Once upon a random
time, there was an apple
hanging by its stem from
a tree, an apple tree,
of course. It was one
with the tree but also had
an awkward but compelling
sense of individuality.
“I am one of many apples,”
it thought, because apples may
be able to think — who really
knows? “But I am special,
unique, and different. I can feel
it. There is more for me to do
then just hang from this tree.”
And one day, sure enough, the
sticky stuff holding the stem to
the tree let go, and the apple
fell to the ground.
How exhilarating!
Not even a parachute or a
fireman’s net to break the
fall. Just an abrupt and
dramatic entrance into a
whole new life.
“Ah,” thought the apple. “Now
life can really begin.” And it was
a true shame apples have no
palms to rub together, or ours
would have.
And so the apple waited. Other
apples were gently picked by the
orchard workers. Some had fallen
to the ground as our apple had and
were tossed into the bruised basket
headed for the cider mill. But our
apple had tumbled into the tall grass
near the fence line, unseen by
people or even deer.
“Surely,” thought the apple, “something
grand will happen soon, something
special, unique, and different just like
me.” But days passed and nothing
happened.
Our apple started to rot and soon
ants were crawling over it so
disrespectfully. The red skin turned
a deep and putrid auburn. The white
insides began to age into
brown.
“I so wanted to be unique,” said the
apple, “and here I am nothing but
rotting flesh. Oh, how I wish I had
stayed one with the tree.” The
apple looked up and saw the orchard
limbs bare. All of the apples and
pears and persimmons had been
plucked or had fallen.
“I am not one with the tree, and
perhaps I never was,” our apple
opined. Disappointment caused
rot to come even more quickly.
Fall became winter. Snow covered
the apple, which was now not much
more than a stem and a few
seeds.
When spring thawed the ground, the
apple awakened from its hibernation,
for apples are related to bears and
hedgehogs and bumblebees and humans —
all other beings who spend long stretches
asleep. The apple felt different.
It felt green and new. The apple
patted itself down like a sleepwalker
checking for awakeness and discovered
that a seed had taken root. It was
becoming a tree, one that would
someday give birth to apples.
And finally the apple knew —
It was never one with the tree;
it was one with the earth.
As apple, as seed, as tree —
one with the mother of us
all.
Deb Moore 