The strawberry patch in our back yard is heavy with green berries and the beginnings of a big harvest. Parts of our yard resist foliage of any kind, but those strawberries are happy in their plot between the compost bin and what used to be the sand box.
The sand box began with great organization and fine-grain, store-bought soil that was smoothed into mountains and formed into the soft turn of a canal. But later, city dirt rose to the surface and mixed with the sand, hardened then broke into sharp angles, was chiseled into two-foot holes, drowned in water on a few hot summer days, and became a perpetual “construction zone.”
The strawberries have lived within feet of this build-up and tear-down disarray for several seasons, and they thrive.
They remain constant despite my lack of attention.
They flourish even after unintentional trampling by young feet.
They stretch their green leaves open and spread roots beyond their borders. Thick clusters of new plants fill spaces between concrete blocks and run along no-man’s land at the back retaining wall, which itself is victim to tossed rocks and busted bricks and unearthed shards of broken glass.
Undaunted, the strawberries thrive.
Determined.
Destined.
To blossom and to bloom.
To thrill and delight.
Much like that story you aim to write that formed in perfect vision in your mind, fell choppy onto the page, but lingers even in the thick of revisions. Undaunted, determined, destined.
So, what are you waiting for?
Lovely, Christi. What a perfect metaphor. And my immediate response was, “I’m waiting for them berries to ripen…” which means I’m a slacker, because we’ve already gotten a few ripe berries to go along with all the green ones – I just picked ’em and ate ’em (or fed them to Arnold). I believe this means I need to become more purposeful in my harvest… 🙂