On Friday I had the blessing of being invited to pick blueberries with close friends. The invitation included a beautiful drive south, through the hills and bluffs of Minnesota’s river valley along the shores of the Mississippi and through the corn and soybean fields that are the lifeblood of farm families. The whole trip was a testament to the gifts of beauty and of summer. As we curved and jogged off the main highway toward the Rush River Farms, farmhouses and animals….cows, horses, ponies, even a sweet, little donkey….seemed to greet the city dwellers. “Welcome to our world! Come and rest awhile.”, they seemed to say.
Upon our arrival, we saw that we were not the only people who woke up and thought that picking blueberries was the thing to do that day. Cars lined the makeshift parking lot that, in the winter, must be nothing more than the entrance to the barn and the side yard. Children played on a tire swing hung from a huge oak tree nestled in the backyard of the farmhouse. “Why did they put a swing here?” I heard one city boy ask. What better place for a swing, I thought, as I took in the view of the green, rolling hills? Swinging from that tree must feel like flying!
As we approached the blueberry fields, I noticed three different places where Buddhist prayer flags flew in the early morning breeze. The flags, tied to stakes in the ground, formed a canopy to the entrance of the fields and ringed the shelter where our berries would eventually be weighed and priced. Their bright primary colors…red, yellow, blue, green and white….were now faded from the sun and frayed from the wind. But they still held a peaceful, steady presence over the berries and the hands who picked the luscious fruit. I wondered what prayers had been infused in those pieces of fabric, prayers for a good crop, for sunshine, for rain, for temperatures that made for a bountiful harvest. All, prayers of hope.
If you pick alone, the act of picking berries allows for quiet time, for noticing your own breath, the sweat that forms at your temples and the nape of your neck. It can become a meditative time. It also allows for over hearing the conversations of those around you. Two women one row over lamented the aches and pains of growing older. Their conversation was punctuated with laughter directed at themselves. A family on my other side talked about the games they were playing with guests at their home. “Can you play that game in French?” the mother asked. The sound of young voices speaking French followed. Amazing!
But perhaps the best words I heard came at the height of my picking. A new crop of pickers arrived and as they made their way into the field one young girl could not contain herself. “Look! Look! It’s a Blueberry Wonderland!”
And indeed it was. A blueberry wonderland created through hard work and, no doubt, sacrifice, held in the gentle breeze by good weather, ripe conditions,countless prayers and a life based in hope.
For a look at Rush River Produce check out their website http://www.rushriverproduce.com/ and don’t miss the You Tube video.