Home for me is northwest Oregon—the kingdom of wild blackberries. Every summer, come August, briars along many NW Oregon roads and forest paths explode with delicious, juicy-sweet berries offered up so wantonly that billions (trillions?) of the berries go to waste each year. Many of the berries are inaccessible—so barbed and tangled the briars.
Up to a few decades ago, I gathered blackberries every August in a large bowl; even learned to make blackberry pie at eighteen. But I eventually came to love blackberries only a couple of handfuls at a time, fresh off the vine, in the warm sun. No gathering at all. Over the past few weeks, the path where I take morning walks has been ornamented with fruiting vines, and most mornings, I tromp off the path a few yards and pick, filling my mouth after I’ve gathered a small handful. Then I repeat.
Blackberries are somehow more decadent because of their impermanence. Sort of like fresh orchard peaches. As with so many experiences, it is the impermanence of things like berries or cherry tomatoes fresh off the vine, or peaches warm off the tree, that make for the sweetness. Sure, the produce tastes better this way. But it’s also likely we’d forget them if we could pick any old time.
“It is the impermanence of life that makes it beautiful,” I recently heard someone say. And the way we tend to deal with this—to bear the impermanence of things we love—is either by ignoring the impermanence and spending days whistling past the graveyard, or by trying to savor things while we can. Most likely, we weave between these two extremes.
••••••••••••
I keep hearing things like: The country we once had is gone. And I agree. This new reality has me frequently pondering impermanence. Even once our present nightmare is over, the damage done to law/institutions/international relationships/government/progress on decarbonization will take decades to rebuild. Sometimes things fade away slowly; and sometimes the pace of regress is warp-speed. When it comes to dismantling democracy, it seems that ruthless cruelty creates opportunities for astoundingly rapid change. Craft your threats just right and everyone folds in your wake. It is why wise ones have always cautioned against choosing immoral leaders.
So what I really want to say is, How are you doing, friends? Because some days, I’m not doing so well. Just yesterday, I read three brand-new proofs that we’re angling to be North America’s equivalent of Orban’s Hungary, and fast. I got up from the news, walked into the bathroom, and actually heard this little prayer-bleet appear seemingly unbidden in my head, “Oh God, I need a good novel to read.”
How are you doing?
••••••••••••
My heart is often heavy. In response, I am trying to be present to the presence of impermanent things that bring joy. I am trying to lap it up and savor it whenever it appears. Joy. Because once the ruthless narcissists and their craven enablers take it from us, they win. It has become a cliché: Joy is resistance. But it is also true.And as I experience it, all the purest joys are vanishingly impermanent. A great book. A cuddle. Seasonal fruit. A delightful early-morning dream. Particularly beautiful cloud formations. Smiling at a stranger and meeting their eye. Offering a helping hand or expression of compassion. A laugh (thank you, comedy writers—you often deserve sainthood). A deep conversation with a friend. A hot bath. Petting a cat. A frothy latte with digestive biscuits. Creating a beautiful artwork. Hearing a song so good it makes you cry. Saying “be careful” to your husband at the same moment he says it to you. A good nap. And so forth. Poems too are impermanent. Here I leave you with one I wrote about blackberries.
Blackberries
Sweet roadside graces, blackberries
with your tuck-and-roll bodies, your
color deep as a pupil. When you offeryour life blood, I cannot refuse,
when you say take a risk, I step on in.
Blackberries, tastiest when briars tugat your jeans, when you incline and try
each variant fruit. This one grown bitter
through trial, this one heavy with rain,this one dry as a sobered drunk. I touch
them till I find one soft and ready, one
that bursts in my mouth like a sun.But oh the tangled menagerie
of shadow and green!This summer I will not collect
blackberries, a jug of bounty to gather
frost in my freezer, to lose its cordialtaste in a chilled, white bowl. No,
I will stop at the roadside every
evening, eat only enough for today.I will pick the berries like manna,
till they are a memory, a photo
tucked in the back of a book,
to return, seductive and warm, in season.
If you liked this article, please leave me a comment below; I am interested in your perspective. To support my writing, please subscribe and share with a friend!
Wren, winner of a 2022 Independent Publishers Award Bronze Medal
Winner of the 2022 Independent Publisher Awards Bronze Medal for Regional Fiction; Finalist for the 2022 National Indie Excellence Awards. (2021) Paperback publication of Wren , a novel. “Insightful novel tackles questions of parenthood, marriage, and friendship with finesse and empathy … with striking descriptions of Oregon topography.” —Kirkus Reviews (2018) Audiobook publication of Wren.
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In