Pomagranates

I had my first pom of the season this morning for breakfast. I look forward to the times when they're available, and I wait all year for them-- this year it came a little early because the farmer's market had a little pile of perfect early poms, but all the associations are always there, regardless.

I eat them despite the fact that they're a pain in the butt because I like them-- but part of why I love them is because they're so full of history. Each of those little 888 ruby kernels is like a piece of history. The fruit was one of the first domesticated, and was common in the earliest civilizations man participated in. They're sacred to the feminine forces, and a vital part of myths. When I had my circle, we'd take them with us to the Esbats and Sabbats, and we'd crack them open and share them with each other through the fall and winter celebrations along side fire-brewed tea, honey-drenched apples and gypsy stew. They're part of my personal mythology, too, because of those nights, three beautiful falls and winters that seeped into my little pagan soul, and now I don't have a circle, but I can still have Poms and I can eat them and remember those shiny, innocent days before we all had to deal with the crap of an adult life in a mundane world, when we were all together and felt like we belonged.

So I have my yearly ritual of slowly eating and enjoying my first pom of the year, and this year it's early, but no less powerful. And I thank the Dieties for the chance. I'm planting the seeds to preserve this chance, just in case they're unavailable or far too expenseive next year.