Orange Moon

There’s an orange tree outside my bedroom window.

I moved to California from Michigan in August 2024 for a one-year fellowship. When I signed the lease for my apartment, I had only seen interior pictures. Fortunately for me, the place was exactly as middle-of-the-road as the photos promised—nothing spectacular, nothing tragic, just solidly okay.

California was my first out-of-state move, and I made every related decision at a snail’s pace, including finding somewhere to live. I was paralyzed by fear (and also paralyzed by my lack of action—a skill).

Finally, the administrator of my fellowship—who, I’m convinced, sacrificed at least one patch of hair over my indecisiveness—sent me a listing. “What about this place?” they asked.

It was nearly three hundred dollars more than I wanted to spend and farther from campus than I’d hoped. But it was almost August, and I was arriving in a month. I was out of the fight. The landlord made the process seamless, and before I knew it, I was walking into my furnished apartment with nothing but a suitcase of clothes and a book bag.

Looking around, I was relieved to see a clean, well-appointed space—more than I expected, but nothing to write home about. The kitchen gave me my first California chuckle when a small white refrigerator greeted me. At that moment, Nene Leakes’ voice rang in my ears.

Then I stepped into the bedroom, and there it was—an orange tree, right outside my window, heavy with big, juicy-looking oranges. Suddenly, I was California dreaming. The basic apartment was immediately made better as I imagined myself reaching out each morning to pluck a fresh orange for my juice, birds serenading me with sweet morning greetings. Maybe my purpose was to spend the year living like a fairytale princess in a furnished apartment in a whack-ass suburb: The Princess and the Slightly Too High Rent.

The reality? Less Pixar film, more mild disappointment. The window doesn’t open in a way that lets me reach the oranges, and I’m too short to grab one off the tree. So, instead of enjoying freshly picked fruit, I mostly watch oranges rot on the vine, taunting me.

But this weekend, as I passed by the window, I noticed something new—delicate white flowers blooming on the tree. A quick Google search told me they were Citrus aurantium, commonly used as the base of citrus perfumes. But what caught my eye? This particular orange tree is spiritually tied to attracting love.

Now, I’m not saying you need to plant an orange tree, but GO PLANT AN ORANGE TREE.

Because somehow, my life has bloomed with love in ways I never expected. A newfound love for deadlifting (which has shocked the hell out of me). A rekindled love for writing and performance. I even have a crush on mountains (minus the part where I have to drive around them). Incredible new friends. And the possibility that what was supposed to be a temporary move is turning into something much bigger, something deeply rooted in love blooming around me.

This fairytale might be destined for the big screen, after all. Maybe it’ll be called: The Princess’ Rent Is Still Too Damn High, But the Other Stuff Is Great.

Lastly, my landlord might keep me from retirement with these rent prices, but he occasionally leaves oranges at my doorstep. Though, I've learned they give me acid reflux.