The Zen of a Blueberry Farm

And summer is growing weary

Last Saturday, I went with friends to a local blueberry farm. Coffee cans lined with thin plastic liners await on a table, and it’s set up on the honor system, $12 a can. If you want two, they suggest taking just an extra bag.

It was quiet, with only one other group picking the vast grounds of bushes, arranged by type. Last year, my experience was with bushes about chest height, but these were all over my head, and until you examined the berries themselves, they seemed every alike. They were not, a fact I discovered by sampling. The first were small and tart, another group had the blueberriest flavor, and toward the back, I found some giants. Those hadn’t been noticed as much, so I stood picking in a little quadrant of bushes.

We probably harvested berries for a little over an hour. It was a warm day, though not hot, and a breeze swept through every few minutes, as if on the same timer that caused prey bird sounds to ring out over the fields. The sun felt good on my head and my arms. Bees kept me company. Grass swept my ankles. I ate a berry here, one there. The bucket around my neck filled up slowly. Aside from the recorded birds, there was no sound. My fingers found a method of testing each berry for ripeness, using a soft pinch to avoid dislodging berries that might need another couple of days or a week. I marveled that fingers can do such a delicate job, that they can learn quickly what’s needed and adapt.

Other than that, I didn’t really think about anything. The quiet soaked into my pores and traveled through my body, easing this kink and that tight muscle. I breathed in the fragrance of grass and sun-warmed leaves. I could have stayed out there all afternoon, humming under my breath, thinking nothing, feeling whole, but eventually, I filled my bucket. I took the berries home, and washed them, then froze most of them on cookie sheets. The rest I made into a blueberry cobbler, which we ate with good vanilla ice cream, an excellent treat for an August evening when the sun has begun to set early enough that I noticed it.

August is waning. The grass in the fields on the way to the farm are dry and yellow, fires are burning inland and will until winter puts them out, and there won’t be many berries for that much longer. I woke up to the gloaming instead of the sun three days ago.

In time, the rains will return. On some dark December morning, I’ll bring out a handful of frozen berries for my oatmeal and will fleetingly thank the me who picked them and took the time to put them away, honoring the seasons and the cadence of the earth.