The Pod and the Purpose

There are moments when one must question the course of their life. Did one make a misstep, demonstrate poor judgment, or was one simply subjected to a sobering dose of bad luck? And if one truly has a purpose, was it met? For me, this period of deep introspection began eight hours ago when I heard the girl start to moan. True, the bedroom was dark and the two of us were alone, but I promise you, I never touched her, not once. I was completely trapped and paralyzed, and I had to endure her moans the whole night. They were constant and tiresome, and as no one came running to her aid, I seized the hours to reflect. I recalled a life rich with ideas, prospects, and above all, ambition.

Paralysis was not completely alien to me. I spent much of my youth incapacitated and in partial darkness. Many would consider my first month, claustrophobic and boring, but as I patiently grew, I experienced only optimism. I was privileged to be accompanied by seven others, each optimistic in their way. Young and fresh, we were eight, fit for purpose, green and delicious, peas.

Our enclosed dwelling offered little visibility, but during brief periods, we were treated to a brilliant display of green light through our translucent pod. We waxed lyrical about our ascension to the plate. How would it feel to be cooked and eaten? The hot gravy, the swilling of saliva, the grinding of teeth, that final fizz in the stomach acids. Would we find a home in a pie or a casserole? Would we be eaten fresh from the pod, pureed for soup, or even picked from a bowl with a cocktail stick? We heard of others like us. Not green, but orange, white, or red; not round, but long or flat; a diverse variety, all waiting for the harvest and heading for that perfect plate.

As each day passed, the harvest drew closer. We kept ourselves busy with games: Word Association, what’s that food? During brighter hours, we played I Spy with my little eye (something beginning with P). We discussed our growth and lamented our imperfections: a bump here, a blemish there. Those neurotic moments were testing, but in good company, we lifted each other’s spirits. Conversations could be repetitive, and sometimes our playful discussions turned nasty, but apologies were always made, and harmony was restored. I experienced spots of loneliness, despite the company of my siblings, however, these would be short-lived. After many formative days, we heard the crunch of tools and machinery, and collectively we knew, the harvest was here. Our destiny was being set into motion.

Along with many other pods, we were picked from the field, bagged up, and taken by the farmer to a market. Despite progress, life felt very much the same. You see when you’re inside a pod, it doesn’t make much difference whether you are in a field, on the back of a wagon, or in a sack. We were destined for the plate but what of today? What of the many days until then? I remember as we arrived at the market I was suffering with a malaise unfamiliar to me. For the first time in my life, I was dissatisfied. It struck me in bouts, as it did the others in the pod. Thankfully, we had each other to talk it through. During one particularly bad episode, I leaned on the pea to my left and asked him, “Comrade, what does it all mean?” He told of a parable heard from somewhere beyond, passed on from pod to pod, from pea to pea. The parable was as follows:

There was once a pea who, like any other pea, was green and round and sweet. He went by the name of Sisyphus. And like any other pea, he posed questions regarding the ascension and his destiny on the plate. But as each day passed, Sisyphus the Pea grew restless. He became agitated, irritable, and eventually antisocial. The fellow peas in his pod found life difficult with him and animosity flared. Sisyphus became mischievous and deceitful, until finally one day, he defied the crop and exited his pod early, never to be seen again. Sisyphus traveled far until he was exhausted and found himself at the foot of a small mound the in center of a desert. No crops grew in every direction, and in the dry sands, he was unable to move. After several days he was approached by an ant named Persephone. Persephone the Ant inspected the tired pea and began to roll him up the mound. Sisyphus felt discomfort from the sand against his outer skin and dizziness from the rolling, but the ant rolled the pea to the top. Once there, Sisyphus could do nothing except roll back down to the bottom. So, Persephone rolled the pea back up the mound, and again, Sisyphus rolled back down. Again and again, the ant rolled the pea to the top, and, always, he would roll back down. It is not known how long Sisyphus has been rolling back and forth, up and down the mound, but it is said he continues there still.  It is a trying life, but Sisyphus, dispirited at first, has grown resilient. His outer skin has hardened and his dizziness has settled. Over time, he has forgotten his fellow peas and the ascension has faded from his mind. He has learned to live with his thoughts and has found meaning in his fate. No longer destined for the plate, he is forever a roller.

Amidst the bustle of the marketplace, I pondered the situation of Sisyphus. If this pea was content, I figured I could be too, and for the next few days, I absorbed the sounds and smells of my surroundings. We heard the haggles and trades and embraced the many fragrances emanating from nearby vegetables and customers. Homekeepers, butlers, and servants came and went until finally we were selected for purchase by a cook who had traveled from afar.

After being weighed and bagged, we were on our way. We shook and rustled, and the excitement was difficult to contain. The cook took us home and set us down on a kitchen surface, where we soon began to hear slicing and tearing. The pods were being opened. The energy was electric at this time, and as our pod was peeled, a surge of white light illuminated us from every angle. Following the light was a soaking of water, as the cook rinsed us clean. We had felt the waters of the sky out in the field, but never with this intensity. Finally, the eight peas of our pod joined a heaped collective of hundreds, all unpeeled, and others continued to join.

We marveled at the kitchen. I saw the pile of plates up on a shelf in the corner; they were beautiful, shiny, and welcoming. As the growing crowd of peas shared stories, several more cooks traversed the room, and it warmed as various fires were lit. This feverous activity was intoxicating, however it was interrupted, as the cooks were startled by a commotion coming from beyond the kitchen. It was apparent an unexpected guest had arrived; a beautiful girl, and much discussion was being had regarding her status. Upon eavesdropping, I came to understand that the house we had arrived at was home to a wealthy Queen with a handsome son who hoped to marry. However, due to a long-standing etiquette, the son, who was a Prince, could only marry this beautiful girl if she was a Princess. The situation was manic, and many members of the household raced in and out until finally the Queen entered and the kitchen went quiet.

There, my fellow peas and I, confused and anxious on that kitchen surface, listened as the Queen devised the most surreal plan imaginable. She proposed that they put one of us under twenty feather mattresses and allow this girl to sleep on top. If the poor girl were to experience discomfort, this would somehow authenticate her royal roots. Admittedly, I was unaware of the kind of sleeping conditions princesses enjoyed, but I found the idea utterly absurd. Regardless, a panic spread across the pea collective.

We waited. A pea to my left suggested drawing straws, but a second smaller pea resting above pointed out that the Queen would have no reason to acknowledge any lottery we wished to conduct for fairness. We had to face it; one of us was to be a pawn in this little scheme, and we had no control over who it would be.

The Queen approached our heap, her hand hovering over us, her fingers fidgeting. We froze, but as the hand came closer, a cacophony of desperate chatter began to sound. "Not me, not me, not me," and "Plate, plate, plate," was audible from every pea at every angle. As I was pinched between a finger and thumb and was lifted into the air, the desperate sounds beneath me became that of relieved exhalations. Over several dizzying minutes, I was taken to another room, placed on a bed, and covered with a suffocating pile of feather mattresses. Before I had time to fully assess, the girl's moaning began.

Morning came and the Queen, the Prince, and many others entered the room. The girl started whinging about what a terrible night she had endured, and everyone rejoiced. All was revealed to the girl and as the Prince declared his love and she reciprocated, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion. Despite my predicament, those sentimental declarations and discussions of marriage moved me, dearly.

After that, I was no longer deemed edible. Being at the center of such a significant experiment, I expected to be bestowed with some recognition, but here I am at the bottom of a bin with various scraps of food and dismembered peels. There are other peas in here, some partially covered in gravy, some not entirely whole. We have exchanged pleasantries but have all begun to experience a sensation of decay. And while my mind is fuzzy, I feel no regret. I didn’t end up on an exquisitely arranged plate of food, or on an even more exquisitely arranged table, but I lived my life with enthusiasm and honor. You will not meet another pea from now until the end of time who will tell a story as strange as mine. This was my life, and it held a purpose like no other.