Wild Raspberries

When the news of the world is dismal and frightening,
and you're powerless

to change it. 

When it seems that whatever you are and all that you do,

are so very inferior to your peers,

or so the world would have you believe. 

When childhood memories of speeches from parents

on what to avoid, what to study, who not to be like

and what was expected of you for your gender

resurface,

in spite of your belief that you have healed.

When all you can seem to do is consume reading material,

books, articles, essays,

facts, references and photographs, 

trying to come nearer to some sort of knowledge

or understanding 

of precisely why and how you,

and the world,

are failing. 

When in spite of your peaceful and contented moments,

guilt creeps in,

for the happiness you have, 

because it's not hard earned enough,

because others are not as fortunate,

because so many people are telling you 

all of the other things you need to have already done

or should do now

to escape the pit of dismal mediocrity,

which is, in truth, the only place you want to be

today, or any day, and with gratitude. 

When you look around you and all that you see is delightful,

and you feel the need to chastise yourself for your luck,

over and over again, all day long. 

Then, on that day, in that moment,

is a perfect time to walk the River Trail,

with sand and pine needles underfoot,

and your imperfectly behaved dog and six year old

at your side, gleefully experiencing a perfect summer day,

with gentle breezes and paintbrush clouds,

and miles of ripe wild raspberries on either side of you. 

Losing track of time and winding along,

skipping here and running there and finding

the brightest and deepest red berries 

for a contrast of tart and sweet,

gently removing bugs and noticing the different plants,

vines, and stems,

colors and textures. 

Cotton tailed bunnies cross your path,

and you turn and climb the hill 

to watch the water fall over the dam,

and sit on a stone bench to look up and see

ducks flying overhead,

and at the very least you know,

the child and the dog are happy,

and so are you, in that moment.

You realize now,

this is not a poem,

and you are not a writer, or a teacher, 

or a lawyer, or a professional of any kind,

or a really great spouse, or a really great community member,

or a successful business person, or a selfless servant,

or a good Democrat, or a good Republican,

or a good environmentalist, or a model citizen, or a pillar of the church,

or a soldier, or a veteran, or a nurse, or a fireman, or a policeman,

or anyone other than a human being who consumes oxygen and resources,

and, but,

you are a mother,

and your child wants you to cuddle and sleep with him,

and you will do it right now, 

because for you,

that is your poetry, and your success story,

and today, the wild raspberries were enough.