Blackberry Tart

It was August, the sun going down quickly. Peter, with his long arms, collected the blackberries from the top bushes. Jesse wasn’t taller than I yet, so he was probably only about nine. He and I filled our buckets from the lush, dark, sweet berries we had found at a new thicket. It seemed no one else had raided it yet. Our arms were scratched by brambles, our hands stained dark purple, but we felt heroic, gathering in the richness of large globular berries warmed by the sun.

We knew several blackberry thickets along the streets and byways of San Rafael. It was a residential neighborhood, with people walking their dogs, birds singing their evening songs. Jesse ate as many as he collected, but by the time we left for home, we had quite a haul. One of us must have nipped over to the neighborhood store for ice cream. I cut a pastry dough together and pressed it into a tart pan. We layered in blackberries, sprinkled the whole with cane sugar and popped it in the oven.

As we pulled out the tart, Don arrived from whatever job he had been doing that day. And that was the moment! We were so pleased with ourselves, tucking into hot blackberry tart topped with ice cold vanilla cream. The taste was ethereal, and Don had come home just in time to appreciate our collective endeavor. “Transcendant” was the word we used to describe such tastes and experiences, on beyond ordinary.

What is it that makes certain experiences, at certain times, so special? In later years, I often found myself picking berries alone. I still thought the complex, rich taste of blackberries wonderful with ice cream. Almost as fine as chocolate! But, as a group, we never found blackberries as exciting as we did that first summer, when Peter was living with us, and Jesse had to return to school in Washington state in a few short weeks.

For me, blackberries held some memory of picking with my family on October days in Iowa as a kid, in a hickory and black walnut forest, with the skies incredibly blue overhead and the late sun not quite able to overcome a fall nip in the air. So, probably, a tinge of memory layered into the mix of emotion and sensation doesn’t hurt.

It is certainly an intense connection of one’s inner self with the world, an experience of the whole person. Receptivity must be there as well as appreciation. Often there is an element of surprise, of unexpectedness, as when hearing music all of a sudden when walking through a woods. Someone has planned this, has placed speakers under the trees, but the walkers lift the experience into transcendence by their response.

Surely some would take it for granted. Our too-abundant lives may lead to expectations of constant self-indulgence. But our brains are plastic. They get used to things. Short of life-draining pain or starvation, some deprivation can lead to contrasts which thrill. Like the best cup of hot coffee in the world after a day on which you have been too cold for too long. Or laying eyes, finally, on the family member you have been thinking and worrying about. Or finding yourself once more healthy after a bout of sickness.

Neuroanthropology is a new science created to study some of the many things we are learning about the brain in the context of culture. It is an exciting area and it seems most of us are engaged in anecdotal research of our own into making our lives more fulfilling, more thoughtful, more attuned to what is needed in a changing world. We commit to veganism, minimalism or nomadism in an effort to make our footprint on the earth a little smaller. We experiment with meditation and yoga to get more control over our brains and nervous systems.

The point is that humans can change, have changed. Our physical human species hasn’t changed much in millennia, but culturally we continue to evolve and adapt. And we find that the experience of our happiness, of occasional transcendence, doesn’t depend on what we have or what we have been given. All of that is relative to how we choose to experience ourselves.

It might be a new word, but we all know what we mean when describing something as transcendent. There is a bit of reverence in our voices when we tell the story of what happened to us. Sometimes we don’t even want to tell it, to give ourselves away. But sharing enhances the experience and leads to intimacy.

As a beginning, it is best to rest in gratefulness for what we have, rather than in imagined lack. From there, we can move into a discipline that enables us to have resources. This leads to shared epiphanies. Who would suspect that errant blackberries, growing determinedly in the byways of a drought-plagued suburban town, could delight?  

Jean Renoir, a filmmaker and the son of the great painter, saw enchantment everywhere. In 1957 he wrote: “I love reality, and I’m happy to love it because it brings me infinite joy. But it happens that many people hate it, and most human beings, whether or not they make films, whether they’re workers, store owners, or dramatists, create a kind of veil between reality and themselves. … If we live simply and make our living in any profession, we can still try to break through the kinds of veils that surround us and to see things as they are, since they’re so beautiful, so enchanting.”

Look for it. Keep your eyes and ears open. The transcendent is just around the corner, under a bush, in the night sky. Share it. Live in it.