Change Springs in the Raspberry Patch

Last year I left a job undone in my raspberry patch. I dead headed the southern slope of the patch and the northern side was left in thick messy brambles.

I start on the north side today and at high noon lose interest before going inside. Inner resolve drives me so after an Internet conversation with my cousin, I return to the patch.

First, I collect dead, dry vines into piles.

I look at the patch and decide to sweep the patch progressively in rows, north to south.

Inch by inch and foot by foot, I snap dead dry vines near the roots and toss them into the gusting wind as they carry out of the patch.

I measure my progress after each successive row.

I sigh and lean over to continue.

Inch by inch.

Foot by foot.

I settle into a routine of snapping dead vines and I see a root system at the base of each clump.

A source.

My late Hawaiian friends words, 'Nana e ke kumu.' come to mind.

Look to the source.

My routine becomes rhythm as I take hold over each root, twist to hear the crack of old vines and the live ones bend, pliable.

Look to the source.

I stretch at the end of a row and walk around to lean over and start again.

With little thought before beginning my effort, I wear woolen glove inserts.

Prickers pass occasionally into my fingers.

Find the source, hold above the root, twist the wrist, remove the dead vines.

Leave the live ones.

I feel my bare wrist reddened as prickers touch it again and again.

Look to the source.

Hold above the root.

Twist the wrist.

Remove the dead vines.

I continue and see the edge of the patch.

Every year, I try a raspberry and it lands in my mouth. My eyes squinch into a grimace. Yecch. But producing gallons of raspberries with little effort is a delight to my friends and family.

Look to the source.

Hold above the root.

Twist the wrist.

Remove the dead vines.

I look back through where I moved and see mixed results. Some dry vines stand, maybe as a memorial. Some live vines nestle within the piles outside the patch.

Some fertile dark soil turns skyward as I pass.

Look to the source.

Hold above the root.

Twist the wrist.

Remove the dead vines.

The wind gusts carry the dead and dry vines as I toss them, landing in misshapen piles. The sun bright, sky blue.

Funny, I think, that rebirth of any entity often means following the same routine. In the beginning, the messy brambles are a singular entity. The reclamation process is not immediately clear, but clearly necessary.

With time, patience, and persistence, a simple routine emerges.

Look to the source.

Hold above the root.

Twist the wrist.

Remove the dead vines.

When I finish, I cast ashes into the patch as the wind splays them through the standing live vines. I toss used chicken bedding into the wind cast among the vines.

Look to the source.

Hold above the root.

Twist the wrist.

Remove the dead vines.

Change springs in my raspberry patch.