Lemon Tree

I am a lemon tree. I am not a potato tree or a cucumber tree. I am not even a mango tree or a cherry tree. I am simply a lemon tree.

I should probably explain this statement, before somebody I love shows up with a bag of Miracle Grow and a watering can. If you know my family, then you know there's at least two people who would do exactly that.

There are actually four ways in which the statement "I am a lemon tree" applies.

The Lemon Tree Effect

When my husband (Sergey) and I were dating, back in the early days, we would take long walks through neighborhoods in Tarzana, California. He's a fan of long walks, but he likes to zone out and be in his own headspace. So until he started taking me along he didn't see that there were neighbor's bushes decorated like Christmas Trees, or a tiny farm with a snooty llama, or how many fruit trees we passed every time.

See, I am that person chasing down the SHINY or INTERESTING whenever it crops up in my path, and I drag along anyone who happens to be near me so they don't miss it.

This tendency extended out further, though. Sergey had been renting a room on a friend's property for a few years and it came to my attention that there was a lemon tree on the property. To me, lemon trees are like gold because Hot Lemonade is my family's cure-all for what ails ye. To my dismay, Sergey had no idea there was a lemon tree in his backyard.

"How could you not notice that you had a lemon tree?" I asked, boggled. He shrugged, amused. But, hey, I got my comeuppance a few years later, when I moved into an apartment with him and totally missed a useful set of light switches in the bathroom. For months.

The Lemon Tree Effect is that effect where you have a keen eye for the shiny, the interesting, or the really oddball useful thing. While being totally blind to a lot of practical things right under your nose.

The Lemonade Principle

When people see me for the first time after a very long time, they often ask how I've been. I usually answer, "Ups, downs, and all-arounds," or "The very good and the very hard go hand in hand for me."

An old, old saying goes, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." There's something so redemptive about taking the sourest, bitterest flavor around and turning into something refreshing and invigorating. Something that gives you the energy to keep going another few hours on a hot day. Something delicious and rewarding.

When I can take the bitter, painful moments of my life and use them to someone else's advantage, or help someone because of what I have been through, it is worth it. When I can distill those moments into fiction that moves someone, or alerts them to something they hadn't seen or considered before, it is worth it. When I take those experiences and learn how to grow and be a better, more whole person, it is worth it.

Turning lemons into lemonade isn't so trite when you live through some of those sorts of lemon harvests.

Lemon Is My Happy Flavor/Scent

It's simple, it's silly, but lemon is my hardwired happy flavor and scent. Whether it's lemon scented soap, lemon candles, lemonade, or a bag full of lemon flavored Jolly Ranchers (GOD BLESS CANDY MAFIA!) it's bound to bring a smile to my face and a little extra pep in my step.

Just Lemons

Indulge me in a metaphor, if you will. I have always been a lemon tree, but for most of my life I have not been producing lemons. I have been producing tomatoes. And corn. And wheat. And bananas. And pineapples. And blackberries. Even mint, when called upon. I produced these things because that's what I felt was needed of me.

I did not produce high quality... well, produce. The more exotic the fruits and vegetables that I tried to squeeze out of my limbs, the worse they all tasted. And, more often than not, those efforts were thrown back at me.

I was a lemon tree, but that's not what people around me seemed to want, so I kept trying to be what was needed.

This went on until I began encountering stretches of time when I couldn't produce anything at all. It was just... gone. I couldn't even make lemons.

For a time, I rested. I grieved. I soaked in nutrients from the soil and healed my scarred trunk and limbs. I drank in sunlight and rain. I did nothing but be a tree.

And, after time passed, I began to produce lemons. Slowly, at first, handing them out with caution. But do you know what I found?

I make excellent lemons.

To nobody's surprise, my strength is producing lemons.

I still forget, from time to time. Occasionally, the errant carrot emerges, or the unexpected cherry. It's a process, remembering what sort of tree I am and sticking with it, but I'm getting there. One lemon at a time, I am getting there.