I read this while eating toast and homemade jam at my kitchen table. The jam was made from Irish berries by my friend Olive and was given to me as a parting gift before she drove me to the Dublin airport. Now, the jar is almost empty, and I am sad to see the ending on the horizon. My son Liam comes through the door; he is 23 and carrying store-bought berries. How odd. What is all this about sons and berries? He once wandered our yard in a sagging diaper, pulling all the tomatoes off the vine and eating them by the handful. And now, as I take in your words, he enters with the berries he obtained by driving himself to the store. I lick the jam from my fingers. This stuff is raspberry gold, and I don't want to waste a drop. We are many hours older, and my heart hangs heavy on the vine.
I just read this while sitting on a bench across the street from our neighborhood public elementary school where I am picking up my granddaughter from kindergarten today—-there are children playing on the playground, climbing different things, giggling and laughter school buses abound for pick up and there is a touch of a breeze in the air which all of is in miami welcome whenever—— it all goes very fast for sure and I am trying to savior all the moments, knowing that it’s a blessing to be able to connect in these ordinary ways —-
My daughter told me the other day her bestie told her that she (my daughter) was her second bestie. They are six. I asked her how that made her feel. She said, “it made my heart sink.” How can a six year old already articulate a broken heart. And in that moment, mine did too 💔 The next day I asked her for a hug. It was an epic one. She said I want to stay like this forever. And I said, I do too ❤️ Thank you Holly. It means the world to read your work. I always feel like I get it in my soul.
You are so good at articulating the heartbreak of paying close attention.
It also makes me impatient to know: does anyone else call black raspberries black caps? We did when I picked them as a child visiting my grandparents in Virginia. Is it a Southern thing?
"biding its time in the way that wild plants do—waiting for the right temperature, the right amount of rain, to be spared a slicing blade." ... nice. Theres a certain kind of feeling when you're suprised by a wild plant on a patch of land you know well. Something something....time.
Heart achingly beautiful & almost unbearably sad. Life, as I know it these days. Those luscious blackberries. Brings back fond memories for me. Lovely pictures Holly. The moth one (and that piece) is a favorite. Thank you for sharing.
Holly, I have read this essay several times throughout this day, and each time I read this writing I smile from ear to ear. Your writing brings me down to earth and happy emotions lifting me up to the sky. I am so glad you share your stories.
Lovely writing, Holly. You were able to capture that feeling of being suspended in time where you don't want to muss a single minute with them, but you need to take a breath and try to remember who you are, or were before kids.
I raised my children on a wheat ans cattle farm in eastern Washington. It was the best place to raise kids: they could run wild, and learned to work hard too.
Precious moments build precious memories. Thank you, Holly, for always finding the words that remind me what a good life I have lived with Nature. Children. Family. Animals. Minutes, not hours. And, the delicious burst of flavour of the many wild berries me and my children have devoured here on this wild land that I have lived upon for so many precious years.
Beautiful. I think of Ross Gay and maybe my favorite poem of all time:
"what do you think
this singing and shuddering is,
what this screaming and reaching and dancing
and crying is, other than loving
what every second goes away?
Goodbye, I mean to say.
And thank you. Every day."
Oh. ❤️
I read this while eating toast and homemade jam at my kitchen table. The jam was made from Irish berries by my friend Olive and was given to me as a parting gift before she drove me to the Dublin airport. Now, the jar is almost empty, and I am sad to see the ending on the horizon. My son Liam comes through the door; he is 23 and carrying store-bought berries. How odd. What is all this about sons and berries? He once wandered our yard in a sagging diaper, pulling all the tomatoes off the vine and eating them by the handful. And now, as I take in your words, he enters with the berries he obtained by driving himself to the store. I lick the jam from my fingers. This stuff is raspberry gold, and I don't want to waste a drop. We are many hours older, and my heart hangs heavy on the vine.
Thanks for the memories. Project those bushes.
My heart hangs heavy on the vine.
❤️
Beautiful. ❤️
this is so beautiful.
I just read this while sitting on a bench across the street from our neighborhood public elementary school where I am picking up my granddaughter from kindergarten today—-there are children playing on the playground, climbing different things, giggling and laughter school buses abound for pick up and there is a touch of a breeze in the air which all of is in miami welcome whenever—— it all goes very fast for sure and I am trying to savior all the moments, knowing that it’s a blessing to be able to connect in these ordinary ways —-
My daughter told me the other day her bestie told her that she (my daughter) was her second bestie. They are six. I asked her how that made her feel. She said, “it made my heart sink.” How can a six year old already articulate a broken heart. And in that moment, mine did too 💔 The next day I asked her for a hug. It was an epic one. She said I want to stay like this forever. And I said, I do too ❤️ Thank you Holly. It means the world to read your work. I always feel like I get it in my soul.
You are so good at articulating the heartbreak of paying close attention.
It also makes me impatient to know: does anyone else call black raspberries black caps? We did when I picked them as a child visiting my grandparents in Virginia. Is it a Southern thing?
We call them black caps here! I didn’t use that phrasing because I didn’t know if anyone else would know what they were.
"biding its time in the way that wild plants do—waiting for the right temperature, the right amount of rain, to be spared a slicing blade." ... nice. Theres a certain kind of feeling when you're suprised by a wild plant on a patch of land you know well. Something something....time.
Completely agree.
❤️
Heart achingly beautiful & almost unbearably sad. Life, as I know it these days. Those luscious blackberries. Brings back fond memories for me. Lovely pictures Holly. The moth one (and that piece) is a favorite. Thank you for sharing.
Holly, Another blisteringly beautiful implant in my brain. Thank you for your perspective on time :) Blessings and joyous journeys
beautiful...so focussed. I am reminded....
Dammit, you made me cry again.
Holly, I have read this essay several times throughout this day, and each time I read this writing I smile from ear to ear. Your writing brings me down to earth and happy emotions lifting me up to the sky. I am so glad you share your stories.
If I could put time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do … Jim Croce
Lovely writing, Holly. You were able to capture that feeling of being suspended in time where you don't want to muss a single minute with them, but you need to take a breath and try to remember who you are, or were before kids.
What a beautifully written story.
I raised my children on a wheat ans cattle farm in eastern Washington. It was the best place to raise kids: they could run wild, and learned to work hard too.
Precious moments build precious memories. Thank you, Holly, for always finding the words that remind me what a good life I have lived with Nature. Children. Family. Animals. Minutes, not hours. And, the delicious burst of flavour of the many wild berries me and my children have devoured here on this wild land that I have lived upon for so many precious years.