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Island Ice Walkers

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“In a sense, each of us is an island.  In another sense, however, we are all one.  For though islands appear separate, and may even be situated at great distances from one another, they are only extrusions of the same planet, Earth.”  –J. Donald Walters

Last weekend, I got away to an island.  It was sunny and warm—so warm that the snow was melting!  Down the hill from our house is the Sauk River which winds its way through the Horseshoe Chain of Lakes—thirteen connected lakes with convoluted shorelines, jutting peninsulas, and a multitude of islands.  We parked at a boat ramp at Horseshoe Lake as a group of ATVs raced around on the ice.  Cars and trucks crept through the rushes on an ice road to the little village of fish shacks.

But we were going a different way by a different mode of transportation.  We followed the snowmobile tracks to the island.

Most of the ice was snow-covered, which made walking easier, but there were places of clear ice where I peered into the depths of it, wondering how thick it was.

We weren’t the only creatures walking the ice to check out the island.

The island was like an incline rising from the water (ice) with the highest point facing the northwest, from which we came.

Oak, Basswood, Box Elder and Ironwood trees populated the island, and I was surprised as one of the fluffy-tailed inhabitants ran past me while I was gazing at the jet trail in the azure blue sky.

Most of the snow had melted from the island, and it was rather startling to see the vivid green moss at the base of the trees and crawling up the trunks.

Just as vivid was a scattering of Red-twigged Dogwoods along the shore, reaching out to the sunlight.

Downed trees had fallen into the water after years of erosion had loosened the roots from their moorings.

The branches gathered seaweed and algae from high-water summers…

and were polished to sculptural driftwood by summer waves.

We dubbed the island ‘Lone Squirrel Island’ as we walked back over the ice.

 

Islands are sort of mysterious.  They lend themselves to exploration, enticing the boater, the squirrel, and the ice walkers to come see what lies within these shores.  I was impressed with the quality of the woodland ecosystem on Lone Squirrel Island—the acorn-bearing Oaks and the beautiful Ironwood trees.  It’s not as easy to get to know an island when a watery moat surrounds it as it is when thick ice supports cars, trucks, snowmobiles, or walkers.  What if each of us is an island?  We appear separate.  Some of us are situated at great distances from one another.  What is the quality of our ecosystem?  Has anything loosened our roots from their secure moorings?  Yet, like the underlying Earth of the islands, we are all connected.  “Love is the binding force of the Universe.  It holds us together.  It makes us One.” –J. Donald Walters  The thick ice was our bridge to the island.  What bridges us together?  Listening.  Understanding.  Empathy.  Patience.  Kindness.  Let’s all be ice walkers.  As we peer into the depths of Love, can we even fathom how deep and wide it is?  

Looking From the Inside Out

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At the beginning of the week I was planning to do a post about all the things I love about Nature in honor of Love and Valentine’s Day.  There are so, so many things I love about Nature, about all the life-giving forces that surround us in our daily lives.  Wednesday was a busy day starting with a circle of wonderful women sharing love for one another and discussing Desmond Tutu’s ‘The Book of Forgiving’ and ending with an Ash Wednesday potluck supper and worship service.  And then the news of another deadly school shooting….  It takes a while for the story to unfold.  It takes a while for the horror of it to sink into our minds.  It takes a while before our bodies register the threat and menace of a normal day turned deadly.  Oh, God, help us all.

And then I returned to the post I wrote just last week, to the place where thirteen men, women, and children were murdered on a day in 1862 when the traveling pastor came to visit, when the adults fled the gathering to try to save the children.  It was chilling to visit that memorial state park last week, and it was chilling to hear the present-day news of yet another school mass murder this week.

The social media fallout and subsequent bipolarization of the issue of innocent lives lost made me want to cry out in anguish.  One meme had a Sesame Street character as the picture with words linking gun deaths to abortions.  Incendiary and incriminating words are useless in every situation.    

I realized that we all see things from the inside out.  We do not see the big picture.  We look through the window of our own lives and experiences.

The window we look through is shaped by our upbringing, our culture, our parents, and our education.  Were we loved and cared for or neglected and starved?  Did people nourish and encourage us or hurt us and abandon us?  Were we free to learn and be curious about the world or were we in survival mode day after day?  It makes a huge difference in what we see when we’re looking from the inside out.  But even the most loved, nourished, and educated person doesn’t see the whole picture—and that’s where community comes in.  That’s when questions are asked, when experts are consulted, when data needs to be examined, and when we walk outside of our limited box of experience in order to experience the situation through the window of one who actually lives it.  We each contribute a puzzle piece in order to see the whole picture.

On the left side of the picture above is a tree.  Looking from the inside out, we can only see a part of it.  Our minds extrapolate to build the image of the rest of the tree—because we know what a tree looks like.  We, in essence, make up the rest of the image.  By stepping out of our limited view of the tree, we see it in a completely different way.  We behold the bigger picture and get a better sense of the reality of the tree.

And yet, we still don’t see the whole tree.  We notice the ground now, but we don’t see the extensive system of roots below the ground that are intrinsic to the life and existence of the tree.  We discern the bark and trunk of the tree, but we don’t see the inside layers of phloem and xylem that coordinate the nourishment of the tree.  We distinguish the branches and impressive crown of the Oak, but we don’t see the leaves that power the life of the tree.  We are humbled in the face of this Oak and in the face of Nature.  As we look from the inside out, let’s gather together as a community of people to add our pieces, ever so humbly, in order to see the bigger picture and take steps to not only try to stop the senseless killings, but to also help those vulnerable people whose windows are small and desolate.  

Wrath of the Northwest Wind

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We decided it was time for some Winter hiking.  Beautiful blue skies accompanied the single digit high-for-the-day temperature.  We drove to a small state park west of us that we had never been to, traveling by snow-covered fields and signs for rural Lutheran churches.  The roads leading up to the entrance and throughout Monson Lake State Park weren’t plowed, so we guessed on the parking at the office building where I found an outside box with maps of the park.  We were the only ones there.  Next to the office building was an historic site sign, and as we read it, we both had a dark, sinking feeling, like watching horrid news on TV that you should turn off but you keep watching.  On this site on August 20, 1862, thirteen Swedish settlers living on the edge of the frontier were killed by native Dakota Indians who had been displaced from their traditional homelands, placed on reservations, and who endured broken treaties and increasing hunger and hardships.  The park was established in 1923 as a memorial to the Broberg and Lundborg families who lost their lives on that day.  Usch då.  

In the late 1930’s, two buildings were constructed in the new park by the Veterans’ Conservation Corps—a picnic pavilion and cooking area and a restroom—using local granite and white oak timbers. 

After a stop at the very cold outhouse, we walked the one-mile hiking trail.  In the middle of a frozen slough we saw a muskrat house and followed the tracks that led to it.  The new snow was fine and powdery and had blown into the prints, so it was hard to tell who made them.

But as we got closer, we realized the trekking critter was also just checking out the house and moving on.

A wind-made sundial was etched into the snow beside the muskrat house, marking the Winter sun’s path to the Spring Equinox. 

From the center of the ice- and snow-covered slough we looked back on the Oaks and Basswoods that lined the hiking trail.

We hiked along West Sunburg Lake where the wind had made stripes of snow and ice.  The sun was warm on our faces.

We saw what looked like coyote tracks on a food-finding mission at the edge of the lake.

After making a hairpin turn in the trail on the narrow isthmus between two lakes, we faced Monson Lake and the wrath of a northwest wind.

The trail was covered in drifts, and Ironwood understory trees, with their rusty leaves, chattered in the wind.  The frigid, relentless wind pulled tears from my eyes, hurt my cheeks, and froze my breath.  It felt like we were at a different place on a different day.

We hurried back to the picnic area that was sheltered from the wind and where once again, the sun warmed us.  We saw little vole tracks under the snow…

…and coneflower shadows stretching in the low-slung midday sun.

We celebrated the old beauty Bur Oak tree that spread across the blue sky.

As one of Minnesota’s smallest state parks, it is largely unchanged since its establishment.  It is easy to see why it was a desirable location for the Dakota people for millennia and for the Swedish immigrants over 150 years ago.  On the edge of the park in a small rectangle of land carved out from the park border is a little white Lutheran church and cemetery.  Some of the graves date back to the late 1800’s, and the words are engraved in Swedish. 

 

The wrath of the northwest wind coming off Monson Lake tells the story of pain and suffering of Native and Immigrant people.  History is buried under the soil, under the water, and under the snow.  I like that the little Lutheran church sits so close to the memorial park where the homes of the Dakotas and settlers once stood.  I like how prayers are said every Sunday morning at 9:30 with coffee and fellowship following the service.  I like how the Swedish words are etched in stone.  I like how the cross and steeple track the Winter sun’s path year after year, decade after decade, stretching Grace and Spring’s Hope out to all who enter these gates.  Life is hard.  May you walk in Peace, may you celebrate Beauty, and may Love warm your face and heart.  Gud välsigne dig. 

Super Moon, Super Bowl, Super Day

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I used to pretty much hate football.  We never watched a game or rooted for a team when I was growing up.  We usually planned Sundays around our horses instead of football.  The times I did go to high school football games had absolutely nothing to do with the game.  When I married a Chiefs fan, I gave football fandom a try—I went to a couple Chiefs games with him, but ultimately decided the ticket was definitely wasted on me-of-so-little-appreciation-and-understanding.  It wasn’t until my son Aaron started playing that I became more interested, and he was interested in teaching me about football!  We watched NFL Network together, watched games, and he would quiz me on players and positions.  Truth be told, I never was very good at it, but it was fun and something special we did together.

There is excitement in the air with Minnesota hosting the Super Bowl and with Superstar Tom Brady coming back to the state where he visited his grandparents as a child.  It’s a big deal for the Twin Cities!  But I have to agree with Tony Dungy, former University of Minnesota quarterback, Super Bowl winner as a Pittsburgh Steeler, and Super Bowl champion coach of the Indianapolis Colts:

“As big a deal as the Super Bowl is, it’s not the most important thing going on in the planet.”

So very true.  A much bigger deal to me was Wednesday morning’s Super Blue Blood Moon.  It was forecast to be poor viewing for us due to cloud cover, and when I got up at 3:30 am to check, the moon was veiled in clouds.  Disappointed, I went back to sleep.  But Chris woke me before 6:00 with good news that the clouds had moved out and the eclipse had begun!  I pulled on lots of warm clothes, as the front that had cleared the clouds also dropped the temperature and whipped up the wind to create a finger-numbing windchill.  But it was all worth it!  How beautiful!

The Super part of the lunar trifecta was the larger, brighter moon due to being closer to the Earth in its elliptical orbit.

The Blue part is because it was the second full moon in the month of January—two full moons in one month doesn’t happen that often—as in ‘once in a blue moon.’

Our western sky is mostly blocked by trees, but I was able to find some spots between branches for the close-ups.  From our hillside vantage point, the moon and lights of our little town made a pretty pre-dawn picture.

My freezing fingers necessitated running back to the house for warm-ups as the shadow of the Earth passing between the moon and sun slid over the lunar surface.

The Blood part of the trifecta was because of the total eclipse.  As the shadow envelopes the moon, the sunlight makes its way through the Earth’s atmosphere where dust and other particles filter out the blue-colored light and indirectly shines on the darkened moon, making the moon appear red.

The last time this rare triple wonder happened in the Western Hemisphere was 152 years ago!  Prediction for the next Super Blue Blood moon is in 2037—many Super Bowls from now.

As the Super Blue Blood moon sank to the western horizon amid the tree branches, the eastern sky began to lighten.  What a great beginning to a Super day!

 

Due to the moon’s setting and the light of day, I was unable to see the moon come out of its eclipse, but what an awesome feeling to witness such a rare and beautiful celestial spectacle!  Because of Aaron, I now consider myself a semi-fan of football—he and I still talk about the Chiefs, we still watch an occasional game together when he’s home, and I can appreciate a pinpoint pass by a superstar quarterback.  I will watch the Super Bowl on TV as the big deal goes on just 80 miles from us.  But it’s not the most important thing going on in the planet.  Our Earth, its atmosphere, all of Nature and us as stewards, how we treat and care for one another, how we care for ourselves, sharing time and love with people who delight in our presence—these are the important things.

The Aftermath

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In the aftermath of the Minnesota Vikings’ loss to the Philadelphia Eagles in the NFC Championship game, the disappointment was expressed in various ways—some were thankful for a great season, some were bitter that Minnesota would be hosting the Super Bowl for the Eagles’ fans who were ‘less than nice’ to the Vikings’ fans, and some were able to express their disappointment with humor.  Bryan Leary of Minnetonka wrote a short, succinct letter to the Star Tribune: “When I die, I want Mike Zimmer, Mike Tice, Brad Childress, Denny Green, Jerry Burns and Bud Grant to be the pallbearers, so when my casket gets carried to the cemetery, they’d have the chance to let me down just one more time.”  The pain is real.

January, in the aftermath of thankful and festive months, is long, dark, cold, and usually snowy.  It is mostly a month to be endured, and getting through it gets us thirty-one days closer to Spring.  Christmas decorations still hang in some corners of my house—I’m reluctant to give up the cheer of lights and shiny red decorations.  The Christmas wreath is now a Valentine’s wreath, and hearts have replaced the nutcrackers that were nestled in the lighted evergreen garland on the mantle.  Our cedar pole Christmas tree in the front yard still shines all night long—a reminder that we haven’t lost what we gained on that December day.

But the Christmas tree is now a perch for the birds by the backyard feeder, lying beside the aftermath of countless meals by birds and squirrels who ate the nutritious sunflower nuggets and discarded the outer seed cover.

The weather has not been typical for January—we’ve had the bitter cold, as usual, but the temperatures have swung into the forties for a number of days.  Our piddling of snow, in the aftermath of thawing temps, has melted away.  We missed the storm that dumped ten inches of snow on the Twin Cities on Monday that resulted in cancelled flights, stranded school students, and stuck commuters.

January, the first month of a New Year, lends itself to introspection.  It gives us a chance to stop, look around, and assess our situation.  Where am I in this New Year?  What do I want my year to look like?  Who am I?  What kind of person do I want to be?

The aftermath of a New Year’s Day fire that tried to keep us warm in the sub-zero weather, reminds us that some things from the old year should be released to fire and sky but also cautions us that it’s hard to re-build the bridges we burn.

The warm, gray days that melted the snow produced fog and bone-chilling dampness.  In the aftermath of fog and freezing nighttime temperatures, spikes of frost coated the trees and grass, transforming them into winter beauty.

 

Aftermath: something that results or follows from an event, especially one of a disastrous or unfortunate nature; consequence.  In the aftermath of a wildfire, mud slide, flood, hurricane, tornado, or snowstorm, the pain is real.  In the aftermath of death, divorce, job loss, disease, injury, or other traumas, the pain is real.  In the aftermath of disappointment, discord, impropriety, conflict, or disunity, the pain is real.  So what to do with the very real pain….  Malcolm Lowry wrote about “the long black aftermath of pain.”  There is a long, dark, cold period of time to be endured—which gets us closer to some resolution, solution, closure, peace, forgiveness, transformation, or justice.  We triage our situation, do what we can to stop the bleeding, adjust, repair, recycle, receive, work, struggle, release, give thanks, make progress, laugh, backslide, and transform.  The pain begins to diminish.  We begin to find our way again.  A second meaning of aftermath is a new growth of grass following one or more mowings.  New growth after being cut down.  We remember that we haven’t lost what we gained in that lifetime before the pain, but by various, glorious ways, we step ever closer to Spring.

Walking With Those Who Came Before Us

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My Grandma Anna arrived in America at Ellis Island on July 9, 1907.  She was four years old and had traveled with her mother from Osterild, Denmark.  She remembered the boat trip being long and how the blaring foghorn scared her.  What a journey for a child and her young mother!

Seventeen years later my Grandma, her whole family, and all their possessions traveled from Mott, North Dakota to Arlington, South Dakota by covered wagon pulled by a pair of horses.  They crossed the Missouri River at Bismarck, headed east to Jamestown, then south to Arlington.  They walked 450 miles back to their extended family in South Dakota.*

Every morning I walk with Tamba—at the most, we walk a mile.  When the temperatures are well below zero, we don’t get that far.  One morning after a fresh snow, I realized that we were walking with the animals that had come before us!  The prints were fresh in the fresh snow, and I wondered how many minutes ago they had walked this very same path.  The deer will walk down the road, the fox crosses the road from the quarry land, circles through the neighbor’s woods, and often treks through our yard.

Deer tracks and mine

Fox tracks

The deer and turkey have a path under a pushed up section of fence that gains them access to the protected quarry land.

Turkey track

There’s also an opossum, a skunk, raccoons, squirrels, rabbits, cats, and dogs who travel down and across the road we walk along.

Skunk track

Rabbit trail

 

Occasionally I see the deer or turkeys or fox, but mostly they walk their journeys without my awareness.  I follow their paths, and they follow mine.  I cross their paths, and they cross mine.  Unknowing.  But fresh winter snow illuminates the animals’ paths, and I can see us walking together.  It makes me feel connected to them in some primitive way.  Their quest for food.  Their pathway to shelter.  Their trek to safety.

Part of the DNA I carry came across the ocean on a ship to Ellis Island and walked across the Dakotas in the hot July weather.  *Thanks to my aunt Faye and my dear cousin Marvel, may they rest in peace, we have stories and genealogy from the generations who walked before us.  With that history of our family, we are aware of how we follow their paths and how they cross our paths.  I am connected to my Grandma and to those who came before her.  With the history of inspiring words and realistic pictures, we celebrated Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. last Monday.  With that history and celebration, we are reminded of the quest for freedom, of the pathway to equality, and of the journey to a better life.  Our pathways are illuminated, and I can see us walking together.

Denial in the Cold Night

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“Denying the truth doesn’t change the facts.”

It began with some serious banging of the pipes—enough to wake me up in the middle of the night.  So I run downstairs to the boiler furnace and see that the water pressure is low.  I open the valve to let more water into the system, hoping that will displace the air that is causing the commotion.  The next morning I check the boiler again—it needs more water.  Not a good sign, but I add more water and scour the floor and ceiling for any evidence of leaking.  It’s probably just evaporation with all the usage in this cold weather, I reason.  It is Thursday before the long Christmas weekend, Emily is home, more company is coming, and temperatures are cold and headed to below zero readings for the weekend.  So…the furnace can’t be broken, right?  My denial lasts through most of the day, but the hourly checks of decreasing water pressure and noisy pipes finally force my hand to call the repairman.  The evidence is right before my eyes—a water pressure gauge—and ears—clanging, air-filled pipes.  Not the way I expected to head into Christmas and not what I wanted to deal with when family was here for the holidays.

Our temperatures have been on a roller-coaster ride—a very unusual winter so far.  After a frigid Christmas and New Year’s, our daytime temperatures soared above freezing for four days this past week.  The little snow we had started to melt—an early January thaw in the normally coldest time of year.

This is our third winter of a snow drought—we’ve only had inches of snow when usually the grass, plants, and garden rocks are completely covered.

New Year’s Day the high and low temperature was 1°|-18°; on January 9th, it was 41°|28°.

The next day the temperature dropped from a high of 40° to a low of -10°—fifty degrees from high to low in a little over 24 hours!  The temperature pendulum is swinging wide and erratic.  The melting snow water on the birch branches flash froze into ice droplets.

A half an inch of snow floated down, when days earlier the forecast had been for 8-12 inches.

Record low and high temperatures have been set in every decade of the last 120 years of record keeping, so there’s really nothing to be concerned about, right?

 

The furnace repairman assessed the situation and did not deliver good news.  We may have a leak somewhere in the basement in-floor tubing.  We could change out parts for hundreds of dollars that could “force” the leak to show up—maybe.  Not something one would want to do in the middle of the holidays, it seems, or in the middle of winter.  So we changed the game plan a bit and tried to mitigate the basement heating.  Not a big problem in the whole scheme of things.  We didn’t lose our home in a wildfire or mudslide like thousands of people did in California and other western states.  Our home was not extensively damaged or destroyed in a hurricane or flood like what happened to tens of thousands of people in Texas, Florida, and the Caribbean islands.  We didn’t start our new year having to deal with a Bomb Cyclone like the northeast did.  The evidence of extreme and erratic weather due to climate change is right before our eyes, in the news every day, and in the extensive, credible research of career climate scientists.

Denial is a very human response, even as we are presented with evidence that is hard to refute.  I did not expect furnace problems, and even more telling, it was not what I wanted to deal with at that time.  William Shakespeare wrote, “The eye sees all, but the mind shows us what we want to see.”  Our creative, sometimes desperate minds easily explain away the evidence that our eyes are seeing.  Sometimes, as in life-altering situations like accidents or death, denial can be a blessing.  Grief expert Elisabeth Kübler-Ross explains that denial “is nature’s way of letting in only as much as we can handle.”  It “helps us to pace our feelings of grief.”  But often denial is a mechanism of willful doubt because we do not want our beliefs challenged in any way.  What if we would allow ourselves to become data collectors?  Most of us do allow this when trying to figure out what washing machine to buy or what’s the best computer for our needs—we rarely buy appliances according to party line.  The same due diligence should be used on all issues—research, evidence, data, personal experiences and reviews from thousands of people who intimately know the issue.  We need to ask the tough questions and be willing to see and hear the answers.  Sometimes it takes some serious banging of the pipes to wake us up and take action.

What is Your Default Setting?

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Twenty-one days.  How have you spent the last twenty-one days?  What has been your default setting for those days?  In the calendar year, the three weeks around Christmas and New Year’s are usually not the normal way we spend the rest of the year.  Busyness, traveling, shopping, concerts, parties, baking, cooking, wrapping, decorating.  What is your default setting when things are crazy busy?  Are you happy, grumpy, a recluse, a shining star?  What is the essence of you?

This time of year has always been a joy for Chris and I—the kids were all born within these weeks, so we celebrate three birthdays and Christmas in two weeks’ time; add two more weeks and throw in New Year’s Day and Chris’ birthday!  A time for celebration!  Not all years have been a joyous celebration—my Dad died two days after Christmas two years ago, my horse of twenty-one years died on New Year’s Eve many years ago, and last Christmas, Chris and I dined alone and didn’t see our kids.  Sadness intertwines with joy.  This year, we are fortunate to have Emily with us for twenty-one days—definite Joy!  Aaron joined us for Christmas and New Year’s—Happiness!  Anna wasn’t able to be with us—Longing and Sadness.  All mixed together in this holiday season.  With Emily here, this darling child of mine, I realized that my default setting was to “be” with her—no distractions of phones or computers.  Social media is a great tool when you are far from your loved ones and friends, but I had no desire to spend time on Facebook when Emily was sitting across the table from me.  Of course I’m grateful for the web and Facebook to circulate my posts and keep in touch with friends, and I purposefully checked in with my weekly posts, but I am evermore so grateful to have our grown children spend time with us.

What is Nature’s default setting at this time of year?  Our northern winter sun rises, peaks, and sets in a low arch in the southern sky.  This photo was taken a little after 1:00 pm on January 5th with the sun low on the horizon.  The sunrise that day was 7:58 am CST, and sunset was at 4:50 pm—a short day of light.

Nature’s automatic course of action of sunrises and sunsets determined by the tilt and rotation of the Earth in relation to the Sun happens no matter what else is going on—we can rely on it and enjoy its beauty.

Another of Nature’s default settings is the constancy and reliability of the Moon and its phases.  The New Year began with the rising of the full moon, traditionally called the Full Wolf Moon in the Northern Hemisphere according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

The close-to-Earth supermoon looked huge and orange as it rose in the below zero temperatures of New Year’s Day.

The second full moon of the month—a Blue Moon and another supermoon—will rise on the 31st of January and brings the only eclipse of the year for North America.

 

The constancy and reliability of the sunrises, sunsets, and moon phases are default settings in Nature that we often just take for granted.  This automatic course of action affects the very intricacies of our lives—our sleep/wake cycle, the tides of the oceans, the production of blooms and fruit in plants, and reproduction in animals.  When we look at our own default settings, we can see that they too affect so many aspects of our lives—relationships, health, outlook, education, and our environment.  The things that happen around us are all mixed together in a milieu of self and other, of desire and fate, of purpose and happenstance.  We can examine our default settings—those ways in which we automatically act and react—and we can ask ourselves if they truly represent the essence of ourselves.  If not, we can override that automatic course of action and change the default setting.  Overriding the default settings of our lives is not an easy task—it takes courage, love, time, education, and often many attempts—but it is worth it when you find something in yourself that you can rely on and at the same time, enjoy its beauty. 

The Old and New Seasons of Our Lives

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“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”   –Henry David Thoreau

When I was a child, I had a piggy bank shaped like a friendly, sitting dog.  It was made out of styrofoam and flocked with a reddish-brown ‘fur.’  A metal dog tag hung at his collar, emblazoned with his name—Rusty.  I put so many coins and folded dollar bills into the slot at the back of his head that the styrofoam broke away to a bigger hole.  A metal circle could be pried off the bottom to retrieve the money—money I earned cleaning out stalls at our neighbor’s barn; money I was saving to buy a horse.  I kept Rusty for a long time after I stopped using it, after I bought my horse, after a number of long distance moves, even after I had kids.  I felt like I just couldn’t part with him.  But then, one year of another move, he didn’t make the cut.  I was able to let him go.

This winter season so far has been a hard hitting one—not for snow, but for cold.  Christmas Day the high was 1 degree F.  As I am writing this, approaching the noon hour, it is 13 below with a wind chill of -32.  The actual temperature tonight is supposed to be 20 degrees below zero.  “Stay warm” is not just a Minnesota pleasantry, it is a directive of concern and safety.  But looking out the window, it is beautiful!  The sky is bright blue, the sun is shining, and we have a couple inches of fresh snow.  The birds and squirrels have been frequent visitors at the bird feeders this week to fuel up for the cold weather.  The deer even make their way to the feeder at dusk to browse on the fallen black oil sunflower seeds.

 

New Year’s Eve and Day are traditionally a time to let go of the old and ring in the new.  It is a time for a fresh start.  But often, the resolutions to make changes are broken before a week or two has passed.  The very things we were so enthusiastic about on day one become a source of failure and disappointment.  What if, like the seasons of the year, we resigned ourselves to the seasons of our lives instead of forcing a change that isn’t meant to be just because it’s day one of a new year?  What if the new year was about discerning where we really are ready for a change?  What if it was about accepting ourselves with loving kindness in this season as we are at this moment?  What if the things we think matter don’t really matter at all?  Every old thing eventually passes away—I held on to Rusty, tucked away in a box, for years, and I don’t even know why I did.  But for whatever reason, it was important for that season of my life as it passed.  And then, I was able to let him go.  So many things in our lives work that way!  Relationships, jobs, weight, addictions, hobbies, grief, physical ailments—all serve a purpose in the journey of our lives, and none of them are controlled by resolution and the calendar year.  So breathe the refreshing Arctic air, drink the drink with a toast to yourself and your seasons, make your way to the table and taste the fruitcake and other bounty, and let the Earth and its Master be your influence.  Stay warm!