Blackberries

This morning I took a short stroll around the 'hood, partially to get my head in the game after coming out the other side of a crushing three-day headache, but mostly to pop across the street to pick up some cigarettes (I know, I know....)

I live in an industrial park.  Along a major trucking route.  Across the street from a heavy equipment yard.  Exhaust, dust and noise are an integral part of my life.  It's not perfect, but it is where I am at this point in my life.


I scooted across the intersection, waving and smiling my thanks to the young man who did not run the red to make his left turn (as he would have taken me out in the process).  Walked along the narrow dirt path between the curb and the small amount of greenage that is a nod to the wishes of our 'burb's bylaws.

Stopped. Smiled. Reached. Grimaced. Smiled again.

Early blackberries.  REALLY early.  Be still my heart.

The grimace was due to the fact that I had just brushed my teeth (blackberries and mint that is "guaranteed to keep your mouth fresh all day" is a disgusting combination, btw).  That of course didn't stop me from repeating the above.  Twice.

In my part of the world blackberry brambles are generally considered to be an invasive weed, and they are removed with vigor by most folks as soon as they start to show their well-thorned selves.   People buy their blackberries from the store.

I, on the other hand, have had a life-long love affair with blackberries.  The ones I pick and eat, or bake into tasty things, or make into jam so I can remember summer all year long.   I picked them as a child, and I feel blessed to be living in a place where I can pick them now. 

I steal a few hours here and there, usually in August, and lose myself in the ditch in front of our place.  Come out some time later, scratched, bug-bitten, sweaty, drooping from the heat.  Smiling so hard my face hurts, entirely at peace, feeling the good tired of having done a bit of work that matters. Carrying the day's bounty - an ice cream bucket full of blackberries.  

While I'm there I don't hear the traffic.  I don't smell the exhaust.  I don't feel the dust.  I get totally lost in the moment. Urban nirvana 101, ala moi. 

I was heading out last year to forage and was questioned by an individual (who is on the periphery of my world) as to what I was up to.  I told him, and he looked at me with an expression that held both pity and an obvious question of my sanity, and said "Aren't you worried about the pollution?  They must be filthy!"

Yes, they most certainly have a layer of grit.  No, they are not growing in the most pristine conditions.  Yet there they are.  Free. Abundant. Healthful. Available to anyone who isn't afraid to get a little scratched up in the process of gathering them.

They thrive in the same air I breathe.  Are covered with the same dust that collects on every surface of my home (despite my attempts to remove or, at least, displace it).  Grow back in spite of numerous attempts (by others) to eliminate them.

At some time this week I will find the lightest long-sleeved shirt I own, the oldest jeans, the scruffiest ball cap.  If anyone is looking for me I'll be in the ditch.  Collecting the bounty that has been placed before me.  Exercising relentless gratitude.  With a smile.