I take a blackberry from its box, wash it with others, put them in a bowl and set them down between us. I take one. It is delicious—perfectly ripe, sweet, tart, juicy, firm and succulent. How many adjectives for a humble berry?
Perhaps an infinite number. You see, the berry is changing every moment, and so are you, and so is your perception of the events taking place in your mouth and sensory nervous systems, and so is your sense of where and who you are.
Look: I begin to bake and am tempted, when opening a jar of clover honey, to place a pearl of it upon my tongue and let it dissolve. It lingers deliciously, cascading endorphins far beyond my mouth.
And then half-consciously, while reaching across the counter for a measuring spoon, I pluck a blackberry from its bowl. Realizing suddenly that this is a treat worth savoring, I bring my full attention to the bite of the fruit.
It’s as juicy as ever, but now it’s tart on my honeyed tongue—no treat at all. The magic is gone.
It’ll come back. I’ll be patient.