Our lemon tree grows thorns.
The numerous demands of growth.
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I picked some lemons for my mom yesterday. I have no clue what kind of lemon tree we have in our garden, but it’s one with thorns. The younger, greener branches boast strong, vicious thorns that outnumber lemons seven to one. My mom asked me to fight my way into the higher branches and pick all the lemons she couldn’t reach. Armed with a long sleeve shirt and a bar stool, I tried my best to dodge the inch long thorns while I plucked away at our tree. I still managed to get a few nicks on my hands and forearms. As I stood on my wobbly bar stool, hanging onto the pruned branches of the adjacent peach tree, fumbling at the lemons that were just out of my reach, I realised how tall our lemon tree has grown. The tree is easily taller than the ceilings inside our home and the highest branch almost reaches the apex of our roof. You may not be shocked to hear about the height of my lemon tree, but I remember when that tree was smaller than me. Shortly before my birth my parents planted two lemon trees in our garden, the first one shot up immediately and bore lemons soon after. The one that fought me off yesterday remained small and underdeveloped for ten years. It only began growing in earnest (and subsequently bearing lemons) once I was teenager. I mentioned in another journal that our property used to be farm land, and our garden has been fittingly prosperous, but most of our trees are beginning to show their age now. The first lemon tree died when I graduated high school and my guess is that the others will soon follow. In spite of being the same age as its since perished comrade, the once pipsqueak continues to grow taller and taller and yields two enormous lemon crops each year. I only picked lemons for half an hour and there are a good few I couldn’t reach and others still that were too low to fall under my jurisdiction, and I think I harvested sixteen kilograms of lemons.
Were I a lemon tree, I’m not sure if I could perform with such admirable resilience. I wonder if it’s as exhausting for pipsqueak to grow as it is for me. I went on a short run this morning, 3.6km. Unfortunately, while on my run, I realised that I’ve let my fitness fall by the wayside for the umteenth time. Three years ago I managed to haul my body up hills and over long stretches of road quite regularly, I even have a slow half marathon under my belt. I often forget that I’m not as fit as I was then, or maybe I forget how much time has passed. I’ve put off running for long enough that I’ve noticed my jeans tightening ever so subtly, so back to the road I go. I can scarcely manage a kilometre or two before my energy crashes, teeth first, into the pavement. I don’t like realising how much ground I’ve lost to flabbiness, and I like the road to recovering my previously attained level of fitness even less. I don’t like the uncomfortable, disciplined mindset I need to put myself in to grow my endurance again. There’s a loop in my neighbourhood that’s roughly a kilometre long, I run laps round it when I feel uninspired and running is a chore. This morning I ran four laps. I’m comfortable running three, so I told myself I had to run four. I’ve won and lost my endurance enough times to know that this is an effective method to regain the running finesse I traded in for cheesecake and croissants. The last lap didn’t kill me, it was slow and unremarkable. It’s dull and painful work to purposefully exhaust my resources in the interest of running a little further. I don’t like how uncomfortable growing is. I don’t want to do it.
Running is an easy example. The exhaustion I feel dragging my feet around the block parallels the psychological exhaustion of discipline but, naturally, I become similarly exhausted with the more fragile and less measurable facets of humanity. I don’t want to challenge my fear of heights, it feels safer to tell myself that I don’t like zip-lining than it is to be brave and clip myself into the harness. I don’t really want to practice my patience, not in traffic, not when I’m standing in a never ending queue to buy one thing, not when I should wait for my dad to finish talking before I ask the question I thought of when he started his sentence. I don’t want to be more flexible if it starts to rain and the hike is cancelled or if the three other people in the car change their minds and we don’t go to my favourite ice cream spot. I want to follow my plans exactly as I planned them. There’s a child somewhere in my head or heart that stomps and whines and cries ugly, snotty tears whenever I need to face the uncomfortable, labour intensive task of growing (even a little).
I suppose I haven’t taken a moment to look down and consider how tall I’ve already grown. Like the very highest bough on my lemon tree, my focus is often on getting taller, I seldom look down and fathom how far I’ve come since I was a small, spindly sapling. I was a really scared kid: I once dropped to the floor, sobbing, because I couldn’t face a particularly steep mall escalator. I can confidently conquer the steepest, tallest escalator nowadays, so long as I hold onto the handrail. I like to believe that I am more patient than I used to be in high school, I remind myself to give strangers the benefit of the doubt, regardless of their driving. I’m still working on listening instead of talking. Silly as it may sound, letting go of the plans I make in my head is proving to be a difficult fight but my girlfriend encourages me, she tells me that I am making progress. There are darker corners of my emotional life that I have worked hard on, too. As a child I struggled with anger: when it showed its cruel face, it ruled me and I allowed rage to dictate my actions. I battled with loneliness, too, believing that I was unwelcome, unwanted, unloved. Lies ran cold in my veins. Thankfully, those difficulties are confined to my memories now. My tree has grown a little taller since then. Where I once displayed the bare branches of fear and impatience, lemons have started to grow. I want to be kind and patient and loving and full of stories about facing my fears and going on adventures. However difficult, however taxing and laborious it may be, I want to grow. I want to look back in another ten years and find that my branches are practically bent with lemons. It’s crazy to say, but I want all the discomfort that growth brings because I want the growth. I can’t wait until I’m running my next half marathon, it’s in April. When I’m stuck in midday traffic, when I’m putting my running shoes on far too early in the morning, when I face my next emotional monster, I want to think about my pipsqueak lemon tree. Ten years of fruitless labour couldn’t dissuade him. I hope to be half the tree he is.
I would, however, like to grow fewer thorns. If this journal resonates with you, please send it to someone you love.