"Summer after summer, I used to descend into a creek that had carved a deep bed shaded by trees and lined with blackberry bushes whose long thorny canes arced down from the banks, dripping with sprays of fruit. Down in that creek, I'd spend hours picking until I had a few gallons of berries, until my hands and wrists were covered in scratches from the thorns and stained purple from the juice, until the tranquillity of that place had soaked into me."
"It was ridiculous and intentionally so, because growing tomatoes gives so much more than a certain number of pounds of fruit. There's the exquisite smell of tomato leaves, and the sense of time that comes from watching a plant grow, observing pollinators visit, seeing a flower become a fruit, tracking its ripening. There is the pride of doing something yourself. What the tomato-grower was pointing toward is what my friend, the environmental activist and author Chip Ward, long ago called the tyranny of the quantifiable."
Summer visits to a tree-shaded creek with blackberry bushes provided hours of picking, scratches from thorny canes, purple-stained hands, and deep tranquillity. Berries ranged from green to dark; selection relied on sight and touch to pick those between hard and soft. Birdsong, bees, jewel-like insects, dragonflies, and water striders accompanied the experience. Jars of runny, seedy jam were made and given away to share the creek's peace and summer. A tomato-costing anecdote contrasts monetary calculation with gardening's sensory rewards—the smell of leaves, watching growth and pollinators, ripening, and the pride of doing things oneself, opposing the tyranny of quantification.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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