This morning I was fruitful with my time. I went raspberry picking with my children and my mother-in-love.
We greeted the patch with happiness as we found sweet plump fruit. The girls set down and got to work, teasing and challenging each other but there was one voice missing. My son. He was disgruntled. He wanted to be at home helping Daddy, doing a man’s job. Daddy, doesn’t have to pick berries why does this nine year old man have too? Raspberries are yucky, why would anyone want to eat them? Grumble, grumble.
Smiling, I explain for the 20th time, that if the berries want to be picked they will come off easily off the vine. No, don’t pick the white ones, they aren’t ripe. Pick the dark ones, the sweet ones, don’t force the berry off the vine. Inspiration hit when I challenged this reluctant harvester that his box was to be a gift just for Daddy.
Suddenly, we weren’t just picking berries, we were making a gift for Daddy. Time wore one.
While my mind drifted away, thinking about this Daddy to my children. My Farmer husband. The love of my life. The consequences of being raped as a child follow you into the berry patch of life. Sometimes, you look like a plump red raspberry ready to be picked but when the harvester comes along, they try to pick you and you cling to your vine for all your worth frantic that you might have to release a part of yourself.
A wise berry picker knows that berries that cling, aren’t sweet yet and they need to leave them alone to be picked another day.
A wise berry picker takes their time to look through the whole bush, under every leaf, inspecting along the way for weeds and bugs which seek to harm the delicate plant.