In the late summer of 2013 my mother, my three young children, and I went apple picking. This was one of the many times when my (ex) husband was not present. Our 4-month-old youngest boy was strapped to my chest while our two Irish twins kept up the pace alongside by my walking feet.

I remember letting the children pick way too many apples. I had six bags of orchard produce sitting upon the kitchen counter.

I peeled, sliced, and baked a high-top apple pie for my family. I was hoping to share full bellies and smiles.
The pie went unnoticed and unappreciated. The marriage was empty. Life was always too busy then. “Thank you” was a rarity and eye contact was minimal.

I eventually became a divorced mother of three children.

As I stepped into my new identity of life restructured, the kids and I struggled with the pain, life adjustments, and major changes post divorce. We took turns with tears, hugs, and bad days that following year.

Within the safe presence and judgement free zone of my best friend, I had authentically asked why my journey had been burdened with so much pain and disappointment.

“I am so tired,” I crowed.

She spoke with such confidence, “This is your journey. This is how things are supposed to go for you right now.”

She spoke as I cried, “We will go and pick all of the apples. We will laugh and make the best of this. We will love this life the way it is.”

Simple and true. My journey was neither good nor bad. It was both. My journey was neither all joy nor all pain. It was both.

One year after my divorce in the heat of early Autumn, we toted three, excited children to the apple orchard. We picked and we picked. The warm sunshine heated my exposed shoulders making it difficult to believe that the crisp, fall air would soon be fast approaching. I smiled as the kids picked way too many apples. I had six bags of orchard produce sitting upon my kitchen counter that evening.

“We will go and pick all of the apples.”

I sent as many apples to school as I could. I packed the kids’ lunch boxes with an apple a day.
The unused apples began to soften. Then the flies arrived when a bruised fruit on the bottom began to rot. The truth was, I had stopped baking since the separation from my husband.

When I was married, I enjoyed the process of baking. I loved creating fall treats especially; caramel popcorn, cobbler, crisp, and cake. I loved the measuring and mixing. I loved getting lost in the batter. I loved the scents and smells of spices streaming from the kitchen.

I stood at the counter and realized that I was divorced, yet still bitter over the many past meals that I had poured my heart into creating. The desserts I baked only to see them become unappreciated and uneaten leftovers. My inspiration for baking was shadowed by the anger I clung to.

Once I acknowledged my anger, the bitterness softened into sadness with the apples in my kitchen. I found myself grieving the pain. In that moment I was ready to bake again.

The multicolored apples were aged and ripe, which made them easier to peel and slice. I stood in my new kitchen and watched those shreds of red, green, and yellow apple peel fall away.

The music echoed off of my kitchen cabinets as I swayed, sang, and sliced. I had those six bags of apples ready for a pie in under 12 minutes. I placed the high-top apple pie into my new, stainless steel, preheated oven.

I smiled at the rising pie crust and cinnamon-sugar apple juice bubbling over the brim.

I inhaled the sweet sting of cinnamon spice into my nostrils.

I opened the oven door, peeked inside and greeted the warm rush of heat escaping the oven with my eyelids closed and my lips relaxed.

The next day my best friend came to visit. Her familiarity is always peaceful and easy. I cut the pie into equal sections feeling eager to share my dessert. I was hoping to share full bellies and smiles.

“We will laugh and make the best of this.”

We each savored the almost-mushy, baked, warm apples and crumbling crust on our plates.
We enjoyed spoonfuls of soupy, sweet vanilla ice cream melting over the reheated, tender apples. My children smiled.
“We will love this life the way it is.”