Heaven Is A Blackberry In August
I run out to the gravel trail that stretches miles upon miles behind my home, desperate to stop the man in the giant mower. Inside, my two younger kids are packing their bags, preparing to bike to school, while my older two are reading books and sitting on the couch looking out the window with all their innocent questions as the crew continues to pillage our sacred backyard haven.
It is only eight o'clock in the morning, and already they are tromping around in their boots, firing up their chainsaws, riding their noisy tractor, making sure the stumps are filed all the way down to the ground and every last branch is picked up and thrown into the back of the dump truck.
"I'm going to try and stop him," I say to my kids, lungs heaving. There is another man out front with a hideous claw mower contraption, taking down all the blackberries and trees next to the trail.
"Our fort, Mom. What about our fort?" they say with concern in their eyes.
"I know! I'm so angry. I'm going to make sure he doesn't get to it," I promise, feeling waves of nausea roll over me.
My kids have spent the last few months building a small fort within the brambles and blackberry bushes. They've used sticks and blankets to construct a cove where they hide out, read books, and spy on people as they pass along the trail down below.
Shoulders back, I approach the man on the trail. He quiets his monstrosity of a machine, then turns it off. He can see I have something to say. I prop my foot up on the huge tire and ask him what he is doing.
"I'm taking out the blackberries. They're invasive. They take over," he says.
"I understand, but the blackberries are also necessary to a thriving ecosystem. They are food and a home for the living world. We have to consider the blackberries and the creatures who rely on them, too."
He is a kind and understanding man. He works with habitat restoration. In the span of the ten minutes we talk, he admits that we can probably do better as a city. He is sorry for his loud, obtrusive machinery and the amount of destruction it causes, and yet he has to follow his directives.
It makes me wonder what happens when we only follow protocol and forget to ask questions. Will we become heartless robots and unyielding machines who don't give a second thought to our actions?
Blackberry season is one of my favorites—Mother Earth's generosity at our fingertips. There is nothing better than nibbling on a warm, sun-ripened, plump August blackberry. It is heaven. Who could argue with this definition of heaven? Invasive—yes, please!
We do not have the right, even though we think we do, to come in and plow down delicate habitats and tiny havens with clamorous metal claws and savage mowers. Blackberries deserve to be here just as much as we do. I want them here. I welcome them into my yard. They were here long before me.
Yes, they are wild and unruly, and exactly the reason we need to step aside and let their voice be heard.
We have to live with the real world, not subdue it, spray it, or clobber it. We do not have to treat it like a villain, a pest, or a problem.
With their long, tender, spiny limbs, the blackberries reach toward us; the least we can do is reach back in gratefulness and become more like them.
