A few days ago, I went to Bartram Forest and picked wild blackberries. Foraging in the woods is a primitive delight; it also brings fairy tales to mind. In the forest alone, even in bright afternoon sunshine, I feel mystery and danger. But the woods also, contradictorily, calm me. Walking in them, I seem to inhabit my body more fully, especially when searching for the small dark gems of blackberries. At first, they are almost impossible to see, but after an hour or so, my vision becomes attuned to my tasks and can spot the gleaming clusters from a great distance, can even detect if the surface’s sheen indicates juicy ripeness or if the berry has shriveled in the sun. It is impossible to pick the treats without getting pricked and stained, which, of course, makes the bounty more precious.