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Archives for July 2018

Snapshots of July Stories

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Here we are in the middle of the year, in the middle of summer—this month of July.  I tend to wish away July when the temperatures rise, when the humidity causes so much discomfort, and when bugs are bugging humans animals, and plants.  Oh, and also when the deer jump our garden fence and eat the beans, beets, and peppers.  The first half of the month was hot and sticky—and I realize that relative to the rest of the country, we have it easy.  Just as I was wondering how to navigate the humid days of summer, we got a blast of welcome relief from cooler Canadian air.  The last two weeks have been glorious summer days—days I am not wishing away!  Looking over my photographs of July, I realized that our month could be told in a series of little stories.  There is the two-sided story of the deer—the nemesis of Chris and his ‘fight’ to save our hostas, trees, and other plants from being devoured by our cloven-hoofed friends as opposed to the beauty of spotted fawns with their mamas.

I saw one small fawn by itself one evening, just standing in the driveway, looking back and forth between the barking dog in the house and the sound of people walking down the street.  No mama was in sight.  Another day, a fawn hid behind the grass by the blueberries—again without its mama.  It’s unusual to see such a young one without its mother close by, and I wondered if she had been killed somehow.  Poor, cute baby.

July holds the story of blooming things.  The garden vegetables—peppers, tomatoes, green beans, and cucumbers—are flowering and beginning to grow their fruit.  Hosta flowers are in wild abundance, much to the happiness and satiety of the hummingbirds.

Carpets of thyme are covered with purple blooms, and annual zinnias are bright and inviting to the butterflies.

There is the story of time on the lake with friends—delicious in-the-moment time when the look and feel of the water and wind make every cell in your body feel alive.  It is the story of Minnesota where pines and loons represent our state.

The story of the Lake is not complete without Cattails, Yellow Pond Lilies, and spiders who take advantage of a corner of a dock to capture a plethora of insects that hover around the water.

There are the summer stories of friends and relatives around a fire on the patio.

The stories of Sunlight and Moonlight fall on the moss of trees, the burbling creek water, and the tall oaks of the forest.

 

July stories told in snapshots are added to the album of Summer and then to the bigger albums of our year and life.  I like how the photographs open those albums, how they illustrate a part of the story, and how they reveal elements that may not have been noticed before.  So often—like the deer story—there is a little story within the bigger one.  It also illustrates how there can be different feelings and thoughts about a situation, not only from different people, but even within one person.  Our personal stories, seen through the snapshot of a photo or memory, are limited, however; we don’t see what’s happening off camera or have all the pertinent information.  But a photo and story are also gifts to every one of us—they remind us of the beauty and goodness of life.  They make us remember not to take people or things for granted.  They instill in us the preciousness of time.  What are your July stories?  What delicious moments in time have you had this summer?  And are you ready for a new story to unfold in each new day?  

In the Web of Our Lives

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My Mom was here for a visit this weekend.  While looking at old pictures and reminiscing, she asked me whether I remembered the surprise birthday party we had thrown for her 35th birthday.  I needed a few more prompts for those memories to come to the forefront of my brain, and as we talked about it, different strands of the story started weaving together into a clearer picture.  She told it from her point of view, and I remembered it from my then fourteen-year-old self.  She recalled all the chores us kids had been doing—painting the barn, mowing the lawn, cleaning the house—and how proud she was of us for being so industrious.  We were trying to get things cleaned up and ready for the party!  My aunt had asked her to come to Harrisburg to go shopping.  We needed to get her out of the house!  They planned on all coming back to our place for cake and ice cream.  Everybody would be there by that time!  I recalled the excitement I felt keeping the party a secret from my Mom.  I remembered how satisfying it felt to get all those chores finished and to have the place looking good.  I thought about the help we had from our Dad, our aunt and uncle, and our family friends to make the surprise and party a success.  Then she told me that my older sister didn’t remember it at all!  Somehow the strand of memory for that event was invisible or broken for her.

One morning last week I noticed the dewy webs of grass spiders.  Normally one wouldn’t even notice the webs, but the dew clung to the strands like tiny white crystals.

One web was shaped like a bowl, and at the bottom of the bowl was a funnel.  In the funnel, ready to ‘catch’ whatever fell into her lair, was a grass spider.

More webs dazzled in the sunshine as each drop of dew glistened like a diamond.

Today I found another web of webs in the Lily of the Valley.  It was not as neat and even as the grass spider webs—it was much more complicated, convoluted, and chaotic.  Or so it seemed.  No crystal dewdrops hung from the web, but the sun still reflected off the gossamer strands.

 

A web is a home for a spider, a place to catch food, and sometimes a nursery for the young.  It is made from the strong, flexible, proteinaceous silk the spider ‘spins.’  It is often invisible but will catch the light rays to attract insects.  The strands of our memories form the web of our lives.  Our brains store these memories in a complex yet structured way that is most often connected to a heightened emotion, like the excitement I felt from planning the party for my Mom without her knowing about it.  We all remember events differently, if we remember them at all.  At times, we don’t remember things because there are too many mundane, not-important things that happen to us—we don’t need to remember them.  Often we have memories that fade away with time and can be recalled with help.  But sometimes things happen that interfere with the structured formation of memories—overwhelm and trauma can cause our memories to be stored in a convoluted and chaotic way.  We cannot recall them—they are there but invisible to us.  So how do we shine the light on the strands of our memories?  When we allow ourselves to be in quiet and intentionally ask ourselves questions, often our minds will let us know the answer.  We can talk with one another to piece together the individual strands of memories that formed the web of that life event.  Looking at old pictures or visiting past places illuminates the dusty cobwebs of memory, often shaking things loose, so we get a clearer picture.  We can illuminate the strong, flexible strands of our memories, so they shine like diamonds in the web of our lives.

The Light in the World

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“Where there is darkness, light…”   –from the Prayer of Saint Francis

There were two times in my life when I was in profound darkness.  The first time was when I was very young—before many memories were etched into my brain, and when my brain, in all its wisdom, sequestered that darkness into a walled-off place so I could continue to smile and run and explore and be a child.  The second time was forty-three years later when the walled-off place suddenly burst open, spewing all the feelings and emotions of that earlier time into my mind, my body, and my soul.  I could no longer smile, I could barely move, and my soul felt like it was dying.  There were other times in my life—between those two times—when I peered into the darkness of the abyss, when I stood precariously on the edge fearing any misstep that would plunge me into that place I did not want to go, could not yet go.  During the second darkness, there were a few amazing beams of light that guided me through—my therapist, my pastor and friend.  There was the warm, caring light of Chris who pulled double duty with the chores and work, even when it all felt confusing and overwhelming.  And there was the brilliant light of my children—one who was already gone to college, one who was on the cusp of leaving for school, and one who still needed my day-to-day presence.  

I am acutely aware of the toxic darkness that resides in our world—where children are intentionally separated from their parents, where violence permeates homes and lives, where people are going hungry and sleeping on the streets, where illnesses are unable to be treated, and a list too long goes on.  But I am also joyously connected to the light in our world—the life-giving sunshine in our daily lives, the hope and comfort of spiritual belief and practice, and the day-to-day words and actions of good and kind people.  The early morning and evening sunshine has been lighting up the landscape around our place, noticeable as we sit on the porch or walk through the yard.  The coming or going of darkness is emblazoned by sunlight as it reaches from the horizon through trees and leaves.

It illuminates the seedheads of grass, transforming the natural color to pure white light.

Ninebark shrubs flower and fruit in little clusters that often get lost among the leaves.  The sunlight reveals some hidden fruits.

Wispy needles of a Larch tree dance green and white in the light, casting narrow shadows on themselves.  We are all a combination of light and shadow.

Life-giving food made from life-giving sunlight and soil is part of the process of transformation for a caterpillar eating Milkweed and becoming a Monarch butterfly.

How does sunlight impact a rock?  It beams light energy into the hard, seemingly impervious surface—some gets reflected, making the rock look brighter, while other gets absorbed and transformed into heat.

When a place looks dark, light can shine on unexpected places making the whole picture look different.  Often our help, our light, comes from people and places we never expected.

A constant source of pleasure for me is the ever-changing way the evening sunlight radiates through the leaves of a Banana tree on our patio.  The red edges turn to fire, the veins are unveiled, shadows deepen the green color in areas, and drops of pure white light drip from and through this living, breathing organism.

Sometimes the sun doesn’t shine on our face, but enlightens and enlivens our heart where we need it most, so that later our true beauty will be revealed for all the world to see.

Light also exposes dangerous, harmful, or annoying things that go unseen in the shadows and darkness.  Red aphids on a sunflower stem glowed in the sunlight, and vines and webs were clearly seen in the light of the sun and the lens of the camera.  Sometimes one has to look closely with unflinching courage in order to eradicate the harmful things.

The result of being aware of the light and the darkness, of looking honestly and closely at our own heart and soul, of asking or allowing or finding the help we need, is the revelation of an inner and outer beauty that displays our true essence.

 

Our brains are amazing structures that protect us during overwhelming events by sequestering sensations and emotions to a walled-off place so we can continue to function at some level.  But they never disappear, and time does not abate the intensity of our feelings.  Sometimes the walled-off place is touched or triggered by a sensation or situation, and we react instantly, unconsciously, and we or someone around us wonder where those words or actions came from.  That’s why the second darkness is so important—to slowly know and release the sensations and feelings that have been clouding our life, so we are no longer afraid of the dark abyss, because it is gone.  We all need help at times with our shadows and darkness, and we are all called to be sowers of light.  A Minnesota author Kent Nerburn wrote a book Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace—Living in the Spirit of the Prayer of Saint Francis.  He wrote how Saint Francis went forth in the world to give his light to others, how at times it was an act of pure will, and how fervently he believed that every small gesture of light was needed.  Nerburn wrote, “We must remind ourselves that, though our lives are small and our acts seem insignificant, we are generative elements of this universe, and we create meaning with each act that we perform or fail to perform.”  He continues this compelling call to action with “All our actions on this earth have eternal life.  It is up to us to determine whether our actions have a life that increases the light in the world or adds to the darkness.”  May we know our shadows, may we light up the landscape of our world, and may we let the luminescence of our true essence shine on. 

A Work of Love and Duty

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“I looked on child rearing not only as a work of love and duty but as a profession that was fully as interesting and challenging as any honorable profession in the world and one that demanded the best that I could bring to it.”  –Rose Kennedy

I don’t think I’ve ever run across a quote that so closely aligns with the way I felt about raising our three children.  I had worked in the profession of child care for four years before having our first child, and it was a joy to provide care, structure, learning activities, and fun to the children at the YWCA.  However, deep dissatisfaction crept into my soul when I was leaving my baby with another woman while caring for many other’s children—not because of the work I was doing, but because of the time of not being with my own.  It was only another year or so before we made the decision for me to stay home.  We had another baby on the way by then, and I was happy to provide care to another little girl full-time and to a few others on a part-time basis.  How I loved our days together!  I set up learning stations in our old house where messy art projects trumped new floor coverings and reading books and playing outside were more important than how things looked or how much money we had.  It was a time of joy for me!

We were fortunate to spend time on Goodners Lake this weekend with our good friends Rick and Lynda.  The lake is always beautiful but seemed particularly so after a week with nourishing rains and abundant sunshine.

The resident Loon pair had returned to Goodners Lake in late April, made a nest among the cattails, and hatched out one baby Loon.  Even swimming among the boaters, it was evident that the Lake belonged to the Loons.

What was also evident to me is how dedicated and attentive the Loon parents are to their offspring.  When the chicks are very young, they can swim but will climb onto their parent’s back to ride and rest.  This chick still has its downy feathers but will have its adult voice and be fully feathered by two months old.

The chick mirrors the parents’ actions of peering under the water with their excellent underwater vision to find fish to eat, to preen and clean their feathers, and to rear up out of the water and flap their wings in a territorial display.

The parents will continue to protect and teach their young one until he can capture all his own food and become a strong flyer.  In Autumn, the parents leave the lake to migrate south.  The young ones will gather and migrate together a few weeks later.  The following April, the parents will return to the Lake to begin another season of raising young ones.

 

Loons, Eagles, Bluebirds, and others are dedicated, hard-working parents.  One only needs to watch how they work to build a nest, how they protect their young, how long and hard they work to provide food for them, and how they teach them to do what’s necessary to become full-fledged adults.  Parenting in the animal and the human world is hard work, and as John Steinbeck understated, “Perhaps it takes courage to raise children.”  Courage indeed, along with a whole host of other noble and life-affirming traits.  Parenting is a work of love and duty, a full-time, honorable position whether you are home with your kids all day or you return after working elsewhere to build the nest and give them the wings to fly.  Regardless, I hope you bring your best and make it a time of joy!

The Big, Beautiful River

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You can’t be unhappy in the middle of a big, beautiful river.  –Jim Harrison

That was me on Friday afternoon.  The big, beautiful river was ‘The River’, “the great Mississippi, the majestic, the magnificent Mississippi” as Mark Twain describes his beloved natural wonder.  The 2350-mile waterway begins at Lake Itasca, Minnesota where the River is 20-30 feet wide, ‘almost pristine,’ and empties into the Gulf of Mexico after flowing between or through ten states.  The watershed area drained by the Mississippi and its tributaries, including the Ohio, Missouri, and Arkansas Rivers is a vast 40% of the continental US.  15-18 million people use it for their water supply.  It supports a diverse population of fish, birds, amphibians, reptiles, mammals, and plants.  The upper Mississippi particularly, supports a huge recreation economy, and the whole river from Minneapolis/St. Paul south is a water highway for agricultural products, iron and steel, paper and wood, and petroleum products.  It does not take long, however, before the ‘almost pristine’ water that leaves Lake Itasca becomes polluted.  In the three months it takes water leaving Itasca to reach the Gulf, many industrial, urban, and agricultural pollutants are added to it.  Even while the water is still in Minnesota, there are stretches of the River that exceed water quality standards for mercury, bacteria, sediment, PCBs and nutrients making it unsuitable for fishing, swimming, or drinking.  By the time it reaches Louisiana… well, you know.

Where I was boating with kind, generous friends, the River is still beautiful and much closer to pristine than toxic.

We made our way up the River to an island sand bar where the water was shallow.  A little pond between the ridge of sand and the island was filled with White Water Lilies, adding beauty to the marshy water.

Swamp Milkweed found a happy home along the perimeter of the island, adding a bolt of color to the green Willow around it.

Children built sand/mud castles, music floated from different boats, and water games—some with rules, some impromptu—occupied the sand bar people in the hot afternoon sunshine.  I sat on the boat under the shade of my hat, soaking in the goodness of friendship, the warmth of a summer day, and the movement of water.  I was happy in a contented, peaceful way.  “You can’t be unhappy in the middle of a big, beautiful river.”

Some other creatures felt the same way as we headed back to the dock.

 

How do we keep the Mississippi and all the other rivers beautiful?  Pollution, like climate change, is a huge problem that affects everyone on this planet.  In fact, it’s such a huge problem that we don’t like to think about it.  So most of us and many leading the government agencies that are supposed to be working on these very problems bury our heads in the sand and pretend it’s not an issue.  I understand the overwhelm.  How do we reduce the pollutants and keep them from being added to the water?  There are solutions.  There are dedicated people working to solve the problems.  We need more people on board.  How also do we keep our communities and our lives beautiful?  It depends on what we add to our lives.  We need to keep the pollutants out—the hatred, apathy, blame, bigotry, disdain and corruption.  Add in friendship, understanding, responsibility, generosity, humility, and love for one another.  Let’s keep America beautiful in every way, so our lives are more like the pristine waters of Lake Itasca and less like the toxic waters flowing into the Gulf.