I drove up to San Luis Obispo on Friday to have a reunion with three of my best friends from home. It was great to catch up with them, especially since one drove cross country from Florida to be there. After a stressful week of school, it was great to escape Santa Barbara and forget about all the stuff I have to do (aka paleoethnobotany plant collection project!). Saturday was perfect, relaxing. Tide pooling at the beach, eating amazing burritos, soaking up that warm California sun... life can't get any better.
I left SLO late afternoon while the sun was still high and its warmth still strong. I was rocking out to The Eagles and Pink Floyd my whole way back, windows down, enjoying the way the wind tossed around my hair. About five miles north of Gaviota there's a sign for pick your own blueberries. I had seen it before, though never felt inclined to stop. For some reason, yesterday, I had the urge to. Maybe it was my desire to prolong my arrival back in Santa Barbara or maybe it was just a desire to get some delicious berries and embrace the last hour of sunlight.
And so it went, I went and picked blueberries. There's something about repetitive tasks that is very theraputic and relaxing. One by one picking the plumb little purple morsels from the comfort of their bushes. Delicately holding them within my hand, taking care not to smooth them, and then PLUNK! dropping them into my little metal pale. I was out there for probably an hour... most likely smiling the whole time. It was like a little treasure hunt... looking for the perfect little gem.... thinking I had found it.... having to taste a sample.... and then starting the cycle all over again. Search, pick, plunk.... with the occasional taste. They were sweet, they were tart. They were fragrant and aromatic.
I was in the field for probably about an hour... unaware as to high full my little tin pale was becoming. As the sun faded behind the mountains, I called it a night and decided it was time to head to Santa Barbara. I looked down at my sandeled feet, stained brown from the dirt and recall wiggling my toes- feeling in tune with my surroundings. I paid for my bounty and got back on highway 101. As I rounded a bend, fog appeared between two mountains. It was that perfect line of fog, misty, alluding- beckoning me forth. Alas it consumed me and I felt all giddy, happy, calm. Is it weird that fog can sooth me?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
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