Zen and the Art of Blueberry Picking

Direct your eye right inward, and you'll find

    A thousand regions of your mind

   Yet undiscovered.  Travel them and be

 Expert in home-cosmography.

               

 Henry David Thoreau

              Walden                 

There are a couple of places about an hour from here where you can pick your own blueberries. Now that I am retired, I have the time for adventures like this, and the inclination to explore more. It doesn't hurt that I have like minded friends who will join me.

So we go to see what the story is....where and how would you go about picking your own? After a little asking around for directions to get to the available fields ("Well, you go down to the end of this road, then take a hard left, then down to the third driveway, then turn down the road between the third and the fourth driveway and you'll come to a shed....") we found our way to the "pick UR own".

Once at the shed, a jolly middle aged woman greeted us. She gave us instructions, buckets to hang around our necks, and a supportive sendoff.
We walked down the row away from the shed. Bush after bush held plenty of green berries, but nothing remotely blue. So at the end of that long row we turned around, and began again, heading back toward the shed on an inner row. Bonanza!!

It seems easy. Reach up, pull blue berries off. Put in bucket. Repeat. Not rocket science. We chattered like noisy birds as we started. Then things began to get quiet.

It is hard to explain unless you are actually doing it. You reach up, pull the blue berries but leave the green, drop them down into the bucket, then begin again. Focus on the top of the bush. Reach up, cup a cluster with your palm, gently wiggle and pressure the blue into your hand while leaving the green. Sweep that arm down with a handful, lift the bucket up with the other hand. Lower the bucket, and raise the first arm to the top again for another go. Continue.

By the time you've got the basics, you'll notice that you've already got your eye on the next few you will pick, then maybe other bunches that might also fit in that descending hand. You'll notice that the "bucket" hand has already begun it's rise as the berry hand comes down. A step towards the next bunch. A step back. A hand outstretched, bucket lowered. Green berries, pink berries, oh, here are big blues. The moves in this dance become more fluid, less deliberate. Stretch up, breathe in. Lower down, breath out. The rhythm is the thing.

How long? How many bushes, how many berries, how many steps? I have no idea. The bucket was full. I looked around, waking up to the rows, the paths between, the sounds of traffic, birds, other pickers nearby.

Merriam-Webster defines zen : a state of calm attentiveness in which one's actions are guided by intuition rather than by conscious effort, lost in the rhythm of the tasks at hand.

Now you can try to find that state in Yoga class. You can meditate. You can study the current phases and fads in mindfulness techniques. Or you can capture that calm attentiveness in a field of blueberry bushes on a beautiful early summer day, rejoice in the practice, and come home with a bucket of berries!

for Carole

Breakage and Bonding

BREAKAGE

I go down to the edge of the sea.
How everything shines in the morning light!
The cusp of the whelk,
the broken cupboard of the clam,
the opened, blue mussels,
moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred—
and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split,
dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone.
It’s like a schoolhouse
of little words,
thousands of words.
First you figure out what each one means by itself,
the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop
full of moonlight.

Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.      MARY OLIVER

I have been reluctant to talk about the hurricane last year. There are several reasons for that. First, the name of that storm was Florence- my given name. Worse than that, my friends conveniently and maybe even affectionately called it Hurricane Flo. Put yourself in my spot. This was the worst hurricane to come along in many many years on the SE coast, and there it is- Hurricane Florence, or Flo for short- all over the headlines.
If I had to give my name over the phone, the person on the other end now knew how to spell it without my help. If I tried to charge something, they'd look at my card and say "Florence...like the hurricane. I bet you get that a lot". Uh huh.
Now many around here drop the term hurricane altogether, and just refer to Flo. Wait....do you mean me, or the hurricane when you refer to that bit of damage?

There were other reasons to avoid the subject. I wasn't even there when the storm hit. My greatest anxious moments were in front of the weather channel broadcast, not the actual weather. It was three weeks and plenty of conditioning time before I actually saw what had happened.
We had some damage. Mostly the dock and the basement that we did not prepare very well before we left. There were lots of power tools dead that Joe miraculously revived, lots of bits that should have been thrown out long ago, a few that had to go this time.
What we lost pales in comparison to what many friends suffered- caved in roofs, flooding in 2 stories, sopping insulation, furniture trashed. I had a bit of survivor's guilt, to tell you the truth.
Looking back on it, I should say with some amount of pride that our beautiful community has many dear and dedicated folks. The joy of living here, plus that shared experience with others here, has taught me a sense of place. These are the events that weave the material of deep friendships; of a bond to something bigger.

What I learned about us here last year makes me want to talk about the hurricane this year. We watched the weather for weeks, and carefully prepared much better than last time. We stayed at home this time, and witnessed the power of nature's fury first hand.

We had a little more damage than last time. Our dock needs major repairs. The siding on the house needs major replacing. My garden has walked the plank for the third time.
Cleanup is messy, muddy business. Power was off, water from the pump was temporarily unavailable, sun was out and temps were rising. No matter. By now we believe we are all in this together. We inspected houses for neighbors who had evacuated. We reported back to them. We checked in on friends to see how they fared. They checked on us. We planned post Dorian parties as soon as everyone could be ready. We discussed how we could do it even better next time, and what we should do to make the house even more ready for the tough times. We silently gave thanks.


A friend said "This view is why we live here despite the few days we get from hell."




Another says "We live in National Geographic live".





Studies say living closer to nature makes one happier and healthier.

(https://www.yesmagazine.org/happiness/what-happens-when-we-reconnect-with-nature)

(https://www.studyfinds.org/the-closer-you-live-to-nature-the-happier-youll-be-study-finds/)

I put it this way while talking with one of my Grandmother friends.

Here is a picture of the gorgeous sunset following Dorian's departure. It occurs to me that this water is like your grandchild. When the kid turns bratty and throws a tantrum, you just want to walk away. Then it gives you this big sweet smile, and you turn to mush. 

That's what they call "the rest of the story".

Name That Tune

Piano

BY D. H. LAWRENCE

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; 

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see 

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings 

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. 

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song 

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong 

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside 

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. 

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour 

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour 

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast 

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. 

A room full of 60 to 70ish women who gather to play cards on Fridays.chatted and nibbled on the goodies assembled. 

It had been a while since we'd gotten together. The hurricane had put a dent in schedules, houses, and priorities. But it was high time we got back to cards and we were ready.

Usually the TV is tuned to some generic music playlist station from the cable stations. Sometimes Alexa plays Pandora or Spotify. How we listen to music has all changed so much since I started collecting albums. So much easier to let some someone else do the algorithms 
Last night Carole queued up the tunes by modern methods. This time it was whole albums of some of my favorite 70s artists -unshuffled just the way I once knew them.

So we played, ate, talked, laughed, forgot whose turn it was,.At least one of us was too hot. That's pretty much how it goes every time. The music usually stays in the background. 
In spite of every effort I could muster, I quietly sang along with Joni Mitchell,

and crooned with Judy Collins. In that room, I was arranging cards in suits and sets. In my head, I was brooding and sketching in my dorm room; huddled in someone's apartment listening to music; electrified at the concert.adventures.

The power music has to put us back into precise places and moods is remarkable. I always thought smell was the most nostalgic of the senses. But the older I get, and the uglier the news, the more I lean on music to put my mind in the place it needs to be. 

I can walk the beach with meditative 
New Age instrumentals, or charge thru grass cutting on high blast with a little

 Fleetwood Mac

or Rolling Stones. 



I have even turned around a whiny grandson moment with just my phone and a recording of "You Can't Always Get What You Want".

 Even now if he starts to whine, I can start to sing it and he laughs.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv9sDn_2XkI

As the future shortens, and each moment becomes more precious, music seems to be able to tie little pieces of my life into larger spans. Sometimes it is nice to be able look back, even without weeping for the past. Sometimes it is nice to have it to hold on to as I move forward. Wherever there is a room full of cheerful women my age, with Joni Mitchell playing in the background, I know I am grounded; I am home.

Music when Soft Voices Die (To --)

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Music, when soft voices die, 

Vibrates in the memory— 

Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 

Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 

Are heaped for the belovèd's bed; 

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 

Love itself shall slumber on.