Writing demands sacrifice – of our busy work, of our shame, of our fantasy that we have forever to tell our stories. You know what you are unwilling to give up. You know what you are afraid to lose. And you know that the sacred nature of your words is in you always. You are a temple. And, if you are like me, you know how you feel when you don’t honor that sacred push to write.
Please write us how it feels when you ignore your deepest gift. Set your writing timer for 30 minutes and use this opening sentence if you like: I can’t escape…
Vicky Enders, a writer with more than a few sacred stories, wrote in response to last week’s Breakthrough. Thank you, V.
Blackberry Summers
Grandpa’s land sloped away from the fence that enclosed his house. The land was creased about half-way down the hill by a creek. Fifty-year old blackberry bushes totally filled the indentation and made the creek invisible. Each August when we were going to school, or were back in the valley from our various life’s travels, we would put on our old clothes and gather up our picking equipment. Grandpa kept a fleet of empty coffee cans with leather straps strung through a hole punched in the side. You could sling it over your arm and your hands would be free for picking.
As he aged, Grandpa eventually leased the pasture out to his next door neighbor, who kept one cow in that pasture. She was a bony old thing with the nature of an angel. We would climb the wood rail fence and start down the hill, stepping carefully over ruts caused by runoff and the occasional cow pie. Once we’d staked out our claim to a section of the blackberries, things got quiet. The sun shining down on the grass, on our old straw hats, on the berries created a timeless bubble around us. We inhabited an extended moment with its own rhythms, its scents, and sounds, and we didn’t want it to end. The berries, always more ripe ones than we had hoped, went into our cans and into our mouths. The hot, juicy, sweet tartness was irresistible. At that moment, we didn’t care if we had blackberry pie or not, though later we were glad to have it. Our mouths got blacker, our hands boasted black stains–especially under our fingernails–and red wounds from the stickers.
One summer is especially marked in my memory. That summer, I was standing by a huge blackberry vine, and probably moaning at the berry I had just crushed in my mouth. I felt something on the bare top of my foot. It was the cow’s tongue. She had come over to keep me company. She was licking my foot, in perfect harmony with me and the day. It felt like a blessing. I never learned her name, but at that moment I fell in love with her.
I heard later, after I’d gone away, that she had been lost in the big flood of 1997. And soon after, my Grandfather died. The place was sold.
But, I am one of the fortunate ones who have memories that are perfect idylls.
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