Humbleberry Picking
"...Stay on the shady side of the bush...."
I suggest, "pick underneath, down low."
"It's sooo HOT, Mamma!"
"There aren't even ANY berries."
"Can we go, NOW?"
I peer into my slowly filling mesh bucket, and silently agree with my swarming kids.
After a month-long sojourn visiting national parks, we returned home hoping we hadn't missed Blueberry Season. I had established an hour as the time frame for today's outing, knowing that some of the kids would tire in far less time. Twenty minutes of gleaning revealed a paltry harvest even accounting for the berries dropped by two year old Benny. Except to taste for a bush's desirablity, none of us munched many. This wasn't the year for perpetual sampling: maybe Blueberry Season, wasn't, this year; maybe it rained too much while we were gone; maybe we missed them.
"Perhaps we should return in a few days," I encourage the kids. I think of the forecast: Sun! Three days of Carolina sun!. I promise to research how long it takes red berry bunches to ripen into a sweet purple-blue. We daydream of stripping clumps of grape-sized berries, into our awaiting buckets, and mouths.
I call to my daughter over the 6 ft high bushes, that form the row I patiently harvest. "Everybody should berry pick! Keeps you close to nature! Reality, you know..." I can't tell if she hears me, and it really doesn't matter. Aside from pea-sized berries, I relish the authenticity of my experience. Seasonal picking gifts more fruit than one could ever bake into pies or cobblers or buckles!
I savor the humility of awaiting nature's timing. Whenever the berries "come in" depends on forces external to people. I love it! We must wait, with excitement: wonder and awe! God works his miracle, fattening and ripening the fruit, presenting His gift to those who treasure the ritual that binds them to the humus. "....Human, from dust you came and unto the dirt you shall return....!" In this primordial annual dance, we become Children of the Earth, clay recepticles for the Potter's fruit, shaped by the whirling forces of nature He spun in motion.
I ponder the gift of receiving what each bush offers. Regardless of whines or wishes, the bush dictates the quantity and quality of the berries. I empathize with my kids, yet motivtate them to spot the berries hidden, deep within the shrub. "Look here! This is a FAT one!" My rising second grader runs over. "Wow Mom!" She picks it for herself, asking if I want to taste it. Jeaslously she notices my half-full basket, and plunks herself on the berry stained grass. Picking low. After an hour, her berries more than cover the bucket's bottom. She proudly tops off my gallon, gifting me with tens of blueberries, and redberries, with a few greenies thrown in as a promise!
Berry picking binds me to my littlenes. A creature, I live seasonal harmony along with the birds and deer who pluck blueberries beneath the master's watch. No person creates a flower, or pollinates it, forming the bulb that, in time, becomes a blueberry! Seasonal harvesting of semi-wild berries provides one of the few experiences left that roots me as a creature of an omnicient God. His rules apply. I must humbly acceed if I desire the opportunity to taste delights. Regardless of my harvest, I celebrate the experience of unity with nature and her Creator. I share the joy of living free and wild with my kids. A child myself of God who gives, just enough, I'm thankful, simply appreciative that any berries awaited our enthusiastic fingers!
Careful not to spill any, we pour berries into communal buckets. At $7.00/gallon, I write a check to the familiar name for $21.00. I don't tack on a few extra bucks for the "field meal", since we tasted only a handful of blueberries. Somebody knocks over a mesh bucket in the car. Some "blue gold" rolls away. I, soothingly instruct the kids to pick them up one at a a time. The teen-aged daughter notices hair and other flecks on the car floor and tosses the berries out, onto the green field. Perhaps another family will view them as a harbinger of an excellent harvest, or the birds will get them, or they'll nurture next year's crop.
As we drive away, I reassure the gang of nine, "It's okay, guys! Together we've got enough for muffins and pancakes!" Later I notice, a small bowl of the plumpest, deep blue berries set aside. I suppose we've picked enough for a friend or two! I'd better set some aside for my honey as well!P
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