Weather report from a woman in her forties inside august:
Clear with a sprinkle of world-weary and a high probability for spontaneous moments of wonder.
Evening blackberry breeze tease ~ all balm and bouquet ~ the promise of sweetness. Most of the ripe ones glimmer far beyond my tallest, tippy-toey-iest reach, and I am left gazing up, imagining the taste of their juice explosion, the texture of their tiny seeds in my mouth.
The metaphor in berry picking cannot be ignored. If you become impatient with the ones still holding tight to their stems, force them with your fingers, tug them off, you get only tartness and puckered lips. If you maintain your composure, wait for the right day, let the berry lead the way, she surrenders to your touch. It is delicious.
This approach can (must!) be applied to writing and intimacy and divine realization.
My husband, Joe, says I might consider be gentler toward my mother, less impatient with the slower pace of her 75-year-old brain. “Play with her more,” he encourages me. “Be lighter. See the absurdity and whimsy in it all. Enjoy her.”
He is right, of course. Sometimes I hold too tightly.
There is sun in Seattle and warmth and I am writing a lot and standing and looking up. A single sunflower blooms in a pot on our deck. (All the ones we planted in the yard were eaten by bunnies.)
Joe and I walk together. It’s one of my favorite ways to be beside him*. He has the cutest legs and I delight to watch them in action. He also has perceptive and precise eyes. He notices the subtle shifts of the vegetation throughout our neighborhood: a change of hue here, a new sprout there.
He calls my attention. “Look at those seed pods. Aren’t they sweet?”
I squeeze his arm.
Change is in the air, happening now and already.
How about you, friends?
*Who am I kidding? My favorite way to be beside him is every way, any way, always.