Then the rains came, pouring down upon us through the flocked branches of the aspens, reaching the ground within seconds. It had been a dry summer, but Autumn was wrought with thunderstorms like this one. We were a-berry-pickin in the mountains - eating just as much as we saved in our containers. The berry bushes had been promising an abundant harvest for some time; briar patches of aggregates: raspberries and blackberries out in full force. Thimbleberries too, nodding above their palm sized leaves. Once your eyes adjust to the task of berry picking, they seem only to see the shapes of leaves and colour red.
I thought much about the symbolism of the harvest. Karma, you could call it. The concepts of sowing and reaping. It had been on my mind lately, and I found myself wondering what it was exactly that I had been sowing for all these years.
My gratitude abounds for the gifts of the Earth... The berries given freely in the forest, the apricots from a neighbour's garden, the pea pods and peaches, and the strawberries I thieved on the regular at work. I feel it like an overflowing force within my being, this gratitude for such truthful items of nourishment.
We made one jar of precious jam from the mountain berries...
Maybe it is a kind of medicinal process, to forage for food. In the wild I find what I need: a little nourishment for the body, and for the soul, a connection with my food source, a respect too, a syncing of my body with the seasons. Real food is like a key, unlocking secret doors in my body that I never knew were there, and I am constantly learning.
. . .
I scraped the rough seeds from the rosehips, saved them in a muslin bag, boiled water on the stove, then chose the nicest mug in honor of the occasion. I read a chapter of my book, closed my eyes and took my time drinking the rosehip potion.
- Henry David Thoreau