The Blackberry Patch

The wild berry for wayward wanderers

Blackberries are the wild fruit of my childhood Appalachian summers. Great Granny lived down the hill from railroad tracks that were bursting with thorny vines along their graveled paths. I’d collect them in my hands and listen to stories of my grandfather picking pails and pails of them with his brothers so Great Granny might make a blackberry pie for him and his brothers.

When I worked as a camp counselor, leading children through the woods singing and huffing our way up rooted paths, I’d look around – eagle-eyed – for the black juicy berries. Early in the summer, we might stumble upon a blackberry patch that teased us with vines of red – unripened blackberries inviting us to come back again soon. We hoped to be the lucky cabin that stumbled upon the plump morsels in the humid July heat.

The blackberry patch has always been an exciting gift to me – a small treasure tucked away on forgotten paths. A prize to be extracted carefully lest a thorn sinks into your hand. It’s a living game of operation, deftly picking the berries without a scrape. The berries of my youth were wild and untamed – stretching, viney things not cultivated by people but propagated by the birds and reigned in by Mother Nature.

In a desire to relive the sweet, tart memories of childhood summers, I bought two thornless blackberry plants when we moved. These little sticks were planted in our backyard last fall and produced a handful of berries for us this summer – with a long stretching vine on each one preparing herself for next year's harvest. We have weeded, watered, tended, mulched, trellised, and even bricked in these little plants from the encroaching grass. They are a small source of pride and joy.

Yet, I didn’t know that this little home came with blackberries of her own – the thorny variety. Right outside our back door, in a small corner of our backyard that doesn’t get prolific sun, are two small azaleas that blossomed rosy pink in springtime and are still now, in July, verdant bushes. Walking around the house one day in June, my eagle eyes spotted little red berries poking out from between the leaves of the azaleas. And azaleas do not produce berries. Leaning in closer, I saw the ridged leaves and thorny stalks of a blackberry bush. My heart skipped in delight.

In a few weeks time, that wild, unruly blackberry sent 6 long viney stalks sweeping from the azalea bush and into the lawn. I mow around these stalks. We walk an extra berth around the house – no longer hugging the corner tightly for fear of being scraped by a thorny vine. I mow around these spindly, creeping vines who have fully encroached into the lawn. No, I tenderly lift the pokey tendrils from the path of the mower and then place them back down.

The wild thorny blackberry is on the opposite end of the backyard from my intentionally planted, and thoughtfully cultivated blackberries. The wild one has produced multiple afternoon snacks of blackberry treats, while the domestic one has offered a berry a day here or there. I do not know how old the wild blackberry is – but her presence in the backyard reminds of the gifts of the unexpected, of grace, of the odd sensation we feel when we receive something we’ve done nothing to earn.

It all feels like a miracle. Planting tiny seeds that become blossoming plants, flowers, and bushes. Whether they be planted by the intention of a human gardener, the surprise of a bird, or the wisdom of the wind — God’s gift of life feels like a miracle over and over and over again.

We plan to keep the thorny “surprise” blackberry patch. I waffle between letting nature take her course with it and trimming back the vines as master gardener’s advise. We may build out a whole berry junction in that corner of the yard – adding strawberries and two gifted elderberries. Maybe even an arch for the thorny blackberries to ascend for good measure. I’ve always welcomed the wild and it’s here to stay.

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This newsletter is likely to be as sporadic as the gifts of our domestic blackberries – bestowing a small word once I’ve mustered up the energy to finally ripen a small red berry into something juicy. Then again, there may be seasons where, like the wild thorny blackberry, I send long tendrilling letters one after the other after the other reaching for connection, preparing for another harvest, or just trying to find my way. It may just be a small berry — a poem or a prayer. Or it might be a bursting branch of prose — sermons or longer reflections.

Writing has always helped me come home to myself. Thanks for joining me in this journey home.