My mulberry trees have been my place of refuge. From May through July, I work three different harvest cycles, twice a day, bringing in feasts of purple, black and red. Each tree is a therapy pal, whose leaves listen to my every thought. I meld into their branches, and shift my weight onto their limbs. I approach sometimes needing a break from the endless back-to-back Zoom meetings, needing sunlight and fresh air. Other times with a sense of duty not to let this gift from the heavens go to waste. I fill my empty bowls with the jewels of nature’s invisible workings. I return always with a feeling of abundance, of having encountered the precious, and connected with the earth. What have I done to deserve this bounty? 

The Pakistan variety grows so high that I must give up any hope of clearing the canopy of sweet, eligible fruit. At the peak of the season, these blessings are almost too plentiful, my hillside strewn with a carpet of burgundy that I must gingerly step around. For several weeks, I can fill an entire bowl by looking down rather than up, rescuing the freshly fallen from the bed of perishing fruit. Gleaming, juicy and firm, they are irresistible to pick up. If they go too long unattended, they turn to fertilizer. The daily cycle of fresh fruit to compost moves so quickly that my feet must chart new paths each day. 

The length of my pinky, they hang from every part of the tree, like a thousand caterpillars, deep burgundy with cilia-like styles that make the tree feel overtaken by worms. Unappealing at first sight until you get close enough to see beyond the haunted posture to fully appreciate each one as a jewel, these berries are intensely sweet and addictive.  

Under the shade of the tree, I am careful to find my footing on the slope. I reach and I extend. I bow to clear the lower branches. It’s a dance in slow motion. It’s a practice of balancing my heavy bowl as I reach for a new fistful. I’ve lost myself for hours amongst those jewels, caressing each one to ensure it passes my high standard before placing them into my bowl. Only the crown jewels make it through. 

As the harvest wanes, my standards lower by a small notch, wanting to cherish as many as I can. And thankfully, as this species wanes, the next one gets ready, as if to help me wean my attachment from the hero, to transfer my affections to two other heroines, my dwarf black mulberry bushes that have grown like a wedding veil that towers over my 5-foot-3 frame by more than a foot.  

It is hard to get to all sides of this veil, sometimes resembling a more beautiful version of “Cousin It,” its big green leaves like a big head of hair and no body. The smaller round black jewels sometimes gleam in the sun, but more often they are hidden behind these full leaves, enjoying the cool shade and protected from the birds. No matter how many times I move my hands through, turning each branch, I am always excited to find the gems underneath. I part the weeping branches gently and I poke my head through to look inside, and stretch my arm deep into the middle of this umbrella to pluck each little gift, gingerly, gently, and with astonishment. 

Sometimes these black, juicy gems are too hard to resist, so I eat them on the spot. At times when I wander up my hillside headed for my hammock, I get detoured by the ripe berries calling to me. I lose an hour visiting with this friend, and devour at least a pound of fruit as I pick. And the thing is, there is always more. Behind another leave that hadn’t been turned over. Around back where the footing is precarious. Down low where I need to do a handless downward dog. And because there is always more, I stay and stay until the bush is completely cleaned out… until the next morning.  

I have often wondered how these gems ripen without direct sun. Between a late afternoon harvest and the next mid-morning, another crop appears! And between that mid-morning and the next late afternoon, yet another!  How can this dwarfess be so prolific? What rhythms does it hear?  What nourishments feed this ample fertility? 

Its abundance makes me sad when the season is over, when I visit less frequently, and the crop is more sparse. But it’s that belief that I will find one more that keeps me hunting, moving from one dwarf bush to the next, which resides higher up on my hill. It’s the comfort of these friends that keeps me coming back. I do start to hear the rhythms they hear. I abide by their internal clock rather than my own.

It’s time to hear your inner world, they say. The treasure of your mulberries is the passageway to treasure your own being. It’s a time to let nature take the lead. 

I let myself be led by the impulses of how I was created. It is where I can relax into myself, and be content just being.

I whisper to my mulberry friends all my troubles. They whisper back, You’re all right.