibility. It was so vast. What would a lemon seed do, as it sat in the sunshine feeling so small?
A lemon seed would know that it had everything it needed inside. A story arc, a cast of characters, a message… perhaps not. But a path, yes. And a purpose. A vision. A future. At just the right time it would crack open and roots would begin to emerge, rooting it where it lay, trusting that there was good soil and water to hold it safely and nurture it as it began the exact path it was designed for. Shoots next. Stem, branches, flowers, fruit, with seeds in their turn. Rain and sun, all four seasons, nothing more needed. Although the careful tending of the farmer brought a safety that made emergence pure joy.
From the seed of a lemon, a path foreseen, predestined, glorious.
Perhaps that’s my lesson, she thought. Perhaps I just crack open and begin to write simply the words that are already there, let them find the exact place on my sheet of paper where they can root themselves and be anchored. Enjoy the sound of my pen scratching and my words becoming visible in the loops and swirls of my handwriting as it dances across the page with the shadows of the lemon tree from outside. The outside that was so tempting that it has found its way inside, through the cracks in the sunlight. She could even taste the lemon sweetness in her nostrils as the first page filled up in front of her eyes.
Perhaps I should stop and read, she thought. Or perhaps I shouldn’t, as she tucked her first page to the back and began her second. Less frightening now. After all, she had barely noticed the first fill up. The only sign was the unaccustomed ache in her fingers and the slight soreness on her finger pads. She loved handwriting. She loved her handwriting, small and neat and perfectly rounded, just like the lemons on her tree. Her cast of players with their perfect story arc and a message to share.
From the seed of a lemon is everything you need.
To know there’s a blueprint. To know there’s a path. To know there’s a place of beginning and a place to go. To know that in a world of opportunities and possibilities there is a path set for you and that the farmer of the whole world will tend you with care so that you will remain safe through the sun and the rain and through every season.
And that’s the story. That was the story for her to tell. Just a few more words to find herself at the end. At her wooden desk, in her flowing dress, with her pretty notebook and sandaled feet in the sunshiny sanctuary of this unused classroom, with the children long fled, along with her words. Not her first novel but her first short story. She smiled shyly, it hadn’t been hard, everything had just been there.
From the seed of a lemon.
The lemon tree from my window…