I’m taking a breather from you-know-what.  To ponder a wonder hidden in plain sight.

I was probably 40 years old before I ever tasted pomegranate. Pomegranates weren’t available in Minnesota when I was growing up—but then, for us oldsters so many foods we now enjoy weren’t available until well into our adulthood! So pomegranates retain a wisp of the exotic for me. Though meeting them late in life may not be the only reason. 

The pomegranate in my hand has a dusty, scruffy patina over its rosy skin. It’s not actually a ball as I thought, but a rounded pentagon with five sides. When I slice it open, moist shimmering seeds appear in asymmetrical clusters, nestled and attached to a paper-thin white membrane. A honeycomb of ruby seeds. The vibrant color alone is food even before I taste a single seed’s sweet/tart, hard/soft crunch.

You can try to cut these jewels loose, severing some and releasing pools of staining red juice. But I slow down, fold each little community of seeds away from the rind. As I gently run my fingers over them, they pop right off—into my bowl, onto the counter, onto the floor. I feel such affection for them! Over and over I unfold the treasures. When I think I have them all, I bend a bit more rind and another pocket appears. By the time I am done, red splashes the counters, the cupboards and anything else within range. I smile as I wipe the spatter away. 

This fruit, among uncountable wonders of the earth, is especially sacred to me. Why am I exhilarated and humbled every time I open a pomegranate?

I know the fruit is ancient, that it has symbolized blessing and fertility in cultures over time and across the planet. That it appears in myth, health remedies and decoration worldwide. But it’s my body, not my mind, that exalts: my fingertips, my eyes, my heart—sings, laughs, celebrates and bows to this fruit.

Pomegranate’s nestled chambers remind me of being in the underground honeycomb in the Hypogeum, a Neolithic underground temple in Malta dedicated to the Great Mother. Even after more than twenty years I can still viscerally remember feeling tucked within the belly of Mother Earth. Does the pomegranate awaken some ancient kinship in my bones and heart?

Pomegranates do seem so female, unapologetically bold female at that—pink flesh, red juice, moist hidden pockets, sweet and tart, soft and crisp, generous and life-giving. Since the bounty and wisdom of Earth and Women have been ignored, denied, or demonized for thousands of years, the simple presence of such saucy beauty and abundance is a joy and a relief.

At the very least, the pomegranate is a seasonal marvel, an extraordinary gift for which I am grateful.

What gifts are you noticing around you? What beauty is energizing you these days? 

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