Dancing to the beat

I have a love/hate relationship with blackberries. I love the juicy ripe fruit. I especially love hauling out my last bag of hard-won berries in the middle of December, then baking them into a pie, or throwing together a microwave jam, and then feeling the blast of their tart/sweet juice washing in my mouth. I don't even mind dislodging the seeds from my teeth - I figure it's a small price to pay for that taste that still carries hints of a warm August evening spent fighting the brambles, the birds, and an occasional wasp for the precious ruby berries.

But I hate when the blackberries decide to make good on their threat of world domination, and I have to do battle, armed only with pruning shears, heavy work gloves, and a long-handled rake. Those brambles fight back, and they are vicious. I have scars to prove it.

So this morning is bright, warm, and glorious. And the brambles are taunting me, calling my name, daring me to usurp them. And I had to take up the challenge. This time, though, I have a secret weapon: my iPod. My iPod knows me better than I know myself. It knows that if I'm in the mood for some Alison Krause and Robert Plant, I might just as easily want to hear some Bach next, then maybe Keith Jarrett's long piano riff on his Köln album. This morning, as I swung my shears wildly off in all directions, my iPod decided I needed to listen to some flamenco guitar - Bola Sete at the Monterey Jazz Festival, to be precise. Perfection! Great guitar, infectious energy, a brilliant sun-dappled morning, grass still damp and cool with dew, and newly-honed blades on my scimitar (er, pruning shears). Forgive me while I have an El Cid moment...