I ate an orange today. Peeling it became an entire affair as I weighed it in my hand and leaned it side to side as I revealed what lay beneath. I took the skin and placed it on the bed as the scent of fresh citrus rose in the air. The skin was pliable and soft with little resistance. I wanted to hang it in the air and watch it dry so that I could make tea, but I told myself I did not have enough space to unfurl.
When I split the orange in half, I wished I had a friend to give the other half to, but I was alone. Eating the orange felt like a ritual of sorts. I took each peg and separated it from the other. Then I peeled back the outer layer that hid the flesh from the world. Taking my time, I placed the flesh on my tongue and savored the flavor before chewing. My hands grew sticky with the juices as I licked my fingers clean, again, and again. Closing my eyes, I tried to picture the orange on the tree and see how the sun helped it ripen. I tried to picture how there are billions of oranges in the world, but I chose this one to eat.
After I finished my last bite of sweet nectar, I took a moment to sit and think about how this orange had no seeds. I could not create life from this fruit, and it bothered me. My stomach growled at me as I thought of the fruit that I just ate, it wanted more. It reminded me of a time when I was always hungry. When my parents did not have a lot of money and I felt like the world would cave in on me, but now I am eating an orange and having the same thoughts.
This simple practice of eating an orange has given me a moment to pause. Not only do I not think too deeply about my food, I also do not think too deeply about the act of eating. I do not savor food like I used to, instead, I lay in bed listening to a book as I eat. Maybe this practice will enlighten me on some more of the parts of my life that require me to slow down and dig in.
Jona Nightingale 