She Came from a bowl of pears, plump, speckled with a splattering of caramel colored dots of ripening. She was left outside on the tree when the first frost came and fell to the ground as the sun rose and the frost melted around her feet. She longed to be baked. She didn’t care if it were into a pie or simply popped into the oven and baked to perfection whole until the juices began to seep out and form a glaze over her whole body. She didn’t know how she happened to reincarnate as a pear. She thought that each lifetime would be a higher vibrational being – or even to remain in the light and helping tend to nature from the other side of the veil. She had learned the most from this particular happening. She had learned that judgments, expectations, and longing was the greatest of human flaws. Simply being human wasn’t necessarily a blessing, it could infect be a curse. Being born a pear was both humbling and somehow enlightening. She now knew what perfection was. Perfection was to love through the imperfections. To fully embrace her uniqueness, her one of a kind size and shape. To live fully into each moment. To love being still. To observe her surroundings and not get ahead of herself by the longing to be somewhere else or something else. To relish in the gradual dissolution…the sagging, the rotting and the oozing. To flatten back into the earth and be covered with fall leaves and snow and to become one with the worms, beetles, and mud. To not care what comes next. To feel the sensations and not to criticise or even care what comes next. She let go. She became not even close to a pear in a bowl. She journeyed farther from consciousness. She drifted off into space. She became an astronaut of sorts. She looked down at the planet as it became smaller and smaller. She felt as if she was so large that she was the Sun shining down, up, around and bursting into a billion pieces, showering meteors, raining pears, becoming darkness and being at peace with herself.
She longed to blend in, to never be noticed and to become one with her surroundings. Mea Lama, drifted off with the geese as they flew south for the winter. We aren’t quite sure of the date. It was somewhere between the last perfect day of autumn and the first flakes of snowfall in the winter of her hundred and twenty-third year. She was often seen perched up high in the trees, like a hunter waiting for the turkeys to waddle through the thicket. Though she wasn’t a hunter. She was a watcher of birds, of squirrels and of herds of deer as they made their way through the forests. She climbed trees to free the leaves that were stuck, that hadn’t had the good fortune to turn colors and drift gracefully to the ground. She climbed trees all winter plucking leaves and releasing them. She felt at home up there, amongst the trees.
She didn’t go to town to socialize. She didn’t hang out at the coffee shop to gab. She would have pieces of twigs and leaves in her hair and stuck to whatever she was wearing, often leaving a trail of forest debris in her wake. She was at home in the woods. She loved the silence broken by the creaking, the whistle of the wind and the chatter of the squirrels who had become used to her in their territory. By the time spring arrived in Fairfield, a small midwestern town amongst the cornfields of Southeastern Iowa, she would have all the leaves removed from each and every tree. The buds loved the ease in which they could burst forth with the first sunny days and warm spring rains. Mea made life easier to be a tree. She spent the spring and summers clearing the forests and woods of all dead branches and fallen trees. She kept busy all year tending to trees. She will be remembered for her actions, not her words. She would often come to Open Mic and Cafe Paradiso and stand on stage for her allotted 10 minutes. She’d push play on her old Sony Tape player and play the sounds from high in the trees. She’d gaze off thru the windows at the back of the room. She never spoke a word and no one asked her any questions. It was odd, but the locals liked it.