Looking for Wormy Apples

            Looking for Wormy Apples

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Have you ever woken up with a sense of impending doom—for no apparent reason? That’s my story today. Could be I’m asking for trouble. Could be the shadows I sense hovering around the edges of my life are tricks of light. Could be I’m just an old woman with old woman worries. 

I cannot put my finger on a thing that is wrong. So why this niggling anxiety?

My awareness seems heightened. I strongly sense the incredible beauty which surrounds me.  I am in awe of the idyllic life I live.

But, if you were raised like I was raised, when the apple is ripe, you begin to look for the worm. Old habits die hard. I thought I’d erased this one, but, apparently not.

My life is filled with amazement. The other day, driving back from lunch in San Marcos, we slowed down behind a walking haystack. We could see the outline of shoulders and a wide-brimmed straw hat hovering inside the stack. Beneath the load of loose grass hay, the sun glinted on the horseshoes as the mule lifted his hind feet. Amazing, yes?

Later in the evening, I heard cattle lowing and men shouting familiar words in a different language. Cowboys, the same in this culture as in ours, same western-style shirts and jeans, swinging lariats, sitting astride saddled horses, hustled the mixed breed herd, mostly Brahmas, down the highway. When I hear the familiar sounds, I go to the edge of my yard and watch this scene that I never tire of seeing.

Yesterday four of us went to lunch and spent several hours strolling the grounds at Hacienda El Carmen, a restored, centuries-old Spanish hacienda turned resort, not far from Etzatlan.

The grass-laden mule, the cattle drive, lunch at the Hacienda, all are gifts with a nostalgic flavor of the past. I’ve no desire to live in yesteryear. Change, whether I like it or don’t, is inevitable.  These experiences, these gifts, I see as my tree of beautiful ripe apples. And I pluck one or more daily.

I’m not looking for perfection. My back yard is a mess. Leo has just finished building another flower bed along my south wall. In the morning I’ll help him maneuver my displaced flower pots onto the new gravel deck out by the back-yard wrought-iron gate. My yard will be bordered with wrap-around flowers. No, this is not a worm. This is another tasty apple on my tree.

My patio is a mess of a different flavor. My new-to-me, but ancient in years, hot-tub is scattered in pieces, a puzzle to be put together. The aqua shell, the cover, the motor-heater-blower innards, the wooden base surround, will clutter my life for several more days before Jim magically (to my mind it is magic) assembles the parts into a workable, usable unit. Today Jim is running electric wiring to that side of my casita. I have confidence that this is not a gigantic worm littering my patio. Just an unripe apple.

I try to give my apprehensive feelings scant attention. I get this way from time to time. It’s just a feeling. It will pass. A bite to eat, a few chapters in my book, a good night’s sleep and I’ll feel differently in the morning.

To the best of my ability, I’ll not borrow trouble. Who cares if there is a worm in the occasional apple? Better a worm than half a worm.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May 24, 2018

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