Whatever IV

We have a mulberry tree between ours and the neighbor’s house. I let it grow a few years ago, despite misgivings about its roots being so close to both homes. Each year I’ve pruned it in accord less with expertise than with intuition, in order to keep its growth under control and maximize berry production. Something fun for the kids to pick, I tell myself.

Actually it’s entirely for me, as it turns out. I find myself walking by the thing with my mind on a million other things, and I’m drawn to it. The berries are frequently difficult to see — but they’re there, and there’re lots of ‘em.

When I’m looking for mulberries, it’s an exercise in leaving the world behind. I can’t penetrate the hidden recesses of this tree without feeling a sense of privacy impossible in the world of instant messaging, fast commuting, and blog comments. It’s like discoving that the secret hiding places of childhood have never really went away. The secrets, however, are no longer my own, as in childhood. They’re the trees — and the tree isn’t speaking much about it all. Just offering its fruit, as ever, to any comer willing to leave some things behind for a while.

Well written.

Not sure how long the NPR spot will be streamable. White folk, it seems, see everything in black and white.

My reply to NPR . . .

OK, time to get this blog rolling. “Rolling” with my blogging usually means very little — but I’ll try to do better.

This blog is going to be readable by everyone I know. This can be a way to have one’s integrity thrown against the wall (”will it stick?”); am I the same person among the various groups who know me? I’d imagine anyone reading this will find out new things, ’cause this blog will be the superset of me.  :-)