Daily adherence to my routine of self-care, basically unchanged since last March, convinces me that countless prayer supports this uncharted journey in which I’m largely content. My gratitude soars, my new learning challenges and enriches, my diminishments, especially my silvery-white wavy hair, a surprise. And with these changes, I’ve scraped free the outer Liz that no longer works, reminding me of the transparent skin of a garden snake I discovered in my front garden, years ago; its owner, freshly gone.  

But there are interludes of transient pain, clothes that no longer fit, phone calls from solicitors, tiring conversation from visitors. At times, meals lose their taste, fatigue chokes my spirit, and my dry eyes burn, even with Refresh. At other times, noisy motorcycles roar past my bungalow, delivery trucks inch past parked cars, and lawn mowers manicure yards already trimmed.

And occasional exposure to the global news confounds me even deeper and jettisons me into prayer, especially for growing families. And even August colors sigh with inevitable change—the marigolds in my flower beds straggle with blackened leaves.

When yanked away from what I want, I resort to Jesus’s teaching in Luke 12:19:

I’ve come to cast fire upon the earth and I wish it were blazing already.

This same gentle fire enhances both Gospel and Twelve Step living and restores my acceptance of “Life on life’s terms” until the next downer. This is how it works. It always does.

Dry-roasted-salted-cashews, my energy booster for mid-morning snacks, eventually led to researching this critical food for enhancement of organ functioning. Craving more of these delectable nuts signals low blood pressure, so I’m crunching away as I write—only they’re not nuts. More properly, they’re called seeds.

Grown from fruit trees with rich foliage, the dun-colored seeds encased in two thick shells, emerge from the bottom of what looks like red shriveled apples when ripe, between February through May.

YouTube of past harvests show natives seated on the ground, straining to separate the seeds from the fruits; others, weakened by the humidity and heat, involved in the multiple phases of production—all, strenuous work, required before filling porcelain bowls of wealthy colonialists in Brazil, Goa, and India in their sitting rooms. Today, machines and uniformed workers handle the cashew harvests in different parts of the subtropical world.

What also prompted this inquiry were the acknowledgements printed on the Whole Foods bag of cashews, near my computer; among them was the Product of Vietnam. Only in 1989 did this government recognize the industrial value of their cashews and included their production and export in the Ministry of Agriculture. It now holds fifty-eight percent of the world market, outstripping Brazil and India with its sixty-two factories, its machines locally made and serviced. This country holds fifty-eight percent of the world market, outstripping Brazil and India with its sixty-two factories, its machines locally made.

Discovered as edible by Brazilian natives in the sixteenth century, cashews have been around a long time, still a viable source of nutrition afforded us by Creator God.

Sixteen years ago, we met: a mature sweet gum tree shading the front of my new bungalow with rich green foliage. It had survived the city’s removal of a large limb, its wound long healed.

Months passed, before spotting a solitary yellow leaf laying on the grass, its stem dormant, announcing the change. I looked up. Still largely green, occasional bi-colored leaves hung on the branches. The surprise was unfurling like swirls of colorful cloths shown at auction: scarlets, lime greens, buttery yellows, and thievery browns.

For several weeks, the show continued until its demise: mounds of faded shriveled leaves strewn around the yard, later raked and bagged for the city’s yard waste pick-up. Stripped from my natural beauty, I grieved. It would be a long wait for its return.

As years passed, the sweet gum tree continued prospering, with more bags of gum balls lined at the curb for the city’s pick-up.

Then, the disruption began: 2021’s violent rain storms wrenched two large branches from the trunk leaving large swaths of exposed wood. Its woundedness remained with us until three weeks ago, when another large limb crashed to the street, with nothing precipitating this loss. The sweet gum tree was ailing and the arborist’s response was to take it down. A red cord, now circling the trunk, will enable the crew to identify it.

The analogy between the ailing sweet gum tree all that lives, including ourselves, is obvious, but our spirits continue on.

We wait for the inevitable.

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