What If The Blackberries Spoil

The invisible prickle sinks into the side of my finger. Ouch! My hands are surely too small to pick wild blackberries. Still, I carefully weave my hand through the branches and thorns, making my way to the perfectly plump berry. My fingertips rest on it, and with a gentle pull, it’s free from the cane.

One of many blackberry bushes.

I can’t remember the last time I went berry picking. It was likely before I was first stung by a bee, which resulted in wariness of them for most of my life. And when I say wariness, I mean that during adolescence, I’d run away from bees. If a pool was nearby, I’d go to the extreme of jumping into it. As I grew older, and such behavior was no longer acceptable in public, I’d freeze whenever I heard the buzzing. Today, I realize the fear has passed. My juice-stained fingers graze by the busy bees, and there’s no fight or flight feeling.

Am I doing this right? I wonder as another blackberry plops into my bag. It’s a small plastic one from Waterstones, a British bookstore my travel companion and I visited that week. There aren’t any poisonous blackberries to be aware of, right? Plop. Am I picking too many berries? Plop, plop.

I was walking the dog, Toby*, earlier when I noticed all the ripe blackberries. It was hot and bright, the first day with sun all week. I didn’t mind the rain until then, but with a runny nose and watering eyes, the blue sky was a welcoming sight. So much, in fact, I nearly sprang out of bed when I opened my eyes that morning and saw the puffy white clouds drifting over the skylight in the guest room. I rushed to get Toby outside, sliding on the spaghetti-strapped bodysuit I had just purchased in New York.

With black, tight fabric pulled over my curvy parts, I muse; I look a little like a blackberry myself. However, thanks to all of the walking during this trip, those curvy parts are less and less. I’m grateful for it, I think, all of the walking. Toby goes out every morning, sometimes more so when feeling rambunctious. A small, black poodle with expressive, joyful eyes and an enthusiastic smile, Toby is energetic yet well-trained. When we walk, he can occasionally go off leash to chase after his favorite toy, a simple tennis ball, which I toss into the field with a plastic thrower.

It brings me back to my softball days, reaching my arm back and launching the ball as far as I can will it to go. Toby bolts when it releases, often catching it in his mouth after the first or second bounce. And then, he’s back, begging for another toss. We had a good hour outside before I went home, wanting to get him out of the heat. Then, while walking him home, I thought about the blackberries and the people I had seen picking them.

Should I pick some? Does it make sense to go back to the field? What would I do with them, anyway?

I had all but decided to return to the field tomorrow when it pops into my head.

What if the blackberries spoil?

August is typically peak blackberry season.

I know it’s unlikely. Even if the perfect blackberries from today were gone, picked away from residents or birds or foxes, the green, blush pink, and red ones will ripen soon. There will be another day for blackberries, I assure myself.

But what if there isn’t? I flashback to all of the times I promised to return somewhere and never did, whether in favor of another activity or because of something extreme, like the months and months of lockdown.

Do foxes even eat blackberries?

After Toby is safe at home and with fresh water, I tell my friend I’m going back out for blackberries. She doesn’t question it, lost in her own haze of the day. That’s where you find me now, in a field outside of London, occasionally wincing from the accidental brush up against a stinging nettle. I ignore the small white welts on my knuckles. I’ve learned that while uncomfortable, they’re temporary. I keep picking the blackberries.

There doesn’t seem to be an art to berry picking. I stand on my tip toes and try to pluck one slightly out of reach. I get on my knees, reaching under a bush for a cluster. I notice a prime one in front of me and am about to pick it when I see a bee beside it.

Sorry, I apologize. Didn’t see you there.

Wild.

I take a few pictures of the berries to document my adventure. I don’t feel compelled to share it on social media; rather, I am inspired, as if it’s some sort of page turned.

My daughter, I imagine my mother commenting beneath a photo. My daughter went berry picking?

Historically, I don’t have the attention span for such meticulous activities. I can sit and write at a keyboard for hours, roam through a bookstore, consenting plastic Starbucks cup in hand, and mindlessly watch hours of New Girl or The Mindy Project as I browse Betsy Johnson for new shoes. I’ll doodle all over a piece of paper, cook a meal, get lost in a playlist, and bookmark routes on Google Flights for hours. However, before the last year, these activities were always in tandem with a sense of urgency or anxiety. Half attention paid to the books I was picking off bookshelves, skipping over scenes in shows because I wasn’t listening, overcooking or undercooking eggs and eating them anyway — a resistance to fully be anywhere. Mentally and spiritually, I was somewhere else.

Only recently did I realize that whenever I urged a friend, partner, or coworker to be fully present, I was a hypocrite. Because I was never present anywhere, I came with an absence I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t until I slowed my life down and let myself feel the disappointment, shame, jealousy, spite, and regret of the last ten years that I learned what being present and aware even meant.

But that doesn’t really have much to do with blackberries.

Can I be present enough to make jam? I contemplate, an overripe berry mushing between my fingers.

My eyes fill with tears, but not from sadness. Pollen or spores or dust is in the air, and they itch. There’s a tickle at the back of my already scratchy throat. I can smell the grass and the sweetness of the blackberry juice. The breeze cools the sweat on my face and comes with a subtle waft of honeysuckle. My cheeks burn slightly, the consequence of skipping the sunscreen. The skin in between some of my fingers still stings.

I can make the jam, I decide. The blackberries won’t spoil.