post-pomegranate cindy

eat a pomegranate

It's pomegranate season in Kashgar! A glass of freshly crushed juice a mere 25 cents, a whole sphere of sweetness with bite for even less.

Once, when I was in the depths of existential despair (a Ph.D. program in anthropology will do that to you), I called my mom.

"What can I do in the face of all the suffering in the world? I'm exhausted from worrying about meaning, death and my professor's pinched mouth when I say something about Hegel."

She replied, "I'm eating a pomegranate now. You should go eat a pomegranate."

Since then I've had a special relationship with the fruit, which manages to feel both sensuous and contemplative. First, it's a bright red ball packed with tiny seeds. You don't have to be a cultural wizard to understand why it's the Chinese symbol for fertility. But contemplation? Set aside thirty or so minutes and eat an entire pom, one seed at a time. In my case, forget about the Merleau-Ponty you're supposed to be reading, and instead indulge in what arises when you pluck a seed, place it on your tongue, roll it around, and crush it against the roof of your mouth. Repeat.

If you get greedy with a pomegranate and grab a cluster of seeds, you'll likely be greeted with a bitter papery membrane. Patience is required.

I'll be home in seven weeks, just as the pomegranate season winds down.