JUST PEACHY

Sometimes a person gets sick and tired of reading and writing the same old acceptable tripe. Sometimes a person wants to break out and set something down that is really true. Sometimes a person tries.

I mean undeniably true—so undeniably true that even when people are denying it, by mind or mouth, or laughing it to scorn they know it's true, and you and your brother know it's true, and the ubiquitous Greek chorus always hovering in the background knows it's true.

That's what I want to write—in general (meaning: no matter what) and that's what I want—in private, too (meaning: specifically). And that's what I wanted today as I was eating a peach.

This was the kind of a peach that only God sends—direct, straight as an arrow, a golden arrow like the one he sent through Saint Teresa's heart—aimed into this creeping world to wake a person out of their dreary, repetitive, aimless drifting and lift them into a higher, ambrosiac, divine level of life.

The taste of it stunned me—so nakedly sweet it was. It was the quintessence of summer. It was the way I remember peaches used to taste when I was carefree as a cricket on the streets of Brooklyn when I took sweet peaches and their luscious, bursting juice for granted,where I assumed them to be a constant of the cosmos, and I let the delight of peach-juice drool off my lips, over my face, down my chin, and tossed the pits over the garage rooves hoping they would land on some fertile piece of ground and produce a bumper treeful of peaches.

That was the first taste of this "specific" peach. That taste woke me enough to realize that to do justice to the perfection of this peach and to prolong and fulfill my relationship to it I would have to put everything else aside. I would have to keep (and deepen) the focus of my attention on it. Fortunately there was nobody at the table with me right then to thwart my blessed experience with a  lot of blather about some irrelevancy that would distract me from what I was doing. I had been struck by a sunbeam of realization: I was engaged in the most meaningful experience I'd had in years: I was eating a peach, really eating a peach.

While I knew T.S. Eliot would look down his expatriate nose and make some snide remark in that musty, supercilious tone of his: Well, well , shall I eat a peach or not? Nothing could stop the billowing in my chest of gratitude, hope for tomorrow and a sense that all was right with the world. I knew what really mattered.  So it was with a fine satisfaction that I continued to eat, remembering what we used to say in Brookln where I first met and ate peaches: "T.S. !!"

I ate a peach and I was at a table in Heaven.

A Humble Prayer:

Let me eat. Just let me eat. And if we are to communicate eat with me. Just eat with me. Let us eat together. Amen.

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