blueberries.

This weekend was not fun. And when I say not fun, I mean really not fun. like at all. 
There was no fun in this weekend. 
It did not exist. 
and then I dropped a whole quart of blueberries on the ground today. bam. right on the floor. 
Standing alone in the kitchen I looked down at my feet and shouted, "you have GOT to be kidding me." 
It was my fault: I put the carton in the door on the refrigerator and they took flight as soon as I opened it. An entire quart spilled, little berries rolling to the the furthest corner of the kitchen. So I did what any frustrated woman would do: I took a bowl from the cupboard and I bent down on the wood to pick up each pretty little berry. 
Each one was so delicate and just a tiny bit bruised. I couldn't sweep them up. Not even with my hand making wide swooping motions like I would with spilled rice or beans. Nope. Blueberries are far too tender. I knew I needed to save them. Precious berries spread all over the dusty fall floor doesn't mean they are fit for the trash. 
I chose each one by hand, dropping them carefully into the bowl. 
One by one, one by one. 
Into a colander they went. I washed them with cool water, freeing them of whatever they'd picked up on the floor. Who wants to eat dusty fruit? Even more, who wants to eat bruised berries?
I popped one into my mouth. Even slightly bruised, they were perfect. 
Sometimes, I think about my own journey. There have been many times when I have felt like it might have been better if I had been swept up and poured into the garbage. If not better, then at the very least, easier. 
But that just isn't true. 
Each one of us has fallen out of the door. And instead of a wide sweep and an I'm-done-with-you, we've been picked up carefully. Chosen, even. Purposefully, and with extreme care. 
And slowly and gently, we've been made okay again. 
Bruised, and broken perhaps, makes the journey even sweeter, I think. 
Wishing you a Monday filled with love reminders, patience, and maybe even some blueberries.