If it weren’t for my cousin’s terrible car accident which made it impossible for me to concentrate on office work, I would not have been gardening in the rain. The rhythmic plucking, pruning, and harvesting offered the solace of a lullaby and the reassurance of a steady pulse.  Then the potato patch beckoned me. Too impatient to retrieve the metal pitchfork, my fingers probed the earth in search of tubers.   The cumulative effect of gentle rain, the calming rhythms of garden chores, and muddied fingers culminated in an experience that seems worthy of sharing. I proceeded to the raspberry bushes.

Berries hung amid the leaves, thorns, and branches. Each promised a familiar taste delight. But they also offered an unfamiliar challenge. I could either transport the berries to my mouth with muddy fingers, or I could forego the fingers and accomplish the job directly with my mouth - like a hungry deer.  My hands were instructed by my animal curiosity to remain at my sides as I surveyed the array of succulent morsels. Most were crimson and pink, but there was one that was so ripe it verged on purple. Slowly I leaned toward it with the predatory stealth of a fox stalking its prey. As I inched toward my innocent victim, I noticed its umbilical connection to the parent plant was almost severed. The smallest disturbance could dislodge it. The berry’s fate hung in the balance - if it didn’t fall into my eager mouth, it would fall upon the indifferent soil.  Proceeding ever closer, I inadvertently bowed in honor of this tiny treasure. At a distance of five inches each individual pod in the cluster became visible. Its membranes were stretched into translucency by loads of juice.  At four inches, the aroma of sweet berry became palpable.  At three inches thorns brushed my cheeks as my tongue maneuvered around a leaf that was obstructing my path. At two inches I closed my eyes since they were of no use at this distance. Then millimeter by millimeter I approached ever closer, led by varying intensities of scent and diverse textures upon my tongue as it searched among the brittle stems and ribbed leaves for the chosen berry.  Such searches are normally the job for fingers and eyes. My tongue is not accustomed to probing unfamiliar conditions, and my nose rarely participates in such a task. Now both were laying out my mental transit, measuring the distances and orienting the approaches to my goal.  An awkward thrust finally accomplished the job. My protruding tongue collided with the side of the berry. I quickly repositioned it to the bottom, imaging that the berry would tumble onto this platform and into my awaiting mouth. But it clung to its stem. My tongue reached out to feel its shape and weight and calculate my next move. It instructed me to wrap my lips around the berry and tug. Success! A gentle squeeze and sweet succulence filled my mouth.  

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