First Summer Raspberries

Tonight the baby went to bed early enough that I could catch some evening sun and try the first raspberries of the summer from the garden. There is something about eating fresh berries that turns me into a little kid again, so I just stand there grinning and filling my mouth with goodness.

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My husband can tell you that any walk in the forest with me during berry season is ridiculously slow, because I’m so delighted with each huckleberry, thimbleberry or salmonberry bush. I have to pluck all the tiny red gems and pop them in my mouth. It reminds me of making huckleberry pie on graham cracker crust with my brothers growing up.

I still recall vividly a scene from an old movie— The Return To Oz—where Dorothy discovers she is back in Oz when she finds a ‘lunchbox tree.’ The tree has what looks like giant strawberries growing on it, but they are actually lunchboxes that open to reveal a sandwich, cookies and juice. I remember thinking, “What in the world could be better?”

Eating food off the bush symbolizes nature’s bounty in a special way for me, because it recalls the Edenic reality of goodness and beauty being all around us, ripe for the picking. It helps me remember that in this big universe, I’m a just little child who will be provided for, whose Father God is very good.

Many good things are waiting for all of us. Do we have the childlike vision of wonder to see them, and the simplicity to accept them with gratitude?

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Remember

Here is a poem I wrote last year, before I started my blog. I stumbled upon it and thought I’d share it with you now, as the growing warmth of the sun is hopefully bringing up happy childhood memories of summer in all of us.

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Remember

I remember sprawling in the grass
in my shorts and t-shirt
making a perfect imprint of myself in the ground
seven years old and utterly at home
as the afternoon sun pulsed red
through my closed eyes

Nothing but the singing of birds
and whisper of butterfly wings in my ears
no thoughts
nothing beyond the moment
perfectly content

Now I’m thirty-two years old
and nine months pregnant
leaning back in my lawn chair
as my toddler snuggles in my lap
and gives me Eskimo kisses

Our resident hummingbird sings heartily
unphased by the vroom and bang
of townhouse construction next door

The faint familiar scent of cut plywood
wafts over the fence to blend with the smell of garden manure

My five year old feeds the chickens
one scrap at a time
and gives me a play by play:
“Rosie ate a piece of lettuce off Chickeny’s back
and the brown chickens are fighting over a tomato.”
“Mmmm…so funny,” I reply sleepily.

That same afternoon sun pulses down
red on my closed eyelids
and out of my mind
too tired for thoughts
begins to float poetry

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