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The Gift of a Paper Birch Tree

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In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.  –Aristotle

One of the most marvelous trees in Nature is the Paper Birch.  It thrives in colder-climate regions, is one of the first species to grow after a wildfire in these northern climates, provides food for moose, deer, birds, and porcupines, and the bark is an excellent fire-starter, even when wet, because of its high oil content.  The leaves have been used for centuries by herbalists as a topical for skin problems as well as infusions for a wide array of internal problems.

These beautiful trees have been designated National Memorial Trees for Mothers with one planted at Arlington National Cemetery named the National Mothers’ Tree.  We are fortunate to have one right outside our front door.

The shiny white bark has characteristic ‘dashes’ in light gray, and as the tree grows, the older bark peels off in large curls.

The curls of peeling bark get stuck on the knots where the branches grow and hang on until it gets worked loose.

We also have a pile of logs from an old Birch that had to come down.  The rotting process has begun.  Often the inside wood will rot away leaving an empty shell of tough birch bark.

Fungi, like a stack of morning pancakes with frosty white syrup of snow, grows from one end of a log.

Colorful lichens decorate the ‘eye’ of the log where a branch was cut from the trunk.

There is something almost magical in the bark of a Paper Birch, with its strength, resiliency, and weather-proof properties.

From downed trees, the bark can be peeled off in thick layers.  The Native Americans used the bark for making containers and canoes, and for the shells of wigwams.

But in our household, Chris uses the bark to make ornaments for our Christmas tree and for gifts!

 

A marvelous tree—from beautiful live Mothers’ tree to downed logs to handmade gifts of Nature and Love.  In this season of advent, the ‘old’ is peeling away in anticipation of what’s to come—we make room for the new.  We may get hung up on knots of uncertainty, of doubts and fears, but whether we are ready or not, the Child is born to the Mother of God, the new year greets us, Joy is made available—do we embrace it?  Life is a magical, miraculous gift, and we are the strong, resilient participants, the givers, the receivers, and the gifts themselves.  From our household to yours, we wish you Love, Protection, and Peace!

Fair Warnings and Feeding Frenzies

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One semester before returning to graduate school, I worked as a teacher’s aide at our neighborhood elementary school.  It was a traditional, old-style, brick schoolhouse with two stories, wide stairways, and big windows.  I stayed with one student who needed some extra help with staying on task and controlling his behavior.  I was prepared for my work with him and with a whole school of exuberant young children, except for one thing—I wasn’t warned about lunch time!  Lunch was held in a big gym that was built to one side of the school—lunch tables were lined up under basketball hoops, and a long line formed around the walls of the gym as we waited to get our lunches.  In the winter, heavy coats, hats, and mittens were thrown down in haste along the wall in anticipation of recess.  Excited anticipation in young children is not conducive to savoring a nutritious, delicious lunch, and on that first day and every day thereafter, I could not believe how fast the food was gotten, gulped, and trashed as a necessary precursor to what they really wanted—recess!

Mother Nature gives fair warnings.  Sometimes she does so in colorful and dramatic ways: sunrises like this mean that some kind of weather event is literally ‘on the horizon.’  The beauty of the colors are not just visual art to be noticed and appreciated; it means something.  When I looked at the western horizon, the sky was dark with heavy, snow-filled clouds.

I wasn’t the only one to notice—the birds knew, too.  Every morning usually has a ‘feeding time’ for the birds, but before the snow came, there was a feeding frenzy!  More birds, more movement, more excitement.  Purple Finches flocked to the feeders and to the ground beneath them, gulping down black oil sunflower seeds.

Gray-cloaked Juncos hopped around on the grass and snow, gathering seeds and gathering friends.

At the back feeder, the beautiful, brassy Blue Jays shoveled through discarded shells in search of intact seeds as the snow began to fall.  An old tin tub holds acorns and corn cobs—another cafeteria for the birds and squirrels.

 

Fair warning in a vibrant sunrise and fair warning in a Black Friday National Climate Assessment that was released and refuted by the White House.  Climate scientists anticipate what is going to happen based on science, data, and expertise.  The latest report confirmed what climate scientists have been seeing and reporting for decades—the rise in greenhouse gases is hurting the economy, the environment, and public health.  Get ready, be prepared, make changes—yet another fair warning—this one intense and wide-reaching.  The questions of whether the right models were used, whether scientists were profiting from this, and if this was for political reasons are moot points.  All we need to do is look at what Mother Nature is saying—the warnings are consistent and persistent—record rains, flooding, wildfires, droughts, high temperatures, extreme fluctuations, and ice melts.  The evidence is right before our eyes.  The real question is why aren’t some of us noticing it, seeing it, believing it, anticipating it?  Just like any other form of denial: the ‘cost’ of seeing the truth is more painful than the ‘cost’ of believing our own story.  How do we not throw away what truly sustains us just to quickly get what we want?

Start by Surveying Your Territory—You May See the Dead Deer

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It was unusual to see an eagle just sitting in a tree along the highway.  They do that beside the River in search of fish or close to their nests.  It’s usually hawks that sit in trees or on posts surveying the ditches for signs of mouse movement in patient anticipation of a tasty tidbit.  Once I got his photo and we drove on, I commented to Chris how unusual it was to see an eagle in a tree beside the road.  While I had been staring at the eagle, Chris had been surveying the road behind us where we were pulled over and the road before us where he noticed a dead deer in the ditch.  I was totally focused on the eagle and didn’t see the dead deer—and that was why he was sitting there in the tree.

We continued to our destination—Wildwood County Park—for a chill-busting hike in the Maple and Basswood forest where some of the towering Maples are 300 years old.  It is a well-managed forest; tractor tracks followed the ski trail where freshly cut logs of downed trees were piled in the scant snow, and I didn’t see any Buckthorn invading the woods.

We crossed a creek flowing under a layer of ice with bridges of fallen logs—some bear-sized, some mouse-sized—connecting one side with the other.

With no leaves on the trees and no ‘greenery,’ the trees themselves became the focal points—the trunks and branches, the colors and textures.

We found a ‘fort’ made of branches, a shelter from the winds on the ridge.  Would you stay here?

One of the dead Basswood trees was obliterated by a Pileated Woodpecker.  Huge white patches of drilled wood stuck out in the gray day, and a hefty pile of shavings gathered at the foot of the tree.

At another creek, two deer paths diverged from the creek into the woods.  Which way would you go?

In any mature forest there are many downed trees—all a part of Nature’s recycling program.  Oftentimes we forget about the extensive root systems that anchor trees and keep them nourished.  An eroded bank exposed some of the roots of this oak tree, reminding me of the unseen network of support.

A large burl interrupted the smooth flow of a tree trunk.  The dark, bumpy, tumor-like growth is caused by an injury, a genetic mutation, insects, or fungal and bacterial infections.  The cells divide more rapidly than normal (like many cancers) or there is excessive cell enlargement (hypertrophy).  Burls are coveted by woodworkers as the wood has unique and beautiful grain patterns due to knots from dormant buds and the swirls of the unusual growth.

The woods of Wildwood were bare and stripped down on this cool, gray day with interesting things to see and life lessons to learn if we are so inclined.

 

I’m sure the eagle spotted the dead deer when he was soaring high above the ground surveying his territory—it’s what they are meant to do.  The deer would provide food for many days—if the eagle could safely access it.  They are not swift on the wing to get out of the way of cars, so from his perch in the tree, he could watch for an opportunity to feed on the carcass.  Seeing the eagle and not the deer reminded me that we ‘see’ what we look for, what we are focused on and many times, we don’t see what else is ‘in the picture.’  That’s when it helps to have other eyes and other points of view—Chris saw the deer—the reason why the eagle was there.  He kept watch for danger in passing cars as I looked only at the eagle.  The Wildwood showed how bridges connect one side with another—natural things like logs, laughter, love, and lively conversation.  What creates our shelters from the wrathful winds and storms of life?  We must build them log by log, bit by bit.  Is it prayer or yoga or daily walks?  What makes each of us resilient?  What do we do with the old, dead parts that no longer work?  We mine them for the morsels that will continue to sustain us, then discard the rest.  We choose our paths, and all the while, we remember our network of support, that we don’t make our way in this world by ourselves, by only what is seen.  Who holds us up?  Who sends nourishment to us?  Who helps build the shelters and bridges?  The burled tree reminds us that ugly things can be transformed into beautiful creations.  It usually takes time, hard work, dedication, and the ability to see beyond the ugliness.  When we survey our territory and see and learn the lessons the eagle and the woods have to teach us, we can see the opportunities, not be blindsided by the dangers, stay safe in our shelters with those who sustain us, and create Beauty for all to see.

 

Hiding in Plain Sight

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I stared out the window into the brown woods and could not see the deer Chris told me was there—right there!  Right behind the black pole that held a hanging bowl of sunflower seeds for the birds.  Finally I saw a subtle movement.  I zoomed in on the large black eyes of the hiding deer.  It was the first weekend of the firearms hunting season for deer—the little resort motel beside the Sauk River just down the hill was full of cars, and early morning gunshots rang through the air.  I’d be hiding, too.

It was a classic example of crypsis, a type of camouflage, when an animal, person, or object avoids detection by blending into the surroundings.  It is one of the most common and successful defenses in the animal world, and, in turn, one of the most common and successful offenses of the hunting world.

Later that week, I saw the twin fawns browsing their way through the yard and woods.  Their furry winter coats had displaced the spots of their smooth summer coats as they grew into their ‘teenage’ bodies.

They were not afraid to be seen—maybe it was their youthful naiveté or the fact that they had been here most days of their lives or maybe it was the lure of the apples on the ground beneath the tree.  I did not see their mama this time, though she was probably keeping a watchful eye from somewhere deeper in the woods.

Soon the two of them wandered into the woods, into the Gray Dogwood, Sumac, and I hate to say it—Buckthorn.  Right before my eyes, they disappeared by camouflage!

They are still there—can you see them?!

 

Camouflage uses a combination of coloration, materials, or illumination for hiding in plain sight.  Nature knows about survival.  Our mammalian brain works in much the same way—if we feel threatened, we want to run and hide.  We want to protect ourselves.  Our strategies are much more complex than Nature and the deer.  We hide in plain sight all the time.  We hide behind smiles, behind humor, behind walls of shame.  We wear masks of happiness, masks of productiveness, masks of toughness.  We cover up hurts with compliancy, with silence, with ‘it could be worse.’  We conceal reality and the truth of our lives behind alcohol, food, materialism, and other addictions.  We carry our well-developed and effective protective mechanisms with us from childhood through adulthood until they no longer work….until we can no longer hide.

Very often, all the activity of the human mind is directed not in revealing the truth, but in hiding the truth.        —Leo Tolstoy

But then what?!  Then comes the hard part—the part where all the courage and brilliance of our past protective strategies morphs into the very means by which we walk out into the sunshine to be seen.  Zora Neale Hurston wrote, “Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”  The catalyst is Love.  It’s the Love that holds us when we run and hide to be safe.  It’s the Love that was always ‘right there’ but we could not see.  It’s the Love that says the time has come for us to be seen.  It’s the Love that helps us to finally love ourselves.  “I am still here—can you see me?”  

 

 

The Colors of November

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Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.  –Ralph Waldo Emerson

The leaves are gone.  Snow covers the ground this morning—plow-able, shovel-able snow.  We’ve had single digit low temperatures.  The skies have been cloudy with a touch of sun.  Our ‘getting-ready-for-winter work’ is not quite finished.  And this is not depressing news!  The trees have entered their dormancy, their hibernation of sorts.  Most of the action is below ground now.  Let them have their rest.  The ‘flurries’ and ‘dustings’ have added up to more snow than we expected, but I have to say, looking out the window as my feet hit the floor in the morning and seeing a blanket of snow makes me smile.  We will trade these cold temps for some forties later this week, which will give us time to finish our ‘getting-ready-for-winter work.’  The gray of November is not really so gray—I found a palette of color around the yard this week!

How wonderful yellow is.  It stands for the sun.  –Vincent Van Gogh, artist

You are my sunshine!  This is the time of year that Common Witch Hazel blooms!  Isn’t that amazing?!

There are many languages that don’t make a distinction between green and blue and treat these as shades of one color.   –Guy Deutscher, linguist

Orange is the happiest color.   –Frank Sinatra, singer

The more basic the color, the more inward, the more pure.  –Piet Mondrian, artist

Red is the ultimate cure for sadness.  –Bill Blass, fashion designer

Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.  –Pedro Calderon de la Barca, playwright

Blue color is everlastingly appointed by the deity to be a source of delight.  –John Ruskin, artist and art critic

 

We in the North are entering our ‘hibernation’ time, so to speak, when most of the action takes place indoors.  It can be a time of rest and renewal after a fervent and busy Spring, Summer, and Fall.  Let yourself rest.  During this rest time, there can also be an unexpected blossoming of inner work and creativity.  What is your happiest color?  Paint it!  Wear it!  What is your ultimate cure for sadness?  Write about it!  What makes you smile in the Winter time?  Share that with someone!  We are all shades of one color, the spirit of the Earth given to us by the true Spirit.  Everlastingly.

In My Dream, I Am a Mother

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I attended a dream workshop last week.  We learned about the biblical dreamers, the history of dream study, and how brain science has confirmed the times during our sleep cycle when our unconscious sorts through our daily experiences and extends wisdom to our consciousness in the form of a dream.  The most profound part of the workshop was when we experienced the practice of group dreamwork, when one person shares her dream with the others.  Each of the others ‘takes the dream as their own’ for a short time, and says what their associations are “in my dream.”  And thus began the outpouring of profound words by a circle of women about motherhood, the deep, intense love for our children, our instinct to protect them, the painful knowing of them leaving the nest, guilt, loss, pride, the passing on of knowledge and values, the ones who stand with us, and who we are as a person in the midst of it all.  We then ‘gave the dream back’ to the dreamer, and she could make whatever meaning resonated with her.  We were all deeply touched by the dream and the process.

Motherhood, and all that goes with it, is not just for humans.  Witnessing the mothering abilities and instincts of cats, cows, sheep, birds, deer, and even research mice has made me admire all mamas of creation.  One mother we have seen frequently this year is a turkey and her young ones.  At the beginning of August, she had taught her little ones to fly to the branches of an Oak tree to roost for the night.

At the beginning of September, they were following her through the woods in search of tasty insects, grasses, and seeds.

photo by Aaron Brake

By the beginning of October, the young ones had adult-sized bodies with awkward feathers and heads, and were still roosting in the Oak trees.

They were back this last week.  The matriarch was heavy-bodied and mature in her rich, Fall feathers.  She had laid the eggs over a month’s time, brooded them for another month, protected the poults before they could fly, lost a number of them before that time, joined with others into a family group, and was always watchful and protective as her young ones grew and developed.

She and her young ones have walked hundreds, if not thousands, of miles in their grazing pursuits in the last six months.  What dangers they must have encountered in all those miles!

Because we know who also travels through the front yard…

The turkeys have also had many peaceful times in our yard and woods where acorns and maple seeds are plentiful.

I love this picture of Mama Turkey.  She looks like she has ‘come into her own.’  Her young ones are big enough to fend for themselves but will stay with her until the next mating season in Spring.  She has grown and developed also, during her motherhood.

Then it’s time to move on… More miles, more foraging, more watchfulness.  The roles of motherhood are deeply ingrained.

 

Motherhood.  It encompasses the deepest of emotions, the hardiness of body, the strength of spirit, and the burnishing of our soul.  Perhaps our children are like dreams—they are shared with us, and we take them as our own.  In my dream, you are loved beyond measure.  In my dream, you are protected from harm and have all the essentials of life.  In my dream, education and spirituality are daily practices.  In my dream, the ones who stand with you will help you reach your greater good.  In my dream, I am always with you….  And then, we have to give them back, and they make meaning out of their own lives.  In motherhood, we start out rather unconscious, and as we walk the miles and live the years, we gain consciousness and wisdom.  We come into our own.  We move on—more loving, more letting go, more watchfulness.  What a profound dream.  What a profound process.

 

Talking to the Moon

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The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.  –Carl Sandburg

Last weekend was a lonesome couple of days.  The men in my family headed south with a bad case of Mahomes fever.  It was perfectly understandable—the Chiefs’ young quarterback is taking the NFL by storm with his quickness, his yards/game, and his touchdown passes.  I love it when a star is born.  I also love when a star shines on the rest of us—and that would be our star, the Sun!  Our star shines on us here on Earth and also on our Moon.  Do you know what a selenophile is?  A person who loves the Moon and finds joy and peace of mind from the Moon!

I worked outside in the sunshine for most of the day, cutting back hostas, raking leaves, and pulling the wilted, sad-looking vegetable plants out of the garden.  Dozens of cherry tomatoes that had not ripened or were not harvested squished under my boots.  Only the carrots and a few cold-hardy lettuces still looked green and lively after the freezes.  It had been a good year for tomatoes, green beans, and lettuce, and I felt a deep satisfaction for all the meals our small garden had provided.  As evening rolled in, the not-quite-yet-full Moon rose through the pine trees.

It was a beautiful evening.  No wind, not too chilly, a shining Moon.  I decided to make a campfire for myself, so gathered some wood before it was completely dark.  The previous week’s rain dampened my chances for a roaring flame, but with small logs, pinecones, and some newspaper, I soon had a respectable fire.

The sun sank below the horizon, now so far south in the western sky.  The trees stood bare and black against the soft colors of the sunset.

As I sat beside my campfire, I felt a little silly for doing this by myself.  I missed Chris.  I missed the kids.  I missed my faithful companion Tamba who always loved to lay at our feet when we had a campfire.  It was just me and the Moon.

 

When all those feelings and thoughts of loneliness, missing someone, and being alone impinge upon our mind, body, and soul, our first reaction seems to be to do anything that distracts us from those feelings: social media, tv, music, phone calls, exercise, eating, drinking.  Just don’t let me feel those feelings!  It causes discomfort, and I felt it as I sat by myself by the fire.  I even thought of a bunch of things I should be doing instead of sitting there alone.  ‘Working’ is a great distractor.  But the night, the fire, and the Moon implored me to stay, welcomed me into the natural world, and calmed my discomfort.  “Of course you are missing your family and Tamba—they are such an important part of your life.  Chris and Aaron are having a wonderful weekend and will love to tell you all about it.  It was a beautiful day, and you got a lot of work done getting ready for Winter.  You are stronger now than you’ve ever been,” said my friend.  Even in the darkness, the star’s light shined down on me.  “Touchdown!!  The Moon and De-nise!” 

Paring Down to Bare

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“Look for the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities of life.”

by Phil Harris and Bruce Reitherman from the Jungle Book

We are a fickle bunch.  We all have our own ideas of what the seasons should and shouldn’t be—Fall’s too short, Winter’s too long, Summer’s too hot, did we even have Spring this year?!  We love the Hallmark renditions of the seasons and wish for three perfect months of that.  The last two weeks have been a pretty perfect Fall here in Central Minnesota—even with the caveat that an early hard freeze took away the slow ripening of the yellows, oranges, and reds and muted them all.

Yet Mother Nature does what she does.  The leaves have been losing their ability to use chlorophyll for energy, their colors are emerging, they are falling from the trees, and gathering like a circle skirt in the grass below the branches.

Then Mother Nature sends in the wind!  Our idyllic Autumn speeds up, and in one day whips most of the leaves to the ground.  Wait!  That was too fast!  Once again, our perception of what is happening is not the same as reality.  The Maple tree above is the last of our big three Maples to change color and drop its leaves.  The Maple tree below is the first to change—it has been changing color for over a month.  The wind won’t take down the leaves until they’re ready to let go.  The paring down process proceeds in the prescribed time, even while influenced by hard freezes and stiff winds.

Our little Larch trees turned a rich amber-gold this year instead of bright yellow, adapting to the conditions.

The Crabapple leaves browned and curled with the freeze, and when the tree is bare of leaves, it will still hold on to the fruit.

The tall, columnar Poplars dropped their leaves while still mostly green, making fragrant, messy piles in the street.  Even though the branches seem bare without the leaves, the swollen buds for next year’s leaves are already there!

While the Ash trees have lost their leaves weeks ago—the first to turn yellow, even before official Autumn arrives—this little beauty of a Maple waits until late October, its shimmering red-orange leaves take center stage.

Most trees are identified by their leaves—those of us who really know trees see the differences in shape, in bark, in seeds, in color and can name them by name without the leaves.  But losing the identity of the leaves complicates things, makes it harder to tell who is who.  However, a Kentucky Coffee Tree is still a Kentucky Coffee Tree even when the leaflets are gone.

Most of the White Oaks are bare—their non-spectacular brown leaves have fallen to the ground along with this year’s prolific crop of acorns.

But the Red Oaks are just coming into their sensational color and often hold on to their leaves into or through the Winter.

The varied Viburnum shrubs run the gamut from glossy green to yellow to freeze-induced brown—all on their own time schedule.

 

Fall is a miraculous time of year—the programmed shut-down of the growing season—the short and sweet growing season of Minnesota (reality or my perception?  Or a little bit of both?)  September brings the beginnings of the paring-down time, and by this time in October, the paring down cannot be denied as the bare branches let the sky show through.  Grief is a paring-down time, too.  It strips away the unnecessary parts of our lives like a whirlwind, and we are left with the bareness.  We are raw and vulnerable.  Often we feel like the structure of our world has collapsed.  The Hallmark rendition of our lives has been crushed.  Something precious has been taken from us.  We sit in the bare pain, the bare unfairness of it all, the bare loss.  What really matters?  What are the bare necessities of my life?  Who am I without this person, this job, this dream, this pet?  With time and introspection, we realize we are still holding on to the fruit, the buds are there for the next growing season, and the seeds have already been planted.  We look at ourselves and recognize the shape of our being and the texture of our character.  We hold on until we’re ready to let go.  And the Light shines through.

One Final Walk

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I can’t say I wasn’t prepared for it, but the reality of it hits me hard in a hundred little moments every day since she’s been gone.  Three weeks ago the inevitability of making that decision pressed against us on all fronts.  I barely slept one night, trying to figure out ways to extend her time with us, my selfishness co-mingling with what I knew in my gut was the right thing to do.  I fell asleep after tearfully resigning myself to the difficulty of the next few days.

She was my near-constant companion for over ten years—we walked together twice a day—one of those times with Chris after he got home from work.  Technically, she was Aaron’s dog—the wanted and needed puppy who joined our family just two months after we left South Dakota for our new life in Minnesota.  He slept on the porch with her those first nights, hearing her baby whimpers and whines and letting her out to go to the bathroom during the night—an unusual caretaking role for a high school boy.  Then he left to go back up to Camp in the Boundary Waters, and I took over the well-known role of caregiving.  Tamba was here every day when Aaron came home from Camp, or school, or college, or lately, from the Cities and his job.  They were like siblings—rolling around on the floor, running around the yard as fast as they could, playing all kinds of ball games with one another.  She was joyous in every sense of the word when she saw Aaron was home.

When I got up Monday morning, I heard her shake her head as she exited her kennel, her dog tags jingling in a morning song, like thousands of mornings before.  We did what we always did—I put on my boots and jacket, grabbed the leash, she stretched her downward dog—small and modified due to her age and tumors—I clicked on the leash, and we headed out into the weather, into the morning, into the zen of Nature and movement.  I couldn’t help myself from thinking this was my second-to-the-last morning walk with her.  When we came back and she was off her leash, she wandered around the yard, checking out the smells of who had wandered through, but when she saw me, she played her stalking game!  She stopped, crouched slightly, head lowered, eyes on me.  I did the same.  Then slowly, ever so slowly, we walked toward one another, each carefully lifting one foot just as the other did, pausing mid-air, then gradually stepping toward one another until a certain moment when one of us would run!  Then both of us would run together, her jumping at me in pretend aggressiveness, me laughing.  We spent a lot of time outside that day—we lay in the grass together letting the sunshine soak into our skin, warming the coolness of the day and the coldness of tomorrow.  I doubted my decision a dozen times over, but then I saw her hind end give away when she walked by me on level ground.  After many attempts, I finally forced myself to call the vet’s office, and with a catch in my voice, made the appointment.  Chris and I walked our last walk with her that afternoon, grateful, as always, for our catch-up time together, along with our big, black dog.

Early Tuesday morning, Chris fed her one last time before he left for work with his usual remark: “Happy Birthday!” as the kibbles melodically poured into her dish.  When I got up, she and I took our last morning walk, and I felt a combination of extreme gratefulness for all my days with this beautiful dog and a sorrowful dread.  Later I sat on the patio with her—I looked at her, and she looked at me with her wise, calm eyes.  We had gotten to be so in tune with one another after all these years—I could sense when she needed to go out by her subtle cues; she knew when something was wrong with me.  And as I looked at her, I felt like she knew what was going to happen, like she knew we were spending our last moments together.  As the time neared, we took our final walk together, the two of us, in sync, turning left out the driveway after nearly always turning right for our walks.  We walked down the road, then turned into the woods where lots of new smells captured her attention.  We slowly walked up a steep trail that she and Aaron used to run up and down when she was a puppy, where he sledded down the deep snow holding on to a wiggling, happy puppy.  It was hard for her to walk up the hill, but she trooped on, like she always had these past painful months.  We looked out over the River, then wound our way back home.  A perfect last walk.

These three weeks have been gray and cloudy, cold and rainy—Mother Nature’s reflection of my sorrow.  A few days offered me a smile of sunshine—oh, yes, that’s what it feels like—just to keep me going: Emily was home for two weekends, and Aaron was here, too.  The mailman brought cards from people who knew how much she meant to us, who had been through the same thing.  I hear her tags jingling sometimes in the morning, I turn to look at her when I come up from the basement, I reach for the treat can when I come inside from a walk, and I lament going to get the mail without her.  I walk in the mornings, and Chris and I walk when he comes home from work.  I feel like she is walking with me still.  That’s what unconditional love is.  That’s what being there for one another does, come what may.  That’s the celebration of every ordinary day being a Happy Birthday day.  That is her gift of grace to me, and I am ever so grateful.

A Snapshot of Our Lives

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What would a snapshot of your day look like?  How about snapshots of your life?  There were many times when the kids were growing up that we took them to outdoor events celebrating a variety of holidays, animals, and seasons—a butterfly festival, May Day celebration, harvest festival, etc.  We have a few candid snapshots of some of those events—when cameras were extra things to carry around with all the paraphernalia needed for three kids of various ages.

Last weekend we attended the Wildlife Festival at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge.  It was a chilly, raw day—as we walked from the car, most of us wished we had more and warmer clothes.  Babies were wrapped in snowsuits and cute fleece hats.  An outdoor fire and an indoor gift shop were popular places to warm up.  Tents and tables with snakes, birds, furs, and photographs engaged the kids and adults alike.  We had two of our adult kids with us, plus one, reminiscent of the events in years past.  Following are snapshots of our day with captions from some of the five of us:

  1.  Morning surprise   2.  A Walking Stick before our walk in the sticks   3.  Stickin’ around

  1.  Eagle eye   2.  Injured glory   3.  Head and shoulders above the rest

  1.  Feathered friend   2.  Small but mighty   3.  Bundled up

  1.  Who?!   2.  Feeling owley   3.  Here’s lookin’ at you, kid

  1.  Busy beavers   2.  Construction zone   3.  I could sure use a toothpick

  1.  Not mush room   2.  Unstoppable   3.  Mushrooms are having a moment

  1.  Hipsters in red   2.  Roses for next year   3.  Hips don’t lie

  1.  Feel the burn   2.  Tree-mains   3.  Vertical coal

  1.  All the sad prairie   2.  Cactus of Minnesota   3.  Prairie sentries

  1.  Mess ‘o Milkweed   2.  Fluff in the wind   3.  It’s time to sail

  1.  Hanging on   2.  Feathered and tethered   3.  Clinging

  1.  Missouri memories   2.  The circle of life   3.  Bittersweet goodbye

 

A snapshot is a quick record of something or someone; a brief appraisal or summary.  My photos and our captions are snapshots of our day together.  They can stir memories of past times and connect us with a quiet part of ourselves that we may not be aware of.  How do we walk through life?  What do we see or not want to see?  How do we carry ourselves?  Who are we really?  What is the work of our lives?  What’s stopping us?  How do we want our future to look?  How do we look at things from a different point of view?  Who do we surround ourselves with?  How do we realize our mission?  What do we do when we get stuck?  How do we gather the sweet fruit from our memories?  We are all entwined in this circle of life—each of us only a snapshot in the huge panorama of our Earth and its history.  But each snapshot is important, and this time is our time.  The mushrooms and all of us are having a moment.