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4.  California Dreamin'

Being a novice meditator,
I'm learning to ride the waves.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

Dedication

1.  Listening for the Peel

2.  Essence of Orange

3.  Contemplating the Navel

4.  California Dreamin'

5.  Orange Aide

6.  Ask the Expert

7.  Black Spot

8.  Michelin Man under the Orange Tree

9.  Lara's Gift

10. Intermission

11. Orange Psychoanalysis

12.  Marmalade and other Worldly Desires

13.  Sliced, not Peeled

14.  Same Old ' Rind

15.  My Kingdom for an Orange

16.  By their Fruits

17.  Certified Organic

18.  Distance from Tree to Me

19.  Beach Peel

Author Notes

         Today the label on the orange tells me that it has come from California. I find this bit of information particularly intriguing on this cold January morning as I stand in my chilly kitchen in Connecticut. I wonder about the location of the grove in which this orange had come to fruition.   Was it near a beach; the sound of waves? I find myself humming something.  I'm humming happily while peeling the orange not noticing that juice is running down my fingers to my wrists as I separate the segments.  A wonderful scent fills the room.  I wonder if orange groves smell like this, and decide they must smell like orange blossoms.  Have I ever smelled orange blossoms?  Have I ever even seen orange blossoms?  I make a mental note to find a picture. 

Still humming I take my first bite. Wow.   Color of sunshine flowing into my mouth, down my chin. Liquid energy. 

"got a fuel-injected engine under my hood"

Another bite, and I'm feeling the warmth of the sun and hearing the crashing surf

"rah rah sis boom bah"

Now I'm really feeling

"those good vibrations"

Images of life joyfully expressed accompany me as I lick my fingers, stopping myself just short of licking my now empty plate.   Youthful expression of spirit, oblivious to the past, unconcerned about the future; present in the moment.  As I put my plate in the dishwasher I find myself singing a strange composite "song" of my fading memory's creation ...

"Barbara Ann, ba, ba ba ba rann...

she'll have fun, fun, fun 'til her daddy takes her t-bird away ...

giddie up, giddie up giddie up 409"

I begin to hunt eagerly through my husband's CD collection.  Grateful for his eclectic taste in music, I find what I'm looking for sandwiched between Great Masters of the Shakahachi Flute and the Complete Sarah Vaughn on Mercury Vol. 4.  Now, rather than booting up my computer to begin work, I  insert the "Beach Boys Greatest Hits" in the CD player and hit the play button. I feel a strange excitement building. I haven't done this in years.  I feel like a kid playing hookey.  My toes start to tap.

"When I grow up to be a man,

will I dig the same things that turned me on as a kid.

will I look back and say that I wish that I hadn't done what I did.

Ooooooo    Ooooo    Ooooo   Ooooo

When I grow up to be a man -- what will I be -- When I grow up to be a man?"

Gotta stop now -

Gautama and I have a wave to catch.

 

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