Holly

I didn’t find Bananaism. The fruit found me. It started on a Tuesday. I peeled a Cavendish and heard a holy little “pahhh”—the sound of the seal breaking. It wasn’t just breakfast; it was a revelation wrapped in yellow biodegradable packaging.

Since that day, I have followed the Way of the Peel. I don’t have anxiety; I have a potassium deficiency. I don’t have bad luck; I have bruised karma. I carry an emergency banana in a velvet pouch embroidered with “Go Forth and Peel.” It is for spiritual emergencies only. I once led an entire bus stop in a spontaneous benediction after someone dropped a smoothie.

People come to me with complex life problems, and I offer the simple clarity of the fruit:

• The Upright Peel: Stand the banana up. Confess your sins. If it falls, you are forgiven.
• The Smoothie Rite: Blend your worries. Drink them. Digest your trauma.
• The Brown Spot meditation: Stare at a bruise until you accept that imperfection is sweet.

My friends think this is a bit much. But then they eat the banana I offer them, and for a moment, they are silent. That is the power of the fruit. It shuts you up and gives you energy. What other deity does that?

Bananaism has its schisms, of course. Our biggest? Whether freezing bananas is holy preservation or spiritual vandalism. I lead the Room Temperature Purists. We meet Thursdays.

I’m not here to debate theology. Belief ripens when it's ready. I’m here to tell you that the answer to your problem is yellow, curved, and high in fiber.