Lessons from shelling peas

There is a special key needed to open a pea pod, and each pod different from the next.  Like the key to a heart, or a mind, some open easily, some with great difficulty and some are just plain stubborn. Being stubborn myself, I take scissors to get these to give me their peas.  I stand with bowl and my hands, seeking a rhythm in the motions only to discover that every pod is slightly different, thus it’s more of a dance with an awkward partner who would rather leave than dance.

My mind wanders to the summers I spend assembling parts in my Dad’s manufacturing plant.  The trick was to repeat the exact motions over and over as quickly, smoothly and efficiently as possible.  If there was a difference in a part, it was faulty, something was wrong.  The motions became steady, rhythmic, mesmerizing in way.  There was something rewarding in doing exactly the same thing over and over and over…until the bucket filled with assembled parts and I took a pause to move those to the next station and refill mine. 

This work was hard on the body and trained me to hold most of my body very still in order not to waste movements.  But in that stillness was a tension, a bracing in order to move faster than the body wanted.  Truly, what body wants to sit in the same place and perform the same motions over and over?

Peas are different, at least the kind I grow.  I find myself holding my body much like I did those years ago assembling parts. Perhaps that would work for peas destined for tin cans or the frozen section of the grocery store.  There are machines for that.  

But the peas I grow are self-expressive free thinkers with a touch of bohemian thrown in.   They insist I learn their unique dance if I am to receive their treasure.