In the summer of 2013, I embarked on a solo backpacking adventure across Northern Michigan. With no one to talk to along the way, my journal became a powerful and necessary companion. I wrote journal nearly every day, sometimes many times a day, to capture the events and insights of my time on the trail […]
but also in blueberrying
Apparently, I am very good at blueberry picking. I always try to challenge myself to take joy out of things I’m not good at, but it is undeniably more enjoyable to do what I have a god-given knack for. Yes, even if the talent is for something as insignificant as this. I like blueberry picking. It reminds me of a socially-acceptable version of my bad habit of picking at my split ends. Maybe I have a natural inner energy that tells me that my hands should be busy, and in the absence of berry patches and weaving looms, my productivity displaces itself onto the ends of my hair.
When we arrived to the patch the first rows thrilled us- so many blueberries! My sisters started plucking immediately. A berry here, a berry there, pluck-plunk-pluck-plunk. I stood beside them, looking down the aisle. Why have they paused already? I wondered. For though I could not see it, I felt certain that there would be more berries farther on. I called out “A fool is she who will accept what is nearest rather than what is best.” “In matters of the heart?” they wondered. “Yes. But also in blueberrying.” Continue reading
