The Silence of the Blueberries

Sunday was promising to be another (possible) heat record setting day where I live in the Southern Tier of New York.  We had promised ourselves that we would not pick blueberries again (and I wouldn't blog about it) as we had more than enough to freeze this year.

The blueberry harvest has been the best I can recall in my over 40 years of blueberry picking.  This bountiful year makes up for last year, which was very wet and buggy.  The promise of the quick, easy picking that the bountiful harvest has created got us out to the You Pick farm we favor one last time. It helped that, instead of opening at noon (their regular starting time on Sunday), the owners opened at 8am.

Today, instead of sharing a recipe for the blueberry muffins (a different recipe than I've used in the past) I made recently, I wanted to talk about the experience of picking blueberries.

I don't meditate, and I suspect what happens when I pick isn't meditation.  I don't know what to call it because I don't easily come up with words for the experience. 

It's all about the silence and the stillness.  Years, ago, this city-bred woman lived in rural Arkansas for four years.  Some things I have never missed, but the peace isn't one of them.

When I mean silence, I don't mean there isn't noise.  There are the bird-alarm sounds the farm plays to keep birds off the bushes.  There are calls of real birds - today, crows and grey catbirds.  There is the sound of other pickers, although today we were alone for a while. 

There's the occasional buzz of an insect. Thankfully, this year, the yellow jackets have been few.

But there is no noise that annoys me, that prohibits me from slipping into my blueberry trance.

I've done picking long enough that the actual process of choosing the ripe berries and picking them are automatic.   Quickly, I get into rhythm, looking for the blue berries with the white coating that comes off slightly waxy on my fingers.  Pluck, pick, put in bucket.

My thoughts are thousands of miles away. Peace descends.  I walk, stop, pick.  Walk some more. Pick some more.  Think some more.  The thoughts are good thoughts.  Pleasant memories only bubble to my mind's surface.  I never worry when I'm in this mode.

The breeze touches my face. It's warm, but not unpleasant. The sun doesn't beat down - yet.

I think of what my spouse and I will do with the berries.  Right now, they will just be refrigerated.

Before I know it, my spouse and I have filled all the containers we brought.  I walk back to the check out shack reluctantly, picking a last few berries along the way. I'll miss doing this. I'll miss the peace and the waxy feel of the berries on my fingers.

It will be nearly a year before I can do it again.   What will happen in those intervening months?

We've spent almost $100 this year on blueberries we picked.   They will all be used and enjoyed in the coming months.

Each time, as the snow falls and the chill winds blow, I will get a memory of summer and the silence of the blueberries.