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Archives for October 2017

Traveling Through the Storm

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“And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through….you won’t be the same person who walked in.  That’s what this storm’s all about.”  —Haruki Murakami

We left home going home.  A tale of two homes, or three or more.  We left this home we live in right now and headed to the birthplace home of my mother, to my young adult home, to the place we called home with our three children.  And we traveled through a storm.

As stressful as the getting ready to go and out the door is for me, I love it when I’m settled in the car, and the trip has begun.  It’s a delicious feeling.  Even on the road more traveled, there are new things to see.  Even when traveling at 60 mph, I like to take pictures of things that capture my attention and say things that words cannot describe.

It was warm when we left, and as we traveled southwest, the temperature rose to 72 degrees, and the clouds gathered in an arching wall.

As we crashed through that wall of warmth and clouds and wind and pressure, the rain began to fall, streaking the windows with rivulets of water with no destination.

The temperature dropped by twenty degrees.

Like we were entering the Land of Oz.  The Land of Oz is a teaching place disguised in the outward beauty of rainbows, bright colors, good witches and bad witches, and storybook characters.  It’s a place of fun and adventure, of fear and danger, that lulls us like poppies and makes us forget the purpose of our journey.  Until we remember.  And then, everything we have planted, everything that was planted in us, is ready for harvest.

Harvest is hard work and time-consuming, but it is what we are supposed to do.  The reward is in the harvesting.  The benefit is in the gathering.  The lesson is in the reaping.  The profit is in the yielding to the infinite knowing inside ourselves.

“I’ll be here for you after the storm blows through and your skies are blue again and you’re back to you again.”   —Maddie and Tae

 

Every home has its stressful storms.  And with those storms, we can enter the Land of Oz with its fairy tale solutions, or we can pull back the curtain, uncover the fake powers that are ruling our lives, and do the hard work of our own personal harvest.  That’s what the storms are all about—to change us into new people, to say things that words have a hard time describing, to see the new things on the road more traveled, and to settle in to the delicious feeling of journeying down the yellow-brick road that leads us home.

 

More Leaves Have Fallen Than Remain

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“The leaf of every tree brings a message from the unseen world.  Look, every falling leaf is a blessing.”  –Rumi

If Fall is only known and embraced for colorful leaves, then Fall is short and soon over.  Too often a season is defined by one certain thing, and it passes quickly.  To me, Autumn began in August with little hints of color changes in out of the way places—a tinge of red on poison ivy peeking out from under the grass, and with a slight, but noticeable change in the length of daylight.  From then until winter sits firmly in our bones and on our driveways, Fall morphs in a myriad of ways, and it is long and glorious.

Here in central Minnesota, more leaves have fallen than remain on the trees.  Two weeks ago we wondered if it was ‘peak’ color yet; one week ago Chris raked what leaves had fallen; today the wind is blowing hard—raining leaves, rolling leaves, and piling leaves.

One of the large Maple trees around the house is bare.

Another has a few golden leaves still clinging to the branches.

And two are still mostly covered with their Autumn finery—for now.

But most of the leaves are spent and on the ground.

Some Oak trees have lost their leaves…

…and others glow like rubies and topaz.

Our ‘Prairie Fire’ Crabapple is lit with orange and yellow leaves that will soon fall, leaving behind the ripe red fruit.

 

For those of us who have lived for half a century or more, the words of the title can hold a different meaning from the literal.  More leaves have fallen than remain.  More years have passed than we probably have remaining.  While that may bring up feelings of sadness and grief, it could be we are defining this season far too narrowly and with only the parameter of ‘lovely leaves.’  What if, as Rumi says, every falling leaf is a blessing.  Perhaps we are getting rid of old, irrelevant burdens, ideas, heartaches, and self-imposed handicaps one by one by one.  When they have fallen away, the fruit of our lives is still visible, still relevant, still able to nurture those who need us.  We receive and embrace the messages from the unseen world, the gemstones that remain, and this season of life becomes long and glorious.  

Homecoming

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“Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering.”      —Charles Dickens

An old black pickup pulls into the driveway every weekday afternoon and parks in front of the garage.  An old black dog inside the house who’s waiting and watching by the floor-length window gets a shot of adrenaline in anticipation.  The homecoming has begun!  Chris exits the pickup, gathers his small red cooler and extraneous sweatshirts, boots, and clothes that are mud-streaked, oil-stained, and grass-smelling and walks slowly toward the house.  If he’s dug holes, planted trees, or been on his hands and knees pulling weeds for too many hours of the day, it shows in the limp of his gait.  But pure happiness and joy meets him at the door in a rush and a dozen rubs against his legs.  There is a smile on Chris’ face as he sits on the bench, looks at his gray-faced friend, and rubs behind her ears as she wags her tail in contentment.  The three of us then take a walk down the road—Chris and I check in with one another about our day as Tamba checks out the new smells on the old pathway.

It was Homecoming at Saint John’s University last weekend.  Aaron and his friends met to eat breakfast in the Reef—the cafeteria on the basement floor of the thick stone walled Quad building.  After a short walk across campus, they entered the pine tree enveloped football stadium where the Johnnies whomped the Auggies in a no-surprise win.  Tailgating, catching up, reminiscing, and sharing a beer and a game of pool rounded out the day.  Chris and I joined Aaron for a hike at Saint John’s the next day—it was a beautiful, sunshiny day, and the Maple trees were in spectacular color.  Families, students, and alumni hiked the extensive network of trails, reveling in the magnificence of the place.

What does a place one wants to come home to offer?  What brings people back ‘home?’  Saint John’s emphasizes a sense of community and friendship that I witnessed during Aaron’s four years there and that has continued in the years since he graduated.  It is a place where you can fall, and there are people there to help you back up.

Home is a place of beauty, however you define that.  Saint John’s University is surrounded with hundreds of acres of natural beauty—lakes, streams, Maple forests, grasslands, and Oak savannas—and contains historical and modern architecture that awes and inspires.

Coming home should be a safe haven in the rough seas of life.  The heart-breaking reality is that many children don’t have a safe haven at home; they consider school and their teacher a place and person of safety where they can have food, kind words, and care and help with learning and being.  We never know when we are someone’s port in a storm.

Home lets us be who we are with no pretenses, embraces us no matter our size, color, mistakes, or shortcomings.

Home is a place to hang out, to get close, to have a conversation, to hold one another accountable, to soak up the good things in life and to deal with the bad.

Home is a place of encouragement when a task is daunting, when we wonder how the heck we’re going to climb this next hurdle, when the steps are right in front of our faces but we are unable to navigate them for whatever reason.

Home is a place of growth and learning where books and experiments, chores and hands-on doing, creativity, mistakes and solving problems of every kind are used daily.  We learn, we grow, we shed our old ways and constantly become new creatures.

Home is a place that helps us out of the muck, that throws us a rope when we’re stuck, that will wade into the mess we find ourselves in, pull our boot out of the mud, and help us back to shore.

Home is where all the paths of life lead back to—often we lose our way and wander through the trees.  We get confused about what direction we’re going and whether it’s the right way.  We get scared of what’s to come because of the dark nights that have come before.  But always, the Light of home is calling us forward through the shadows.

 

For Aaron, homecoming at Saint John’s was fun and nostalgic, satisfying and bittersweet (Jake, you were missed!)  For Tamba, Chris’ daily homecoming is a time to celebrate with joy and contentment.  So what does a place or person offer that one wants to come home to?  Safety in all realms, acceptance of who we are, beauty for the eyes and soul, responsibility of internal and external dynamics, help when we need it, a culture of learning and growth, and fun, happiness, contentment, and joy!  Home is the place we return to, it is the people we can count on, it is the God who sustains us, it is the path we travel on the journey back to ourselves.  Home is truly where our hearts are, where we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we matter. 

The Things Our Eyes Can’t See

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When I was in graduate school, I could get lost for hours looking into a microscope—looking at things our eyes can’t see—red and white blood cells, chromosomes, uric acid crystals in urine, sperm cells, and so many other incredible structures.  It was a whole other fascinating world that we carry with us, that is us!

Our woodland Cooper’s Hawk flew to an Oak tree branch when I happened to be looking out the window.  I know he saw me looking at him—in other words, he watched me like a hawk.  He wasn’t too perturbed, as he sat there for quite a while, fluffed up his feathers, and continued watching.

Hawks and other raptors have excellent vision—they can see 4 to 5 times farther than humans, have superior color vision, and deeper foveas that allow their eyes to act like a telephoto lens.  They need this acute vision to focus in on their prey from a great distance, then accurately capture it.

With our much more limited eyesight, we get a bigger picture of the world by moving our eyes and heads.  We are capable of seeing the big picture and the details of things that are close by but often overlooked.  The big picture of Autumn is the changing colors of the landscape, but I thought I would focus in on a more detailed look at Fall through the camera’s telephoto lens.  The needle-like leaves of the Larch tree are changing to a golden yellow and will drop to the ground like a carpet.

Spiny seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace have begun their dispersal by wind or clinging to the fur, feather, or pantleg of a passerby.

Scarlet cones of Sumac berries top the equally beautiful crimson foliage and will remain as a food source for dozens of birds throughout the winter, long after the leaves have fallen.

Huge white puffs of ‘Annabelle’ Hydrangea flowers gradually dry to a rich, toasted brown color and can be brought indoors for a beautiful Fall decoration.

Individual seeds on the Purple Coneflower light up like pegs on a Lite-Brite screen.

Fast growing fungi popped up all over the yard after days of rain.  Isn’t it incredible that such a strange structure, complete with unique colors and shapes, can grow so quickly then melt away to nothing?

Like a huge bouquet of tiny rosebuds, each ‘Autumn Joy’ Sedum flower spreads its namesake to all who see them.

Behold the first leaf to change from green to wine on one of the many ‘Nannyberry’ Vibernums we have planted in the woods.

Dried Fern fronds remind me of the racks of drying tobacco I remember from my childhood, that hung in Pennsylvania barns.

The lace cap flowers of ‘Quick Fire’ Hydrangea bloom a pure white and gradually turn pink as Summer wanes and Fall arrives.

Joe Pye Weed seedheads look like pink sheaves of wheat blowing in the breeze.

A tangle of plumy seedheads from a Purple Smoke tree is rarely noticed at this time of year.

 

The landscape of Fall is beautiful; the details of Autumn are intriguing, just as the landscape and microscopic details of our bodies are amazing.  Though we don’t have the keen distance sight of a hawk, we do have the marvelous ability to see the big picture and the details, both literally and figuratively.  But what happens when we are only focused on one certain thing?  

The other objects in sight are rarely noticed or are distorted beyond reality.  At times like this, a person’s world and vision gets small—when the focus of his sight and mind is singular and obsessive.  It happens when a person is fighting for her life.  It happens when despair covers a person like a cloak, and she seems to melt away to nothing.  It happens when one is lost for hours, days, years in addiction.  It happens when suffering people are unimportant compared to money.  It happens every day.  It is rare that a person in this situation can correct his vision on his own, let alone have the inner and outer resources to change his world.  That’s where the rest of us come in, for if you think you live your life as an island, you are either a fool or delusional.  We are our brothers’ keepers.  Before that seems overwhelming or raises the hackles of defense, know that we are hard-wired as social creatures.  We are meant to look out for one another.  It starts with taking good care of ourselves, our partners and families, then our friends and community, our country, our Earth.  Like a hawk, we can watch for despair or addiction, for suffering and injustice, and though we cannot do the inner work for the people affected, we can stand by their side and do what we can to assist them.  We need to be able to help them see the big picture, yet work diligently with the details.  And then there are the things our eyes can’t see—love, faith, hope, resiliency—that sustain us even when the material world has dried up and fallen away or been washed away in a flood.  Behold!   

Wielding the Power of Love

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There’s somebody out there wielding more power than they probably know they have.  Their power is not evident at the time of delivery; in fact, it will be evident days to weeks later.  The delivery, I’m sure, is taken lightly and seems relatively benign, and they may or may not see the consequences of their actions.  That being said, their mission is noble and just—to rid our city or township of the noxious Spiny Plumeless Thistle.

I don’t have anything against the intrinsic value of any plant in this creation of ours, but I have a strong dislike for Buckthorn and Thistles, two of the most tenacious invasive species of our area.  Come June, I am scanning the ditch along our road for the opening of a pretty-if-it-was-on-another-plant purple flower.  At that time, I get out Chris’ sharp digging spade and spend an hour or two doing my civic duty by walking up and down our road chopping every purple-flowered, prickly plant I see.

Seed dispersal by wind takes the opportunistic seeds to anywhere there is some degree of disturbance—an overgrazed pasture, vacant lots, field edges, or roadsides.  Luckily, the plant is biennial, and with persistence, it can be eradicated over a number of years, especially if all neighbors are on the same page.  As the summer wears on, my digging slips, and I notice a few spindly plants flowering across the road from our garden.  Here is where the wielder of power comes into the picture—with a wand and a tank of herbicide.  August is not a good time to spray weeds in a good management program.  I’m not an expert on herbicides, but I live with a man who has used them every year of his horticultural career, and I know about drift and volatility.  I first noticed a change in the color of a number of sumacs–they all turned orange while the others were green.  And then I noticed my tomatoes—the growing tips were burned back, the leaves got spotty, and the tomatoes I was so looking forward to started turning off colors.  Dang it!  The city public works director denied that they were the ones responsible, but I was a little worried when he said my garden was too far from the road to be affected (not true) and didn’t know what dicamba was.

The wielder of the wand did more damage in the neighborhood.  While spraying in a gravel parking lot down the road at a small park, the drift killed all but one branch on a 15-20 year old Accolade Elm, a hybrid tolerant of Dutch Elm disease.  Its survival seems unlikely.

And the hill at the end of the road that used to be all grass a number of years ago will probably be filled with thistles again next year, as the herbicide concoction killed the grass along with the thistles.

 

So disappointing that my tomatoes were wrecked.  Disgusting that a tree that took so many years to grow was wiped out.  Frustrating that the people responsible don’t have a better management plan than ‘go spray thistles’ in the humid hot middle of summer.  For some reason it all reminded me of the hate, injustice, and ignorance in the world that seems to be tenaciously invading all our lives.  The prickly spines of hate are often hidden under the beauty and righteousness of a pretty idea.  Seeds of discontent and harm are dispersed via the internet by opportunistic self-serving strangers looking for the grounds of unrest.  And what are the wielders of power doing to manage it all?

It’s overwhelming at times.  I find myself wondering in that ancient, yet 90’s sort of way—What Would Jesus Do?  It helps me stay strong.  I know that I will keep picking up my shovel to chop out hate and ignorance, and for all I am worth, I will wield the power of Love.