My beloved is the grandsonof Naranja, the spiritual teacherwhose sayings I never hearin the dream, but his wife, bearer of wisdom’sbed-weight, a crone whose round tan faceearth has freckled umber,sits at the small pinetable. Its labors have warped it—bearing meals, talk, elbows,heads pondering sorrow.She asks if I’m interestedin her or Naranja.Both/and I think.My beloved who alsosits at the table spoonsthick spicy soup, pumpkin perhaps,shaking out pepper and salt,black and white pigments, swaths,dots and lines, a sand-paintinghe will eat,a hot communion.I wake to rememberingnaranja is Spanish for orange, whichthe unconsciousmade soup of. I say “the”because clearly I’m not in charge.Oranges are. They litthe polished deep green leaves,the groves’ fragrant shadowsthat beckoned girl-me,who ate so muchjuice, fire and sugar:The sun fed orange. Color tells.Black and white, the groundsalt and pepper—oh, I know my Jung—binaries, self and soul, croneand beloved—but the groundis the wordarising, the unwarranted lovethe earth we areburning givesthe blossomingscent of orangesI peel and eat over the sink.The teacher is burning.