Blackberried Fingers

I disconnected today,  on my way home from the gym,  after all was said and done at work, papers put aside, computer powered down, a final check out with the higher power.

I was tired, for some reason – I blamed the full moon, because it is as good an excuse as blaming society. My friend said there was no logic to blaming the moon, the only difference from one month to the lunar next being light. The mass of the moon remains constant,  as does its gravitational pull. Still,  I argued,  why did the residents at my gran’s care home,  including her,  always act up around a full moon? Her hallucinations were more active and engaging, as she’d developed me creativity with dementia than she did without.   Anyhow,  I think that’s why I was tired all day…the full moon I mean,   not dementia.

I had walked to work today,  and had to walk back home,  because none of my regular gym partners had showed up,  and I’d hoped to get a lift back home from one of them. Still,  it was a nice day for a walk. Sunny,  warm,  a bit a breeze. I didn’t bother plugging in my iPod…thought it best to take in the world at its own face value rather than cushioning myself with jamming beats and winded words.

Good thing too, as an older gentleman,  wizened,  and wearing a jaunty cap,  a tam in fact,  with a bright pompom, long wiry white hair bouncing in the air at each step. He was wondering what was the best way to get home. I gave him some options,  and he thanked me and told me to stay beautiful.

When I neared Macdonald Creek, by Memorial Park, I heard what I at first thought was an eagle,  and as I wended my way towards the pedestrian bridge,  I saw that it was a woodpecker that was crying thus from the bushes. Now I know the difference between an eagle cry and a woodpecker cry,  and I’ll be honest,  the eagle sounds whiny.

On my way up Esquimalt, before it climbs Sentinel Hill,  I came across a stand of wild blackberry bushes, whose fruit I would give a gentle squeeze periodically over the past week or two,  to see if any fruit was yet ripe. Today was that day,  and my tired body revived at the impromptu feast of juicy blackberries, each one delicately picked so that no thorns would catch my hand.

As I made my way up the hill, and slowly today, each blackberry shrub on the way up received an inspection of the most serious and considered variety,  and one shrub compared to those previous. The best berries had been on that very first bush. By the time I reached the top of the hill, the tips of my fingers were slightly stained by berry juice,  and my lips likely too, as I could taste the sunny sweetness on them still.

I haven’t picked blackberries since I was a child, and eating them again,  so spontaneously,  reminded me of that carefree moment in time when my only burden was a bucket of blackberries, the remnant of those that I hadn’t first eaten.

I think I need to pick blackberries more often.



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