This past weekend, my partners and I picked cranberries in the bogs that are nestled in the sand dunes in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where we live. Provincetown–which is part of Cape Cod–is where the Pilgrims first came to shore in North America, so this time of year we are even more mindful of our history than usual.
Members of the Wampanoag Nation had farmed, hunted, and fished on the Cape long before the Pilgrims arrived. As we picked the cranberries , we noted that we were doing something that the Native People had done for hundreds or thousands of years before people who looked like us showed up. It was the first time I participated in a land acknowledgement that felt resonant rather than performative.
When the bog came into view as we hiked down the dunes, we thought we had missed the harvest window. The bog seemed picked over as we stood at a distance, looking across the marsh. We were disappointed, but remembered that the local grocery store had plenty of cranberries for purchase this time of year. This wasn’t a necessary or essential chore by any means. It was supposed to be fun and interesting (the off-season in Provincetown features lots of activities, like cranberry-picking or clamming, which might surprise the thousands of summer tourists who come here mostly for the beach, house parties, whale watches, dinners out, and drag shows).
In Provincetown, the bogs
are natural and wild and look nothing like the large commercial farms that grow millions of bright red cranberries in large areas of water (there are many of these farms just off-Cape). The natural bogs here are mostly green and low lying, with the berries growing under the thin leaves of the vines that grow along the bog’s soft and squishy floor. As we crouched down along the bog’s edge, our disappointment dissipated. We could see hundreds of red berries shining in the warm mid-November sun.
Plucking each berry and putting it into a canvas bag was rather meditative–we needed several cups for the recipe I was
using them for, which is a cranberry conserve that my Mom makes at Thanksgiving. These natural berries are about half the size of their plump farmed cousins, which meant we had to pick a lot of berries.
As we worked, I thought about the time I spent in the summer months running or biking the trails that wind their way through the dunes where the bogs are. The wetlands that allow the cranberries and other plants to thrive are also a breeding ground for thousands of mosquitoes and biting flies. I often curse the bugs on those runs, as I flap my arms around my head and try to prevent bites. It is a futile effort.
Harvesting the berries this past weekend, I thought about how much the bogs and larger dune system change from month to month, season to season. The same place that not so long ago gave me itchy welts was now giving me the freshest cranberries possible. It was a reminder of how we and everything around us are always changing, whether we notice it in the moment or not.
I was also reminded that I shouldn’t always assume the worst if what I want or need isn’t immediately visible or seems out of reach. Slow down, dig around a bit, and look again–the cranberries were there; I just needed to find them with a little bit of patience and effort.
The world right now offers many reasons for us to be sad, enraged, or terrified–or all of the above all at once. But there are also reasons for wonder and gratitude and learning, and for me they are usually found in nature and the people who make up my family–both chosen and of origin.
Those are the things I’m giving thanks for this week–and always, really.
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