The fruit does not wait

A meditation on berry picking

There’s a farm about twenty minutes away. For six or so weeks starting in late May, the family runs a pick-your-own berry operation. The strawberries are the first to arrive.

We had a dry spring. We had a winter without snow. The strawberries were not happy. They were buggy. The harvest was slim.

But in June, the rains came and so did some heat. This was good news for the blueberries and raspberries.

It’s about eight in the morning. My friend Shelley is riding shotgun. We both marvel at the sky, blue and wide as we wind our way past corn fields and horse pastures to get to our destination.

The property is set on a rolling hillside. From the check-in kiosk, we get a wide-angle view of the fields, the big red barn in the distance. But as we walk through the dew-covered grass, our focus zooms in on the fruit, the bushes taller than most humans, making us feel like nothing or no one can find us.

Raspberries are decisive; the thimble-like drupelets hold on tight to the center core (aka the receptacle) until they’re good and ready. The ripe fruit succumbs to my gentle tug. But the picking requires focus. The fruit asks me to stop and look beyond what’s right in front of me. There is fruit tucked behind the prickly branches and down by my damp sneakers.

The fruit is my teacher. It reminds me that I’m not the only one here for the bounty. The bees and the wasps bouncing from leave to vine, the robins dive bombing when their sugar high wears off. They sing whatever little ditty they know, and just when you think the concert is over, the mourning doves begin to coo coo.

I make my way over to the black raspberries. The ripe drupelets are inky, almost glistening. The bushes are heavy, groaning with fruit. I walk to the end of one row, the farthest I can go. This is where I’ll tug at the fruit and ask for its permission. The air around me smells of honeysuckle, or jasmine, or maybe rose. The bees are keeping me company.

I cannot hear another human even though I know there are other humans nearby in their own berry reverie. My tray of containers is nearly full. I have no idea how much time has passed.

I am not religious, but this is about as close to God as it gets, I say out loud. This is where the world feels just right, a world where there are no book bans and transbans and abortion bans and drag show bans and student loan forgiveness bans. A world in which we get high on the birds, the bees, the berries.

The fruit does not wait. Nor should we.

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