Consider the huckleberry. It is a stubborn plant, one that only grows above a certain altitude and in a particular climate, so they can be difficult to locate. But where it does grow, it flourishes, so many people find themselves in a huckleberry patch in the summer, picking to their heart's content.
For those new to huckleberries, however, perhaps an introduction, a tutorial of sorts, is in order.
Step One: If you want to find huckleberries, you have to go to where the huckleberries are. So what you will have to do is load up your poor wheezing minivan with your family and friends, and drive clear the hell up to the top of a mountain, somewhere in the eastern part of the Pacific Northwest. You will drive up to the top and view several lakes which should be spectacular but will find yourself distracted by the wind, the smoke of wildfires and the looming specter of the death of your mother.
Step Two: find a patch. You will pack everybody back up in the minivan, including your wife, who is not speaking to you, and you will park in a wide spot on the side of the road. You will then offload everyone, almost all of whom are unaware of anything unusual or uncomfortable happening, and you will follow a trail that leads up a hill. There you will find a huckleberry patch, one well picked over so you will not have to worry too much about how many berries you are going to get because it will become immediately apparent that it will not, under any circumstances, be too many. Find a good spot, a log or an open patch of ground and sit down. The wind is still prevalent, and as your family disperses into the woods and shrubs, it becomes quiet. Pick a few berries, because this is expected of you, like so many things this week, you do it because it is expected of you. You do what is expected of you because you do not want to be a disappointment, but you know you already are.
Step Three: put your bucket on the ground and kneel in the forest. Listen to the wind blow through the trees. Place your hands on your knees and breathe. Try to time it with the wind, imagine yourself as part of the forest, as if the wind were your breaths, as if maybe you can escape this pressure and guilt, as if there were any way to just lie down and let the moss and huckleberry bushes grow over you and you will at last find some peace here, some long lost sense of belonging. Open your eyes when you hear your son approaching, your son who knows you and knows something is wrong, your son who also knows you well and knows that even if there is something terribly wrong, that you will sure as shit not talk about it, so when he touches your shoulder as he passes, try your hardest to not lean in to it. Instead, try to be a tree or a stone, not a sad and pathetic man, not this excuse for a person that he has had the misfortune to have as a father. Be a stone, let him touch your shoulder because he knows there is something wrong with you. Be a stone. Be a tree.
Step Four: Contemplate a world without a mother. Wonder if maybe you have seen her alive for the last time. Attempt to find gratitude that you got to see her, that your family got to see her, that you had a chance to tell her that you love her and you had a chance for her to tell you that you don't have to feel guilty. You are grateful for that, but that isn't really up to you is it, Mom? That isn't up to you at all. Try to be grateful but fail. Try to not let your breathing get out of control, try to not let your heartbeat race too high. Attempt to lie to yourself and to believe that you are trying not to hide from this as well. It is inevitable, and a brave man, a strong man, a good man would try to face it, would try to embrace it, but you are not a good man, you are not a brave man. You are a coward that only wants to run and hide. You want a distraction, you want to roll into a ball and let the forest claim you.
Step Five: Wonder. Wonder exactly what happened to you that made you this way. Wonder if you are the most pathetic, useless fuckup of all time, like you are God's biggest mistake, wonder just what exactly is wrong with you. Pick a few berries, put them in your bucket. Don't cry you fucking weak bitchmade fucking streak of yellow piss, grit your teeth, roll this all into a ball, a dense ball of terrible black magic, roll it into a dying star and swallow it, choke it down you fucking asshole, you failure, you abandoner. Choke it deep down where it will fester, develop into a tumor, into cancer. You are a shit husband and a shit son; you are not enlightened, you are not one with the forest, you are a fat old piece of shit, a broken toy, a piece of discarded plastic. Maybe you think you should fill your pockets with rocks and walk into the lake. Wonder about this and pick a few more berries, you dickhead.
Step Six: get up, get going, act like you're fine. Jesus you're self-indulgent aren't you? Get your ass up, quit your crying and get moving. Gather your family, including your silent and disapproving wife, including your son, that gives you this look, this I'm sorry you're going through something look that you're sure is meant to be warm, but that cuts you, makes you feel stupid and pathetic, get everyone in your half dead minivan and get the fuck off this mountain before it gets darker, both in your head and your heart. Oh yeah, and in the actual forest, which feels no longer welcoming but hugely, powerfully indifferent, a complete disregard for you, an indifference that sucks at you, pulls you in, that makes you contemplate your absolute and complete take a few steps further in the darkness before someone calls your name, tells you that you have the keys, you dipshit, come open the car. Take one last look. Maybe someday, you think, maybe someday you walk into the darkness and you never come back. Someday.
Step Seven: go home and pretend that you are okay. Pretend so hard that maybe even you will believe it. Lie. Your mom isn't dying; you are actually a good husband. She said that you don't have to feel guilty, remember? You're off the hook. You're not a fuck up. Keep telling yourself that. Go home. Hide from all of this. Just run away like you always have, like you always will.
Some things to remember: Huckleberries will stain both your fingers and your clothes purple so wear something you don't mind getting dirty. The shrubs and bushes can be quite scratchy so wear good thick long pants. Make sure to stay close to each other and to a landmark so you don't get lost. Try not to eat too many of the berries you pick or you will not have any for your pancakes tomorrow morning, and most importantly HAVE FUN!
Still Writing,
RP
8.19.26
P.S. My mom is still alive; I just became acutely aware that this will not always be the case. So of course I have done the thing that I like to do which is take a feeling, and blow it up huge and exaggerated. Of course I know this is a goofy way to frame these feelings. Of course I am aware that this is just me attempting to look at a serious thing through a funhouse mirror so I don't have to see it for what it really is, which is a sick and sad feeling of inevitability, an oncoming train that I am unable to get out of the way of, and of course I know this feeling is not unique. Of course, of course, of course.
Anyway, you can find me here; comment and I'll respond, probably very soon after you post a comment. You can always email me at dissent.within at gmail.com, and I am also on Bluesky @rpullins.bsky.social. I am still on the diaper fire that is Facebook for whatever that is worth these days, though I very rarely check it except for a few days after posting something. I'm off Twitter entirely, and you should be too, for a multitude of reasons. anything other than that is p to you so feel free to share the link to this on whatever platform blows your hair back. Peace to you, in your hearts and minds.
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