In June as the days lengthen and the temperatures warm, a sanctuary grows in my yard. Black raspberry vines given by my neighbor (her father’s favorite variety) prolifically propagate creating a comforting tapestry of green nestled among the leafy ferns, fading bleeding hearts, goofy alliums, and sturdy iris stalks. In early morning or late evening, I love to wander barefoot in the grass to inspect the progress of the nascent berries.
By early June, each branch sprouts tiny green packets that eventually flower and from this the berries begin to form. Never do I feel more alive or part of this world with the soles of my feet comforted and supported by the soft grass with the gentle rustle of wind fluttering through the vines and the warmth of the sun on me. I feel connected to the natural world and to our ancestors who harvested these same fruits for sustenance.
On days when air conditioners and leaf blowers are silent, I lose myself in these natural reveries. Birds, butterflies, and bees go about their natural vocation floating and flitting in the flowers and trees; the squirrels, chipmunks, and rabbits have their own arboreal and terrestrial errands. With every step and every quiet moment, my reveries turn to an immense gratitude and prayer for this ecosystem that has produced and nourished us.
The transformation of natural elements from earth and atmosphere into living, growing things like us and raspberries, is nothing short of miraculous.
My father, like Galileo, was a scientist and a devout Catholic. As he grew old, he found great comfort in the connection between science and spirituality. Brilliant mathematical structures and scientific symbols describing our world, such as the Fibonacci sequence and the periodic table of elements, gave him a deeper understanding of himself and his place in the world. Only God could create such miracles.
The immense power and fragility of life on earth is encapsulated in each insect, plant and person.
As June progresses, the raspberries emerge from tiny blossoms bobbing on the vines, white and small at first, but with each increasingly hot day they grow larger and more red. The clusters form mostly the same: five berries to each cluster. They ripen one by one within the cluster from red to darkest purple, in a spiral fashion that most likely has everything to do with the Fibonacci sequence. I don’t know. Finally, near the end of June, a juicy black bumpy sphere is ready to pick.
A gentle pull with my thumb and forefinger releases the berry from the vine. I give a prayer of thanks to it and its berry siblings for coming into being. I give another prayer for the sustenance and well-being it gives me. With awe and reverence, I contemplate each vine and praise each cluster. I gently pluck only the ones that are ready to be released, thanking God for these blessings.
On the first harvest day, there are only five or six berries. But I don’t care. My verdant sanctuary welcomes me for morning and evening prayers and contemplations: my summer matins & vespers. On hot days, my matins are closer to the sun rise. While the grass is still cool, I take refuge in the shady part of the patch breathing in their vegetal earthiness.
Every day the berries ripen. The first ripe berry soon becomes 2 ripe berries, then 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89 until there is a fierce avalanche of sweetness. Their progressive quantity probably has something to do with the Fibonacci sequence. Again, I don’t know.
These small blessings abound and give us every opportunity to pray and care for what is around us.
Mel Corroto is not a pastor, but she works with many pastors and church communities in her role as director of Andrews House in Delaware.
