When I was young my family moved a lot, but we mostly lived in the Pacific Northwest. Wherever we went, we stayed to the outskirts of the towns, where things grew wild and the animals and kids had room to run.
I remember the blackberry brambles. Wide expanses of thorny tangles, growing tall along the sides of gravel roads and spreading along the edges of fields. Among the thick barbed branches and the broad leaves with fine hooks hidden on their undersides there would hang bunches of fruit in various stages of ripeness. There were tiny berries, hard and pale green, dark black berries mummifying on their stems, berries that were half pink and half black, and berries that were large and shiny and perfect, but made my mouth pucker unexpectedly with their pure sour juices.
The best blackberries were usually hard to reach. They were larger than the rest, often hanging high in the branches where the sunlight baked them into sweet delicacies. They were no longer shiny, as their perfect ripeness softened the skin.
It was tricky to get to them. I would have to carefully press my tiny body as close to the bushes as possible, often climbing over the low thick branches until I was enveloped by hundreds of thorns that snagged at my clothes and drew thin white lines on my exposed arms and legs. With one hand I would clear the obstacles to my path, strategically pushing branches to the side, unhooking the leaves that caught on my clothes, all the while pushing my body up onto my tippy-toes and stretching my free arm as far as it could possibly reach.
All I had to do was nudge that perfect berry and it would fall from its stem into my hand. I would slowly pull my arm back, careful to not drop my prize. I would hold it for just a moment, turning it slightly in my fingers, inspecting it for bugs and cobwebs, observing as it stained my skin with its seeping purple juice. And then I would pop it in my mouth, pressing it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, letting it melt, filling my mouth and my senses with the finest honey-sweet liquid. And then I'd swallow the pulp, no need to chew, no need to get the tiny seeds stuck in my teeth.
The perfect blackberry was like the perfect kiss.
This is how I experience the world. This is how I want to be experienced.
I remember the blackberry brambles. Wide expanses of thorny tangles, growing tall along the sides of gravel roads and spreading along the edges of fields. Among the thick barbed branches and the broad leaves with fine hooks hidden on their undersides there would hang bunches of fruit in various stages of ripeness. There were tiny berries, hard and pale green, dark black berries mummifying on their stems, berries that were half pink and half black, and berries that were large and shiny and perfect, but made my mouth pucker unexpectedly with their pure sour juices.
The best blackberries were usually hard to reach. They were larger than the rest, often hanging high in the branches where the sunlight baked them into sweet delicacies. They were no longer shiny, as their perfect ripeness softened the skin.
It was tricky to get to them. I would have to carefully press my tiny body as close to the bushes as possible, often climbing over the low thick branches until I was enveloped by hundreds of thorns that snagged at my clothes and drew thin white lines on my exposed arms and legs. With one hand I would clear the obstacles to my path, strategically pushing branches to the side, unhooking the leaves that caught on my clothes, all the while pushing my body up onto my tippy-toes and stretching my free arm as far as it could possibly reach.
All I had to do was nudge that perfect berry and it would fall from its stem into my hand. I would slowly pull my arm back, careful to not drop my prize. I would hold it for just a moment, turning it slightly in my fingers, inspecting it for bugs and cobwebs, observing as it stained my skin with its seeping purple juice. And then I would pop it in my mouth, pressing it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, letting it melt, filling my mouth and my senses with the finest honey-sweet liquid. And then I'd swallow the pulp, no need to chew, no need to get the tiny seeds stuck in my teeth.
The perfect blackberry was like the perfect kiss.
This is how I experience the world. This is how I want to be experienced.
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| Photo taken August 21st, 2011 in Cedar Flat, OR. |
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