It’s Worth a Few Pricks
One of my earliest memories is of picking blackberries with Grandmother Seymour. She thumped the ground with a stick to scare the snakes and sang hymns as we walked to the berry patch with our pails. At the sight of the berry bounty, it was a surprise that the earth could be so abundant and sweet. As a child I was enraptured by the sensuality of that physical experience. I still am. I loved the tasty juiciness, the deep, vibrant purple running down my chin and royally stained grubby fingers.
I have always been a food forager and as I look back the berries have always been available for me if I was willing to pick them. I was only briefly deterred by the prickly thorns. I learned quickly and early that “It’s worth a few pricks to get to the berries.”
Those thorny scratches healed with no scars to show. Others have left their etch in my heart.
How do you express the deep gratitude for a nascent thinking pattern of the universe as bountiful? To give back I have planted gardens of food and beauty where ever I have lived and have shared the fruits with as many as I could.
For so many years I tried to measure my own homemade cobbler to the mouthwateringly delicious standard set in my memory by my Grandmother Seymour. It was an even longer time before I realized how much more valuable was the immersion in that present moment and full experience of the sukha/sweetness of Grandmother’s tender touch as she pulled the thorns from my finger tips and I ate the flaky crust with berry stained fingers to distract myself from the hurt. Her generosity and understanding as I ate far more berries than I put in my pail and then later…….
The ink I made from blackberry juice was an explosion of deepest purple. Writing with a sharpened feather quill in my diary or letters cast an aura of importance to the most banal poetry rather like Robinson Crusoe ala Martha Stewart. Its’ faded marks now pointing only to the impermanent nature of all we think we hold dear.
And so I am learning to be mindful of this year’s bounty and the perfection of the berry cobbler aroma in the present moment.
If we can breathe that aroma, all that we experience is tied to this earthly existence. Revel in that breathing. It is the first sweet berry that life holds for us. Just as it is the last berry we let go of. When your mind wanders bring it back to breath. When your breath wanders bring it back to mind.
Years later as I picked blackberries with my NBF we bonded deeply into berry appreciation. Gratitude for having found an empathetic soul in the swampy south gave me such a feeling of communion it eased my loneliness. It helped me recognize the true importance of the small things that make truest friendship right in your own backyard instead of yearning for another place.
Our four year old daughter was once caught fast by the berry brambles, and then made a victim of fire ants while I strove to extricate her; spilling the berry basket as she whimpered. She continued to pick and eat the berries; only momentarily discouraged. Once on the way home with our filled baskets we saw a rat snake taking care of the rodent population. It’s worth a few pricks to get to the berries.
Those cobblers had the sweet summer tang of berry patch adventure and we gained a better understanding of the need to pay close attention to the risks involved and have a back-up plan as you pursue your goals.
The up dog of that is aparigraha or non-possessiveness. Being content with what is needed and not coveting more for the attachment to it.
To translate to the berries: It means pick gently to avoid thorns; eat some while picking but collect enough for future cobbler. Share the bounty. Try not to eat the whole cobbler yourself, generally you’ll regret it. Learn to practice aparigraha.
Blackberry season is upon us and once again I am drawn to the berry patch for life’s lessons in sweetness and aparigraha.
One of my earliest memories is of picking blackberries with Grandmother Seymour. She thumped the ground with a stick to scare the snakes and sang hymns as we walked to the berry patch with our pails. At the sight of the berry bounty, it was a surprise that the earth could be so abundant and sweet. As a child I was enraptured by the sensuality of that physical experience. I still am. I loved the tasty juiciness, the deep, vibrant purple running down my chin and royally stained grubby fingers.
I have always been a food forager and as I look back the berries have always been available for me if I was willing to pick them. I was only briefly deterred by the prickly thorns. I learned quickly and early that “It’s worth a few pricks to get to the berries.”
Those thorny scratches healed with no scars to show. Others have left their etch in my heart.
How do you express the deep gratitude for a nascent thinking pattern of the universe as bountiful? To give back I have planted gardens of food and beauty where ever I have lived and have shared the fruits with as many as I could.
For so many years I tried to measure my own homemade cobbler to the mouthwateringly delicious standard set in my memory by my Grandmother Seymour. It was an even longer time before I realized how much more valuable was the immersion in that present moment and full experience of the sukha/sweetness of Grandmother’s tender touch as she pulled the thorns from my finger tips and I ate the flaky crust with berry stained fingers to distract myself from the hurt. Her generosity and understanding as I ate far more berries than I put in my pail and then later…….
The ink I made from blackberry juice was an explosion of deepest purple. Writing with a sharpened feather quill in my diary or letters cast an aura of importance to the most banal poetry rather like Robinson Crusoe ala Martha Stewart. Its’ faded marks now pointing only to the impermanent nature of all we think we hold dear.
And so I am learning to be mindful of this year’s bounty and the perfection of the berry cobbler aroma in the present moment.
If we can breathe that aroma, all that we experience is tied to this earthly existence. Revel in that breathing. It is the first sweet berry that life holds for us. Just as it is the last berry we let go of. When your mind wanders bring it back to breath. When your breath wanders bring it back to mind.
Years later as I picked blackberries with my NBF we bonded deeply into berry appreciation. Gratitude for having found an empathetic soul in the swampy south gave me such a feeling of communion it eased my loneliness. It helped me recognize the true importance of the small things that make truest friendship right in your own backyard instead of yearning for another place.
Our four year old daughter was once caught fast by the berry brambles, and then made a victim of fire ants while I strove to extricate her; spilling the berry basket as she whimpered. She continued to pick and eat the berries; only momentarily discouraged. Once on the way home with our filled baskets we saw a rat snake taking care of the rodent population. It’s worth a few pricks to get to the berries.
Those cobblers had the sweet summer tang of berry patch adventure and we gained a better understanding of the need to pay close attention to the risks involved and have a back-up plan as you pursue your goals.
The up dog of that is aparigraha or non-possessiveness. Being content with what is needed and not coveting more for the attachment to it.
To translate to the berries: It means pick gently to avoid thorns; eat some while picking but collect enough for future cobbler. Share the bounty. Try not to eat the whole cobbler yourself, generally you’ll regret it. Learn to practice aparigraha.
Blackberry season is upon us and once again I am drawn to the berry patch for life’s lessons in sweetness and aparigraha.
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