Now that the
heat wave has passed. Now that we’re on a summer schedule recovering from those
long winter sixty hour work weeks. We took our collection of empty Kawartha
Dairy ice cream containers up to Maclean’s berry farm.
Perfect summer
day. Warm sun, cool breeze, no deadlines. Friendly staff took us to our picking row. Nine yards of raspberry bushes heavy with deep red berries dotting the
waist high branches. A thunderstorm the night before had washed them for us and
they were so ripe - many had been washed off the branch onto the ground. The rest
we quickly plucked from their stems – the berries often falling into our hands
at just a touch.
We gathered
eight containers worth in about an hour or so – my knees and back telling me
that was enough of a good thing.
We put some on
ice cream that night. Some on our cereal the next morning. Some in the freezer
for another day. And the rest we cooked up with local honey into jam.
Bottled summer
sun. Jars of red juicy memories. A taste of sweet July breezes. The smell of a thunderstorm.
If only we
could bottle the spirit like that.
My summer days
have also been dotted by funerals and weddings. Both offer public experiences
of what’s most intimate. Celebrations of the relationships that grow and thrive
in summer seasons, and endure through winter’s trials, and produce the fruit we celebrate in gatherings.
“I am the
vine.” says John’s Jesus. “and my Father is the farmer”.
Rooted in my
days, in my own soil’s worldview, entwined in the philosophies of the folks
whose branches hold my arms up shoulder to shoulder, I grow because god’s
planted me here.
In words and
rituals we try to capture the fruit of life’s most precious moments. Falling in
love, creating a home, making babies, making love happen and being carried away
by love-making. Making memories, making money work for us instead of us working
for it.
“Consider the
lilies of the field” says Luke’s Jesus “they neither toil, nor do they spin”.
Like the moments of sweet summer beauty, those lillies don’t last. You can pick em and
bring them home. Press them into a photo album. Or you can leave them be, and
just enjoy them while they’re there like friends who come into our lives and
enrich us - and then are lost down the river of time…
The berries in
those nine yards of vine are the people I’ve met, and have yet to meet, in the
decades i've got to grow. Some fell too quickly from the branch before I got to taste their
offerings. Some just fell into my hands at a touch - gifting me with eager
juiciness. Some had to be coaxed a bit to give up what I wanted from them. Some
weren’t ready yet and I passed them by – leaving them for the birds or some other picker.
When I
re-member them. When I think of you and make you a member of my
god’s-ever-extending-family again. When I open up a jar of memories. I taste
again the sweet fruit of your spirit’s offering. What you taught me. How you
challenged me and confused me and showed up in my dreams and nightmares. Where you made me
grow and showed me what I know. It’s a sweet topping for my daily bread toasted
by today’s pull and push that keeps me growing whether I notice or not.
Thanks be for
the berries.
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