- Published on
I found myself grinning as I stepped out of the doorway of the Old Crow Coffee House into the blustery night. As I walked I looked back over the evening, noting each gratitude. The space. The people gathered. The event.
Finn’s friend Andie had organized a clothing swap. A theatrical lighting designer by trade, she is someone who cares deeply about a just world and endeavours to live intentionally to that end. More than clothing, this was a political and community social event.
The coffee shop had offered space for the swap in their back room. Andie welcomed everyone with an acknowledgement to the Qayqayt First Nations on whose unceded territory we were gathering. The good-will entrance fee was to be donated to the Coast Protectors and the legal fund for those arrested for standing against the Kinder Morgan pipeline expansion.
Andie had collected clothing, and other goods, for months. People were invited to take as much as they wanted, whether they had brought anything to swap or not. All leftover donations would be taken to Big Brothers with a tax receipt to the high school music program. This was a pre-Christmas invitation to get out of the malls, to “shop” thrift, to re-use and recycle. It was both gathering and anti-consumerist activism.
I think that all parents must have moments of imagining what they want to offer their children. I imagined a renaissance household, a salon around the dinner table bantering into the night on big ideas, political discourse, humour and life. And Finn on the edges, eagerly listening to good natured argument and eventually joining in. He would get to know musicians, politicians, poets and anarchists.
As I walked home I ran through the litany of blessings. My grateful heart gave thanks that in fact my child sits at many tables with artists and activists, people who are engaged, outspoken, funny and creative. But in a glorious twist, these are his friends, people he has exposed me to, not the other way around.
The pre-Christmas time of Advent is seen as a time of awaiting the coming hope. This evening spoke to me of hope fulfilled. Blessed be.
Finn’s friend Andie had organized a clothing swap. A theatrical lighting designer by trade, she is someone who cares deeply about a just world and endeavours to live intentionally to that end. More than clothing, this was a political and community social event.
The coffee shop had offered space for the swap in their back room. Andie welcomed everyone with an acknowledgement to the Qayqayt First Nations on whose unceded territory we were gathering. The good-will entrance fee was to be donated to the Coast Protectors and the legal fund for those arrested for standing against the Kinder Morgan pipeline expansion.
Andie had collected clothing, and other goods, for months. People were invited to take as much as they wanted, whether they had brought anything to swap or not. All leftover donations would be taken to Big Brothers with a tax receipt to the high school music program. This was a pre-Christmas invitation to get out of the malls, to “shop” thrift, to re-use and recycle. It was both gathering and anti-consumerist activism.
I think that all parents must have moments of imagining what they want to offer their children. I imagined a renaissance household, a salon around the dinner table bantering into the night on big ideas, political discourse, humour and life. And Finn on the edges, eagerly listening to good natured argument and eventually joining in. He would get to know musicians, politicians, poets and anarchists.
As I walked home I ran through the litany of blessings. My grateful heart gave thanks that in fact my child sits at many tables with artists and activists, people who are engaged, outspoken, funny and creative. But in a glorious twist, these are his friends, people he has exposed me to, not the other way around.
The pre-Christmas time of Advent is seen as a time of awaiting the coming hope. This evening spoke to me of hope fulfilled. Blessed be.
- Published on
What is resurrection when it’s all fallen down around your ears? When the person who believed you could do anything is gone? When your imagined future peters out, the path dissipating with every footfall until there is just a vast open landscape?
Resurrection is the pause for breath. It is re-seeing the emptiness as liminal space and knowing that what will be is the other side of what is. And it will be life anew, reimagined by the Divine Yes for one who is beloved. Thanks be.
- Published on
The rain is driving and thick tonight. It’s like walking through a constant bead curtain. Fat drops clatter on the garbage laden sidewalk, piles of peoples’ belongings, and the cars negotiating Hastings street. A man wrapped in a hoodie and plaid shirt sits tucked in a doorway, an attempt, I suppose at keeping out of the deluge. There is no dry place in this weather.
As the traffic light turns red, a woman darts into the street. Luckily the drivers are watching and wait for her to cross. Between the dark, the rain and people, cars move cautiously through this area.
This is the gritty heart of the city. And despite the pouring rain there are a lot of people out here. Some, like us, are headed some place. But many are just out where they always are, meeting with friends, trying to score something, watching what’s going on. For many people down here, the sidewalk is the only place they can gather to share a smoke, a drink or even a conversation with friends. There’s a sense of place here.
The Downtown Eastside is notorious. This is the area that reporters always write about because it’s a poor postal code rife with drugs and all that goes along with that. I know people who are nervous about coming down here or just wouldn’t. This is not my neighbourhood and I don’t exactly feel it’s home turf, but for tonight I am part of it. I’m enjoying the walk, the vitality of it and connections that are here, even the rain. People acknowledge us, some with nods, some with stares. I don’t sense hostility, just interest. Still I stay aware. But I’m a city girl so I always try to be aware of what’s around.
We’re headed to Pat’s Pub in the Patricia Hotel. As we step inside we see friends. My jeans are damp, leather jacket and felted hat dripping, which we laugh about as they come over to hug me. We’re here to celebrate a record release for our friend Tim Chan’s band China Syndrome.
I’m sure the rain kept some people home tonight. Rainy nights are good for curling up with books and cups of tea. But I’m glad to be out. The darkness enfolds me like a quilt and the wet and wind remind me that the world is a living thing and life is all of this, the grit and glory. I don’t want to shut myself away from that because God is out here in the heart of things, in the community that gathers under awnings and doorways, in the music played for the love of it, in sharing a damp hug and a glass with friends. Blessed be.
- Published on
Six years ago, our dear friend Jim Williamson died. I wrote this then.
For Willy
autumn is a good time
when leaves blanket our paths
soften our steps and
quiet the earth as it prepares for winter
autumn is a good time
as we pull our blankets from closets
to wrap ourselves
in quiet contemplation of anticipated frosts
autumn is a good time
if any time must be good for the sorrow
of the empty chair
of the bare branch
even as you drift away
we will gather the red and gold memories
and prepare for the winter of your absence
and anticipate spring when we will greet you
once again
with the budding of the trees and
return of the songbirds
love kimiko
oct 17 2012
For Willy
autumn is a good time
when leaves blanket our paths
soften our steps and
quiet the earth as it prepares for winter
autumn is a good time
as we pull our blankets from closets
to wrap ourselves
in quiet contemplation of anticipated frosts
autumn is a good time
if any time must be good for the sorrow
of the empty chair
of the bare branch
even as you drift away
we will gather the red and gold memories
and prepare for the winter of your absence
and anticipate spring when we will greet you
once again
with the budding of the trees and
return of the songbirds
love kimiko
oct 17 2012
- Published on
When I was 15, Bruce Springsteen released the River, a song rich with images that played like a movie. His ability to tell a story drew me in. I longed to plunge myself in the river, to wash away regrets I did not even have.
Years later, Brother Where Art Thou created a resurgence for old spirituals about the river. I did not know when I saw it in the summer of 2000, that I soon would wade my way on a journey to deeper spiritual life as an ordered minister and healer. Even with that, ultimately I found my greatest spiritual home on the blackberry river and I truly would go down to the river to pray as I picked, finding connection, release and a quiet place to listen to God’s whispers. This is the place that fills my soul and continues to give me insights into the Divine.
I went down to the river today to check the berries. The first thing I noticed was the river bank. Previously a gradual slope, the edge has been worn away by the high, fast waters of the spring run off. The river was flood high this year, and even now runs faster than usual, requiring careful attention to foot. But it felt good to step into the flow of it. As I did I could feel myself ground, my energy wash clean.
The berries are, for the most part, not quite ripe. Happily this means I’ll be back many times in the next few weeks. I’m kind of glad of it because I’m busy all weekend and was fretting that I would miss peak picking days. But apparently not.
In a few weeks blackberries will, once again, fill my freezer and pantry. In the winter, when their flavour graces my breakfast, they will bring memories of the river that provides them with their juice. And while I don’t go to the blackberry river in winter it continues to nourish me, continues to pray for me. Indeed continues to sing in me. Thanks be to God.
Years later, Brother Where Art Thou created a resurgence for old spirituals about the river. I did not know when I saw it in the summer of 2000, that I soon would wade my way on a journey to deeper spiritual life as an ordered minister and healer. Even with that, ultimately I found my greatest spiritual home on the blackberry river and I truly would go down to the river to pray as I picked, finding connection, release and a quiet place to listen to God’s whispers. This is the place that fills my soul and continues to give me insights into the Divine.
I went down to the river today to check the berries. The first thing I noticed was the river bank. Previously a gradual slope, the edge has been worn away by the high, fast waters of the spring run off. The river was flood high this year, and even now runs faster than usual, requiring careful attention to foot. But it felt good to step into the flow of it. As I did I could feel myself ground, my energy wash clean.
The berries are, for the most part, not quite ripe. Happily this means I’ll be back many times in the next few weeks. I’m kind of glad of it because I’m busy all weekend and was fretting that I would miss peak picking days. But apparently not.
In a few weeks blackberries will, once again, fill my freezer and pantry. In the winter, when their flavour graces my breakfast, they will bring memories of the river that provides them with their juice. And while I don’t go to the blackberry river in winter it continues to nourish me, continues to pray for me. Indeed continues to sing in me. Thanks be to God.
- Published on
- Published on
Remembrance Day is tricky
There are those who fought in service of their countries
We pray for them
And there are those who as conscientious objectors did not
and stood for peace
And we pray for them
There are those who lived through and died in combat
And those who lived and died imprisoned
by their own countries
We pray for them
We wear poppies
red poppies and white poppies knowing we need to remember
But to remember what?
Heroism and loss and death and judgement and hope
and quietly just carrying on through the destruction to keep families
and communities alive
And mostly to remember peace
And to mourn our inability to keep it
And to look into our own hearts and heal our wounds
To heal our greed and our fear of difference and our sense of being right
and our belief that we know what’s best
for everyone
We pray
That we learn to pause
And to breath
And to connect to the peace of Christ
To learn to be in companionable conflict with each other
Our families and communities
Because if we cannot talk about the things we disagree about
with those we love and care about
we will not know how to talk to people who look different
and speak differently and see the world through a different lens
And we will never learn that perhaps they have something to teach us
We remember that everything is created twice
The first when it is envisioned and the second when it is made real
So we pray that what we envision is God’s kingdom
That we see ourselves as agents of peace in every aspect of our lives
That we envision a love that both holds the other
And holds each other accountable,
With compassion and kindness,
as we walk this journey together
Remembrance Day is tricky because we boldly remember the ways we have failed
Then boldly lay that aside like yesterday’s wilted wreath
Honouring each piece as we take it apart
And, taking the seeds from the dying poppies, plant a garden
Plant a garden
Today we remember and we pray
We remember the past so we can join God in co-creating our future
We remember the past because our story emerges from these stories
We remember the past and remember that
We live the kingdom of God
Or we don’t
Lest we forget
~ Kimiko Karpoff, November 11, 2017
There are those who fought in service of their countries
We pray for them
And there are those who as conscientious objectors did not
and stood for peace
And we pray for them
There are those who lived through and died in combat
And those who lived and died imprisoned
by their own countries
We pray for them
We wear poppies
red poppies and white poppies knowing we need to remember
But to remember what?
Heroism and loss and death and judgement and hope
and quietly just carrying on through the destruction to keep families
and communities alive
And mostly to remember peace
And to mourn our inability to keep it
And to look into our own hearts and heal our wounds
To heal our greed and our fear of difference and our sense of being right
and our belief that we know what’s best
for everyone
We pray
That we learn to pause
And to breath
And to connect to the peace of Christ
To learn to be in companionable conflict with each other
Our families and communities
Because if we cannot talk about the things we disagree about
with those we love and care about
we will not know how to talk to people who look different
and speak differently and see the world through a different lens
And we will never learn that perhaps they have something to teach us
We remember that everything is created twice
The first when it is envisioned and the second when it is made real
So we pray that what we envision is God’s kingdom
That we see ourselves as agents of peace in every aspect of our lives
That we envision a love that both holds the other
And holds each other accountable,
With compassion and kindness,
as we walk this journey together
Remembrance Day is tricky because we boldly remember the ways we have failed
Then boldly lay that aside like yesterday’s wilted wreath
Honouring each piece as we take it apart
And, taking the seeds from the dying poppies, plant a garden
Plant a garden
Today we remember and we pray
We remember the past so we can join God in co-creating our future
We remember the past because our story emerges from these stories
We remember the past and remember that
We live the kingdom of God
Or we don’t
Lest we forget
~ Kimiko Karpoff, November 11, 2017
- Published on
valley
this place, a valley in a valley
paved streets below peaked roofs
below apartment towers
and a river of cars runs through it
i join the flow on the banks of Main street
watch vehicular flotsam drifting by
turn my head at an ambulance's startled call
Emergency! Emergency!
another answers in the distance
is this the valley of the shadow of death?
your staff and robe make you the crazy one
comforted by talk of green pastures and still waters
dinner at the mission
i am my own enemy
mountains rise beyond concrete
reaching blue sky
the house of the Lord
my shelter in this place
~.
this place, a valley in a valley
paved streets below peaked roofs
below apartment towers
and a river of cars runs through it
i join the flow on the banks of Main street
watch vehicular flotsam drifting by
turn my head at an ambulance's startled call
Emergency! Emergency!
another answers in the distance
is this the valley of the shadow of death?
your staff and robe make you the crazy one
comforted by talk of green pastures and still waters
dinner at the mission
i am my own enemy
mountains rise beyond concrete
reaching blue sky
the house of the Lord
my shelter in this place
~.
Joy and Sorrow
joy
and sorrow are not
opposite, sitting across
the wall with a door between
where I travel
one to the other
they are here together
companionably having tea
inviting me
to sit and drink in both
the gladness and anguish
because both speak
to what is precious of life
Joy and Sorrow
joy
and sorrow are not
opposite, sitting across
the wall with a door between
where I travel
one to the other
they are here together
companionably having tea
inviting me
to sit and drink in both
the gladness and anguish
because both speak
to what is precious of life
- Published on
Not many people call me on my cell phone, but Rico did. So when the phone rang while I was driving I wondered if it was him as it clicked to voicemail. It had been a week since we’d last talked. It hadn’t been a great conversation and it had ended when he hung up on me.
Rico was a man who lived with pain. Physical, emotional, mental and spiritual pain. He was the quintessential person falling through the cracks of our systems. And falling and falling and falling. Although I love Leonard Cohen’s Anthem, there does not seem to be any light getting into these cracks.
Rico carried many labels: ex-con, violent offender, addict, schizophrenic. He was aboriginal, had grown up in foster care, spent years in and out of prison. He could also be charming and endearing and exasperating. Most of all, I think he was incredibly lonely.
Labels, I guess, can be helpful. I have friends whose children have various learning challenges and getting the label can help them get support. But labels are very limiting. They have no nuance and tell you nothing about the person. They are also sticky and hard to lose.
When Rico called me, his labels had done him in again. He had checked himself into an addiction treatment centre the previous day. He had been on the edge, feeling unsafe, like people were after him. A support worker had helped him get it arranged and I had bought him the Greyhound ticket. But the staff at the centre were sending him back to the city because, they said, of his mental health diagnosis. He needed to be able to check in with his mental health team. He insisted that the doctor knew about and supported his being there and it sounded like it was true when he told me about the conversations his doctor had had with their doctor.
I suspect he was right in saying that they didn’t want to deal with someone like him, someone who had the complexity of mental health on top of addiction. Just a reality. They may have felt they did not have the capacity for that. Rico also believed it was because of his record but it was hard to tell what was real and what was a symptom of his illness and what was triangulation. He was angry. And although I don’t blame him I asked him to stop yelling at me and said that the insults he was throwing at the people at the treatment centre were not helping.
But, like everybody else, I couldn’t simply fix it. And when, in my exasperation, I said that, he hung up.
The missed call, when I checked it at home, showed as private. There was a voice mail message from a Vancouver City Police detective. Nothing against police, but it’s rarely good when they call.
He started with the “are you. . .?” and “do you know a. . .?”
“Yes.”
And, “I understand that you were his pastor?”
I had known Rico for years, I explained. We’d met at an outreach ministry and had kept in touch even as I moved into different work. I’d connected with him a lot in the community, supported him through homelessness and hospitalization, visited him in prison and talked to him regularly since he’d been out.
“We’re calling you because you were listed as his contact,” he said. “I have some bad news and am seeking information. I’m sorry to say that Mr. G- is deceased.”
I always find it odd when people say that. So and so is deceased. I guess it’s supposed to be less harsh than saying he’s dead but it often strikes me as prevaricating. I said nothing.
“It was likely an overdose,” he continued. “Possibly a medical event. But nothing was done to him,” he assured me.
Nothing was done to him. Trying to give me some level of comfort however small. Which it was. Rico had been afraid of dying violently, of being hurt. He’d told me that. He was often the target of violence and had been beaten up several times. He was also afraid of dying alone. He was afraid of dying alone because, he believed, that unless someone was there praying for him as he passed, intervening with God, that he would not go to heaven.
I had told him that I did not believe that to be true. I told him that God was not like that, that God accompanies us and that he, Rico, was a beloved child of God. He always found my theology baffling, or so he said, and to be honest it sometimes sounded hollow even to me in the context of his life. And I feel a deep grief to think that even if he did not die violently, he died believing that he had been abandoned by God and me and the system that tossed him down that crack.
Some people might attribute Rico’s death to the current opioid crisis. I don’t. His ensnarement went much longer and deeper than that. His life was a tragedy of layers of colonization that continually tried to contain and confine him. He seemed to get caught and mauled by every stinking dysfunction in our society. We think we have systems in place to help people until every single one seems to have a little sign on it that says, “Oh, well, not for you.”
I do not separate myself from that system.
There is a labyrinth embedded into the floor of the church. It is a beautiful pattern created out of a series of switchbacks that ultimately lead to the centre. Labyrinths are ancient spiritual practices. People walk them for many reasons: as meditation; for clarity; to shake loose stuck questions.
I walked the labyrinth trying to come to terms with Rico’s death. I walked with my guitar and sang and sang until something released and tears poured down my face. Singing became sobbing but I did not stop, just kept strumming the chords, the combination of walking, bare feet on the cool floor and vibration from the guitar a deep prayer that helped me to settle.
Often you step into the labyrinth with a question and the act of walking reveals new truths and you come out with new understandings. This was not one of those times. This was a walk of mourning, of lament, a private procession for a man, a beloved child of God, indeed a friend, who bore the brunt of our collective brokenness.
I once asked God what was the point of driving Rico around and never being able to help? The response, because he is now in my heart.
Grief comes from a deep place. It wells up from the cracked foundations of our lives, seeping sometimes through the layers and the patches we have used to cover our brokenness. Our own brokenness and our collective brokenness, the cracks that we sometimes carry on behalf of the whole. Rico carried our communal cracks for us. With my grief I picked them up and carried them like an offering to the centre.
Rico was a man who lived with pain. Physical, emotional, mental and spiritual pain. He was the quintessential person falling through the cracks of our systems. And falling and falling and falling. Although I love Leonard Cohen’s Anthem, there does not seem to be any light getting into these cracks.
Rico carried many labels: ex-con, violent offender, addict, schizophrenic. He was aboriginal, had grown up in foster care, spent years in and out of prison. He could also be charming and endearing and exasperating. Most of all, I think he was incredibly lonely.
Labels, I guess, can be helpful. I have friends whose children have various learning challenges and getting the label can help them get support. But labels are very limiting. They have no nuance and tell you nothing about the person. They are also sticky and hard to lose.
When Rico called me, his labels had done him in again. He had checked himself into an addiction treatment centre the previous day. He had been on the edge, feeling unsafe, like people were after him. A support worker had helped him get it arranged and I had bought him the Greyhound ticket. But the staff at the centre were sending him back to the city because, they said, of his mental health diagnosis. He needed to be able to check in with his mental health team. He insisted that the doctor knew about and supported his being there and it sounded like it was true when he told me about the conversations his doctor had had with their doctor.
I suspect he was right in saying that they didn’t want to deal with someone like him, someone who had the complexity of mental health on top of addiction. Just a reality. They may have felt they did not have the capacity for that. Rico also believed it was because of his record but it was hard to tell what was real and what was a symptom of his illness and what was triangulation. He was angry. And although I don’t blame him I asked him to stop yelling at me and said that the insults he was throwing at the people at the treatment centre were not helping.
But, like everybody else, I couldn’t simply fix it. And when, in my exasperation, I said that, he hung up.
The missed call, when I checked it at home, showed as private. There was a voice mail message from a Vancouver City Police detective. Nothing against police, but it’s rarely good when they call.
He started with the “are you. . .?” and “do you know a. . .?”
“Yes.”
And, “I understand that you were his pastor?”
I had known Rico for years, I explained. We’d met at an outreach ministry and had kept in touch even as I moved into different work. I’d connected with him a lot in the community, supported him through homelessness and hospitalization, visited him in prison and talked to him regularly since he’d been out.
“We’re calling you because you were listed as his contact,” he said. “I have some bad news and am seeking information. I’m sorry to say that Mr. G- is deceased.”
I always find it odd when people say that. So and so is deceased. I guess it’s supposed to be less harsh than saying he’s dead but it often strikes me as prevaricating. I said nothing.
“It was likely an overdose,” he continued. “Possibly a medical event. But nothing was done to him,” he assured me.
Nothing was done to him. Trying to give me some level of comfort however small. Which it was. Rico had been afraid of dying violently, of being hurt. He’d told me that. He was often the target of violence and had been beaten up several times. He was also afraid of dying alone. He was afraid of dying alone because, he believed, that unless someone was there praying for him as he passed, intervening with God, that he would not go to heaven.
I had told him that I did not believe that to be true. I told him that God was not like that, that God accompanies us and that he, Rico, was a beloved child of God. He always found my theology baffling, or so he said, and to be honest it sometimes sounded hollow even to me in the context of his life. And I feel a deep grief to think that even if he did not die violently, he died believing that he had been abandoned by God and me and the system that tossed him down that crack.
Some people might attribute Rico’s death to the current opioid crisis. I don’t. His ensnarement went much longer and deeper than that. His life was a tragedy of layers of colonization that continually tried to contain and confine him. He seemed to get caught and mauled by every stinking dysfunction in our society. We think we have systems in place to help people until every single one seems to have a little sign on it that says, “Oh, well, not for you.”
I do not separate myself from that system.
There is a labyrinth embedded into the floor of the church. It is a beautiful pattern created out of a series of switchbacks that ultimately lead to the centre. Labyrinths are ancient spiritual practices. People walk them for many reasons: as meditation; for clarity; to shake loose stuck questions.
I walked the labyrinth trying to come to terms with Rico’s death. I walked with my guitar and sang and sang until something released and tears poured down my face. Singing became sobbing but I did not stop, just kept strumming the chords, the combination of walking, bare feet on the cool floor and vibration from the guitar a deep prayer that helped me to settle.
Often you step into the labyrinth with a question and the act of walking reveals new truths and you come out with new understandings. This was not one of those times. This was a walk of mourning, of lament, a private procession for a man, a beloved child of God, indeed a friend, who bore the brunt of our collective brokenness.
I once asked God what was the point of driving Rico around and never being able to help? The response, because he is now in my heart.
Grief comes from a deep place. It wells up from the cracked foundations of our lives, seeping sometimes through the layers and the patches we have used to cover our brokenness. Our own brokenness and our collective brokenness, the cracks that we sometimes carry on behalf of the whole. Rico carried our communal cracks for us. With my grief I picked them up and carried them like an offering to the centre.
- Published on
I went down to the river today to check how the blackberries are ripening. Last year at this time the berries were large and sweet and plentiful. I went almost daily and picked bucketsful, coming home and filling the freezer. Things were hopeful then. Paul’s surgery had gone well, as good as can be expected, his surgeon had said.
Blackberry picking is prayer for me. It’s a communion of sunshine, berries and water. The stuff of life. Today though, green berries hung under smoke-hazed sky as I walked through the river.
I don’t know what it is about picking blackberries that takes me into contemplation but it does. Every time. The abundance of green berries mimicked my bereavement, hanging there where a year ago hung sweetness and hope. The water felt cold on my feet.
Yet as I gazed at the bushes I realized that there were not only green berries. Ripening had started. And while many berries that had darkened were not yet sweet, I could spot the ripe ones. Something about their sheen and the way they hung set them apart from the others. I started picking, carefully spotting the few and delicately rolling them off with my fingers. It’s almost impossible to completely avoid the brambles even picking from the river and the scarcity of the ripe berries meant moving in close to reach all that I could. I spent some time untangling from thorns. But I was thinking about how those ripe berries were adding up to a small but delightful harvest when I turned to step to the next section.
River picking takes some special knowledge, the main one being watch your feet. When you’re standing in water moving over slippery stone, stepping blindly risks falling. And it’s not just getting wet. Falling means losing the bounty of fresh-picked berries. So as I began to move down the bush, I turned to spot my feet in the river. And saw the ducks.
Blackberry picking is prayer for me. It’s a communion of sunshine, berries and water. The stuff of life. Today though, green berries hung under smoke-hazed sky as I walked through the river.
I don’t know what it is about picking blackberries that takes me into contemplation but it does. Every time. The abundance of green berries mimicked my bereavement, hanging there where a year ago hung sweetness and hope. The water felt cold on my feet.
Yet as I gazed at the bushes I realized that there were not only green berries. Ripening had started. And while many berries that had darkened were not yet sweet, I could spot the ripe ones. Something about their sheen and the way they hung set them apart from the others. I started picking, carefully spotting the few and delicately rolling them off with my fingers. It’s almost impossible to completely avoid the brambles even picking from the river and the scarcity of the ripe berries meant moving in close to reach all that I could. I spent some time untangling from thorns. But I was thinking about how those ripe berries were adding up to a small but delightful harvest when I turned to step to the next section.
River picking takes some special knowledge, the main one being watch your feet. When you’re standing in water moving over slippery stone, stepping blindly risks falling. And it’s not just getting wet. Falling means losing the bounty of fresh-picked berries. So as I began to move down the bush, I turned to spot my feet in the river. And saw the ducks.
Five brown ducks skimmed through the water right behind me, bobbing and ducking and gliding. I found a dry stone where I could sit and watch their interactions. I felt myself soften. And when a dog and its human came down, scaring away the ducks, I noticed a fan of grass growing out of the crack of a stone poking out of the water. And my attention was caught by leaves floating downstream.
After a while I got up and crossed over to the other bank and picked a few of the ripe berries there. From that side I could hear the bumble bees that were visiting the flowers growing on the bank. I found a spot where I could watch them bounce between blossoms. The dog and it’s owner left and quiet settled in. The ducks mosied back. A brilliant blue dragonfly attached itself to a stem of grass. I lay on my belly for a closer look. The ducks found a spot for grooming. Little white feathers fluttered onto the water and drifted with the current. The afternoon ebbed.
After a while I got up and crossed over to the other bank and picked a few of the ripe berries there. From that side I could hear the bumble bees that were visiting the flowers growing on the bank. I found a spot where I could watch them bounce between blossoms. The dog and it’s owner left and quiet settled in. The ducks mosied back. A brilliant blue dragonfly attached itself to a stem of grass. I lay on my belly for a closer look. The ducks found a spot for grooming. Little white feathers fluttered onto the water and drifted with the current. The afternoon ebbed.
Eventually I got up, brushed myself off and waded back to the path.
Today’s venture did not yield more than two cups of blackberries and only moderately sweet at that, and yet I came away with the abundance of the river. Maybe, as the summer continues, the berries will ripen to a bountiful harvest and maybe this will be a year of low yield. I’ll keep checking. But I’ve learned once again that God’s gifts are not always the expected or sought after. Abundance comes in different forms. And sometimes it shows up quietly from behind when our attention is elsewhere. If we’re lucky, we’ll notice. Thanks be to God.
Today’s venture did not yield more than two cups of blackberries and only moderately sweet at that, and yet I came away with the abundance of the river. Maybe, as the summer continues, the berries will ripen to a bountiful harvest and maybe this will be a year of low yield. I’ll keep checking. But I’ve learned once again that God’s gifts are not always the expected or sought after. Abundance comes in different forms. And sometimes it shows up quietly from behind when our attention is elsewhere. If we’re lucky, we’ll notice. Thanks be to God.
