Six Oranges

I woke with a deep sadness.

The kind that isn’t always explainable.

If love can be unconditional, I think sadness can be too. It doesn’t always hinge on circumstances—it just… arrives. Like fog over a mountain.

And that morning, it was thick.

But I did what I know to do. I whispered to myself, I can do hard things.

I’m a coach. I know the tools. I got more mantras than I do socks. I know the connection between body and mind.

So I ran. My "up the mountain" playlist booming in my ears.

Up the mountain, legs pounding, lungs fighting. And when I reached the top, I saw it: the orange tree.

Full. Ripe. Radiant.

The citrus-sunlight scent hit me first. Then the color—this vibrant, living orange that felt like a balm to my soul.

The same color my dad used to infuse into his paintings—splashed across his skies, glowing through his imagined sunsets. He returned to that shade again and again, like it held a secret only he understood.

There was one of my dad's paintings from the 1960s—and it was very... 60s. It was inexplicably almost entirely orange, with this enormous, abstract blob in the middle that always looked to me like… maybe a sheepdog? Or a planet? Or a mistake he tried to cover up and called it "abstract"? Every time I asked him what it was, he’d never answer the question. It was a little infuriating. And maybe that was the point. You saw what you wanted to see. Also, I’m not quite sure he knew.

But standing there under the tree, surrounded by that same hue—ripe, sun-warmed fruit practically glowing—I felt him.

Not in a grief-weighted way. Just… present.

Like a quiet echo of love through light and color.

And then I heard it. His voice in my head.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

He used to say that to me all the time. As a teenager, it annoyed the hell out of me.

I never wanted to share what I was thinking.

“Nothing, Dad. Not thinking about anything.”

But of course now? I’d give anything to share everything.

I picked six oranges—just enough to fill my pockets, make a little basket from the hem of my shirt—and began walking back down the hill.

But as I descended, the sadness returned. That heavy, hollow ache. At the bottom of the hill, I slipped into my secret meditation spot—a patch of forest that borders the gulch we live next to. The woods have always felt holy to me. At different times in my life, that holiness has had different names: the universe, source energy, the unknown.

Now? I call it God.

I sat cross-legged on the dry pine needles. The six oranges nestled in my lap. Sunlight poured through the trees like stained glass. I tried to breathe deeply. To feel gratitude. But the sadness was louder.

It spilled over. It poured out until all I wanted was peace. Complete, permanent peace. For one flicker of a moment, I thought I knew the way to find it. The final way.

I asked—out loud—for a sign.

God, please. I need a sign. I feel so alone.

And I believe God answered.

Because then—against all logic, against every odd—someone I love found me. Found me there. In the woods. No reason. No plan. He just… knew.

When I shared what I was feeling, he was shaken at first. Maybe scared.

But then, he shifted.

He stood over me. Placed his hands on my head. And gave me a blessing.

I didn’t grow up religious. Never really knew what a blessing was.

But I know what it feels like now.

It feels like more than love.

It feels like strange sunlight streaming into my soul, lifting me gently toward something I didn’t even know existed.

Like someone reaching into the dark, taking my hand, and pulling me out—away from the cold, the loneliness—toward light, toward breath.

It feels like being rescued from drowning.

Like air filling your lungs again.

Like grace.

And in that moment I knew with all certainty, perhaps for the first time, that God was aware of me.

When I got home, I peeled one of the oranges. Let the juice drip down my chin. I really tasted it—every burst of tang and light.

And I thought: What a miracle.

What a miracle my life is.

What a miracle I am.

I stepped outside barefoot, feeling the earth beneath me.

Something small pressed against my heel.

I looked down and picked it up.

A penny.

I held it in the palm of my hand.

And then I squeezed it—feeling the cool weight of it against the warmth of my skin.