To wake when all is possible
On citrus fruit and simple disciplines
Anytime I slice open a grapefruit, I am reminded of my grandfather, Papa G. In truth, I didn’t know him very well. He served in the Army. His voice had a gruff Missouri twang to it. He was big and tall. He had chunky black 80s-style glasses that he would wear in the morning with a dark navy robe that smelled like Dial soap. He smoked a pipe. But what I mostly remember about him is that he really, really loved to eat grapefruit.
I recall him buying big crates of them around the holidays, when we would typically visit, and every morning he would encourage us to try a new one (“I think this one’s sweeter than yesterday.”). My older sister and I would grow frustrated trying to use those little serrated spoons my grandmother gave us to carve out each piece from its cozy little membrane. And while I never cared much for the stringy pith or sour flesh, squeezing out the juice at the end and slurping it down straight from the bowl felt like a wonderfully indulgent breach of table manners, which I distinctly loved.
Perhaps it is that small, spotty memory of my own grapefruit-eating-as-ritual that first drew me to Craig Arnold’s poem “Meditation on a Grapefruit”. As its title suggests, it is about exactly what you would expect: peeling and eating a grapefruit for breakfast. But, it is also about intentionality and the power small choices have to shape our lives and our sense of self.
I often find ways to incorporate this poem into my teaching or work with groups for the unique and accessible way it quickly draws people into deeper water, inviting them to consider some of the more tender questions that may be (read: definitely are) lurking about meaning or purpose in their own lives. In those instances, I typically offer some light framing based on their context and then guide us through a process of listening to it first (poetry is, of course, primarily an oral medium) then, after some silence and brief reflection we read-and-listen together to see what changes or grows stronger as we add the visual element.
At first pass, I might ask them simply to pay attention to their experience: Did you notice any words or lines that stand out to you?; Did you have a distinct sense, memory, or feeling as you listened?; Did you notice any change because of reading vs. listening?
Next, I’ll see if they have any connections to make: What habit or ritual in your life feels like this poem? Is there anything you thought about that might provide better anchoring for you as you re-engage with the demanding pace of life?
Usually, I will end by drawing attention to the poem’s final haunting couplet “each year harder to live within/ each year harder to live without” and ask them to think about an area of their own life that has that same tethered/hemmed-in quality to it. What is it about that particular restriction that feels liberating? What else does this both/and tension evoke for you?
There are a million riffs on this exercise, but so far it has never failed to yield some pretty stunning insights. As you step into your own weekend and week ahead, maybe you want to try your own version of this.
Or maybe, just grab some out-of-season citrus and enjoy slurping some fresh juice from the bowl for a change!
Meditation on a Grapefruit
By Craig Arnold
To wake when all is possible
before the agitations of the day
have gripped you
To come to the kitchen
and peel a little basketball
for breakfast
To tear the husk
like cotton padding a cloud of oil
misting out of its pinprick pores
clean and sharp as pepper
To ease
each pale pink section out of its case
so carefully without breaking
a single pearly cell
To slide each piece
into a cold blue china bowl
the juice pooling until the whole
fruit is divided from its skin
and only then to eat
so sweet
a discipline
precisely pointless a devout
involvement of the hands and senses
a pause a little emptiness
each year harder to live within
each year harder to live withoutSource: Poetry (October 2009)