Not More, Not Less, But That

Took my daughter to Ojai. It’s quiet there and the drive is stunning on a highway surrounded by mountains. (Mountains are my jam) I drove to an even quieter place in Ojai where we also picked oranges from the trees.

I don’t care about oranges.

I don’t care about quiet places.

I don’t care about Ojai.

My daughter Anaïs intensely looked how I dug my fingers into that orange skin and started peeling it off. I ripped the damn thing open.

“Papa give her orange?” she asked in a singing, melodious tone as she looked at how I massacred that pour citrusy globe.

I gave her a slice. She ate. We walked. We sat and gazed upon the mountains and into the horizon. We drove back home.

I bathed her and sang to her and she relaxed, and as she glided into sleeping mode, she mumbled quietly, “Anaïs go to Ojai? Papa give her orange?” as she closed her eyes and dozed off into a restful sleep?

I don’t care or know much about what the future holds, but I know when she does whatever she does when she is a grown up, she will literally dig her fingers into it with her intense gaze, and do a damn good job. That’s what I care about.

As the smell lingered on my fingers even after washing my hands many times, I remembered that this world, this planet, these trees are divine and God is non other than the smell of the orange on my fingers. Not more, not less, but That.