Archives for 2019

Snowed Under

December 15, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I cannot count the number of times I have felt snowed under in the last months—even while the grass was still green, even when the leaves danced with color. The weather has now caught up with me. Since our big ten inch Thanksgiving weekend snow, it has been piling up—four or five inches here, a couple inches there. It looks and feels (with below zero temps) like the heart of Winter, even though it’s been less than three weeks since we’ve seen the brown ground. We are already snowed under.

The snow piled up on the branches of an old Cedar tree by the garden, pinning them to the ground. Being snowed under feels heavy.

The heaviness can infringe on others nearby; in Summer, the Cedar branches protect the Ninebark from direct sun, but with the heavy snow, the Cedar crashed down onto its slender branches.

The young Cedar fared no better; its whole structure is bent over with the weight of the snow.

Being snowed under feels lonely. Even though the death of a loved one affects many people, each person has to struggle with the grief in their own heart, in their own time. What’s visible to the eye does not even begin to represent what’s below the surface.

Being snowed under trips a person up—the path ahead is no longer clear, obstacles are hidden, footing is insecure, and it’s easy to stumble and fall.

Even the deer, who generally follow the same paths in Summer, seem to be disoriented with the heavy snow cover.

Being snowed under makes things seem blurry, like our previous clear sight has been lost, like we’re not exactly sure what we’re looking at, and even where to set our sights.

Then comes an intervention—it can come from a time of silence, a prayer, a call from a friend, a loving hug, or a walk in the invigorating cold air—and we get a reprieve from the heaviness.

We gather our courage and our strength—even when it doesn’t feel like we have any—and start digging. We are reminded or we remember that we’re good at shoveling, that we’ve done this before, that this too shall pass….

Just like this squirrel who remembered or sensed that he had buried an acorn in that exact spot where he dug through the deep snow and under the brown grass to get to his treasure.

There have been many times in my life when I have felt snowed under—caring for three young children while dealing with Lyme disease, the loss of loved ones and dreams, and the humbling, radical, difficult job of facing myself and my life and coming to terms with it (though a never-ending job.) I am good at shoveling, though. It’s heavy work, no doubt. It’s lonely work, for sure. I stumble and fall all the time. God knows I often do not see or think clearly. But at the heart of the winter of my soul is Love. It intervenes when I need it. It takes away the heaviness. It gives me courage and strength when I feel overwhelmed. It brings people into my life that will listen, lift me up, show me another perspective, and even help me shovel. Love is the treasure.

A Whisper of an Idea

December 1, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It kind of starts with a whisper of an idea that floats through our consciousness but doesn’t stay for long. These thoughts come and go, we rationalize—nothing serious. But the idea makes its way into our mind again… and again. It begins to p-u-l-l us forward. We find ourselves wanting ‘that thing’ that someone else may have, or we blurt out “I wish I had that!” or “I want to do that!” Eventually the idea takes up residence in our head. Now, there may be some clear-headed, mentally and emotionally competent people who recognize the invitation and smoothly and rationally execute the plan to ‘get that thing.’ I am not one of those people.

In fact, once the idea takes up residence in my head, I start doing all I can do to evict it. “It’s too late…,” “I’m pretty sure flowers don’t bloom in the snow…,” “That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard…,” “How in the world would that work?,” “That does not make sense to me…,” ” I don’t think I can do that….” Doubt, fear—make that Fear with a capital F, procrastination, denial, and ‘good sense’ take over, and it seems like the little whisper of an idea doesn’t stand a chance against the Goliath of my backtalk.

But let me tell you about the little flower that blooms in the snow. Ten days ago, I walked through the woods when it was still the season between the seasons, and I stopped in delight when I noticed the Witch hazel shrub was full of tiny yellow flower buds that were beginning to open. I knew this was the time, but I had forgotten!

The leaves were still holding on, and the tiny buds and flowers were easily overlooked.

But look at how exquisite these tiny flowers are! The genus name for Witch hazel is ‘Hamamelis’, which means ‘together with fruit.’ The flower blooms at the same time as the fruit from the previous year is maturing. How unusual.

Farther along the path, the brilliant berries of the Winterberry shrub, a deciduous Holly, could not be missed.

Then the whisper of an idea, who seems to be defeated by my Goliath backtalk, calls in the power of the source from whom the idea has come. If the p-u-l-l isn’t going to work, we’re going to need some Push! The Push usually comes in the form of (seemingly) random events or occurrences that cause pain. In other words, buckle up, we are about to navigate a rough road, because pain is the ultimate motivator.

Ten days after ‘finding’ the Witch hazel flowers, ten or more inches of snow have landed on the spidery blooms.

Although the brown leaves remain, the snow makes the flowers more ‘see-able.’ (Hmm, maybe this idea has some merit…)

These flowers are tough—covered in crystalline snow and ice and weathering cold winds, yet still retain their delicate shape and Spring-like color. The Witch hazel flowers are like the ideas that call us forward, the God-thoughts that help us become a better, more complete version of ourselves.

Not only does the whisper idea have to deal with my Goliath backtalk, but once the painful Push comes into play, it also has to reckon with my Scandinavian stoicism. Stoicism has many strengths and can literally get a person through a difficult period, but it also tends to plant our feet from moving forward and to steel our minds to a different way of thinking.

The bright Winterberry, not to be missed, is like our daily lives. It is seen, lived, acknowledged, dealt with, conscious, and present.

Another common name for Witch hazel is ‘Winterbloom.’ I think our whisper ideas are supposed to bloom in our lives; in fact, I think they are just as ‘programmed’ as the winter blooming of the Witch hazel—meant to be. But these ideas are hard to see, often forgotten, dismissed by Goliath thought patterns, and overlooked by our bright and present daily lives. Maybe that’s why we need Winter—so we can see them better, so we can allow them to p-u-l-l us forward, so the discomfort can Push us through the stoicism (and fear) to transformation. We can be maturing fruits and blooming flowers at the same time. It’s been almost a year of some serious Pushing and even longer that the whisper ideas have been p-u-l-l-i-n-g me forward. I remember now! Flowers do bloom in the snow!

This Season Between Seasons

November 24, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I received two gifts this week. They were not placed in a box and wrapped with pretty paper and bows. I doubt the givers even realized their value—one was placed in a text message and wrapped with humble caring, the other a short phone call swathed in humor. Now, I realize that such gifts could have easily slipped away without notice, but not only did I notice, I took them to heart.

Our hike last weekend at Sibley State Park offered us gifts in the form of Nature’s art. Moss was the medium of the day, the stand-out color in the gray woods. A designer-inspired garb wrapped a large Oak with velvet softness and with an accent of flaky, brown grapevine.

A wooly green fleece covered the feet of an elder in warmth and color.

Barnacle-like lichens completely covered a branch in interesting form and texture.

The character and patina of a decaying log offered a rich history of a living, transpiring being that will return once again to the soil it sprang from.

Young, supple stems of Sumac stood up through the amber grasses and sagey perennials on the outskirts of the gray woods.

A stripe of snow accented the lime green moss that seemed to be flourishing in the late November landscape.

And speaking of landscapes….

The muddy, frozen slough water made the perfect cast for an Oak leaf—exquisite design captured…until the sun’s rays or warm-enough temperatures melt it away.

Frosty fungi—another new growth lighting up the somber groundscape.

Medullary or pith rays run perpendicular to the growth rings and are prominent in hardwood trees. They create a radiating pattern from the heart of the stem (the pith) to the bark and carry nutrients in this lateral direction. They are what create the intricate and amazing patterns of quartersawn wood.

Gray ice, white snow, forest green cedars, and muted gold grasses offer a gesture of grace in this season between seasons…,

…along with a message for those who notice, who can read the lines, who take things to heart.

Nature offers us gifts each and every day—do we notice? In this season between seasons—no longer Fall and not yet Winter—it is easy to believe in the grayness, the ‘dying’ of old vibrancy, and the things that have fallen away. But still there is warmth and new growth that is contrary to the outside illustration. It is all a part of our rich history. The gifts of words wrapped in caring and humor were given from the hearts of two people that radiated out to me. Instead of seeing the decay of Fall and loss, I was able to turn my head slightly and see different things. The gifts were gestures of grace—I noticed them, I received them, and I took them to heart.

Seeing the Forest and the Trees

November 17, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

During the week, our walks are usually contained by the constraining circle of the high school track as the after-school kids yell and run off some steam at the playground across the street. We walk to talk (or not), to relax, to energize, and at this time of year, to beat the fading light of day. Yesterday, we took to the woods, bursting out of the constraints and noise of the track.

We drove to Sibley State Park to hike Mt. Tom trail and to immerse ourselves in the forest. For months we have ‘been in the trees,’ so to speak, not knowing where we were or where we were going, no map to show us the way. We were living face to face with a distressful reality that held us by the chin and forced us to look into its eyes. With every ounce of my being, I have wanted to turn away.

But I looked, and I saw our stuck-ness and wondered how in the world we ended up in this position.

I saw splitting of some of our good, strong ties that should not have been severed.

I saw growth and invasion, like the bully Buckthorn. How do you fight it? How do you stop it from taking over?

I saw the charred remains of a randomly zapped member of the community, and wondered how we could have lost a brother.

More stuck-ness, more fracture, more protections falling away.

Now what?

We climbed to the top of Mt. Tom, one of the highest points within a 50-mile radius. I began to see the trees as a group, a large gray group made up of all those individual trees.

At the top of the lookout, I could see the whole forest, in all directions. The Red Oaks still held their rusty-orange canopy of leaves. The tall Cedars anchored the gray woods with their evergreen branches. The sturdy Oaks, Maples, and Basswoods, even without their leaves, made a foundation of strength and goodness. And the Birch trees, with their snowy white bark, lit up the grayness.

We returned to the exquisite quiet of the forest. We heard rustling of dried leaves and creaking of wood against wood in the treetops, like a forest lullaby. The bareness of the trees and the carpet of leaves allowed us to see the lay of the land, to see beyond any one tree that captured our attention.

I saw different things in different ways—a home of sticks high in a tree…

…a tipped-over, moss-covered Cedar that for some reason reminded me of Christmas…

…a fallen tree that had been ‘caught’ by its close friend, halting the free fall and scraping slide…

…a beautiful Cedar tree enveloped and held by the reaching branches of the Oaks…

…and a magical, mystical highway of moss that shone on the branches of some ancient Oak trees.

It’s inevitable that we get lost and stuck in the trees at times. It is the nature of Life. The forest and the trees, the big picture and the day-to-day challenges, the long view and the just-get-through-the-day are the dichotomies we meet, look in the face, and live with at any given time in our lives. Sometimes we have to bare it down, pare it down, in order to ‘see’ what we need to see. Even when we want to look away. Even when we desperately want it to be different. It is a both/and world, not an either/or. We can’t ignore the burned, fallen, dying, split, bullying aspects of our life anymore than we can the comforts, joys, goodness, and beauty. They all work together in our magical, mystical, shining lives—we the trees of the forest.

Untying the Knots

November 10, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

Remember when you learned to tie your shoes? Or when your children did? How long it took to learn all the loops and over and unders and pulling it tight and even? How it took concentration and practice and patience and determination? A plethora of life lessons in the learning of a simple task.

We planned an after-work hike this week. Our destination was the mesmerizing pine forest that has a way of lifting our spirits into the treetops and grounding our feet into the carpet of pungent pine needles. I was surprised to see snow on the ground when we got there, though I shouldn’t have been—the temperatures had stayed below freezing all week since the scattered snowfall.

As we neared the bridge, I noticed a beaver dam—straight and expertly pieced together with the chewed-off logs and sticks. Wouldn’t it seem like quite the impossible task for a little beaver to be standing with stick in mouth surveying the river before him? (The lodge is on the edge of the bank in the upper left corner of the photo.)

As much as we wanted to ‘get away’ from the stresses plaguing us, we still needed to figure some things out, so resolutely began our discussion as we walked. It quickly fell apart as Chris brought up a hot button issue prefaced with “You’re not going to like this, but…” I should say, I fell apart—my hackles raised in defense, I stopped in my tracks—like I couldn’t think and talk and walk at the same time. That wound that had scabbed over and re-opened time and time again. My voice raised in pitch and volume and intensity. (As much as I try to be reasonable about this, at this time in my life I don’t have the bandwidth to be very reasonable.) We tried to talk about it a little more, but my stomach and chest were tightening. I stopped again and said, “I came here to untie the knots in my insides, not to make more.”

So we walked on in silence, and the trees began to loosen my tightness. I thought about knots, these knots in my stomach, how I work every day to ease them—and yet here they are again.

And when we got to the Pines, I realized I was surrounded by knots. Every branch of every tree becomes a knot in the wood.

With the self-pruning Red Pines, the knots are more obvious as the lower branches fall off and the darkened scar or knot is left behind.

We walked on a trail that we hadn’t been on before, and we found a small, three-sided log shelter. I sat on the log bench with my back against the back wall of logs and looked out at the forest. An orange glow of Oak leaves shone through the branch-bare trunks of the near Pines.

I studied the structure around me—the knotty log walls, the knotty ceiling planks, the less-knotty heartwood timbers. I guess we’re all made of knots.

Without growth, we wouldn’t have the branches and wouldn’t have the knots.

The sun was getting low in the sky as we walked the snowy, leaf-strewn trails back towards the car, and the woods got darker.

The moon was shining over Warner Lake in the dark blue sky over the dark blue water with relief and reflections of black silhouetted trees and branches. I breathed a sigh of untying

We begin our lives by learning to tie the knots—we grow and develop, sending out branches of discovery. We tie the knots of relationships—family, friendships, and marriage. We tie the knots of learning by piecing together facts and making connections. Looking back now, that part seems easy.

Have you ever stood in a lumber yard selecting boards for a project? I was taught to choose the boards with the least knots. The knots are hard to nail through and often weaken the wood. As the tree grows and gets older, there is more heartwood with less knots. As we grow and get older, we learn the loops of life, we practice the overs and unders, and we begin to untie some of the knots that no longer serve us, especially those that form in our insides as we stand before a seemingly impossible task or unwanted situation. We’re all made of knots—hard, curled places that often make us feel weak—like my old wounds that make me unreasonable at times. But I’m thankful for the trees, the forest, and the Pines that help untie the knots inside me, and I’m thankful that I’m building heartwood.

This Side of Winter

November 3, 2019 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

We had been there before—on the other side of Winter—when the wish for Spring was ardent and within our reach. But at that time, the thick cover of snow and warmer, stronger sun had ‘iced’ the trails, and we could not even walk down the steep slopes to the banks of the grand Mississippi River. This time we walked through dry, crispy leaves, down the steep slope, right to the edge of the water. The sky was cloudy, the wind brisk, the temperature hovering around freezing. On this side of Winter, we were filled with more reluctance, almost a resentment that Autumn had not played nice and eased us into the fray of Winter.

A couple of days of strong wind had bared the brilliant golden Maples and Birch trees. Ash and Linden leaves were long gone, but the Oak trees still clenched their rusty orange and red leaves in a last hurrah. The Mississippi River County Park had a bluff full of Oaks, Pines, and Cedars, and at their feet was a chock-full River.

We had the opportunity to be in the neighborhood of the River for a week, so we visited the park three different days. The first day of exploration with the camera had my attention focused outward to what the Park had to offer on that chilly day.

The second day, we explored the bluff trails.

The third day, I had a heated and heavy heart, and I went down to the River without a word to my walking partner, and I barreled through the trails hoping to discharge some of that heaviness. Halfway mindful of the early setting sun, I turned around after getting part-way down a loop trail and studied the map to see which way would get us back to the car. Since the River was so high, large parts of the peninsula and trail were covered with water. We went cross-country through the trees and brush to get around the water-logged spots, and I had a glimpse of pleasure in that endeavor.

I have to remember that this side of Winter feels different than the other side of Winter, no matter what lay at your feet. One of the gifts of age is knowing you have been there before—‘there’ being a tough time, a difficult experience, or a crushing blow to your heart—and knowing you will get through it to a better place. But this side of Winter is a daunting place—you have to get out the gear, bundle up, put your head down, and use your determination to take the next step and then the next one. The River and Life flows on, learning and wisdom grow like a sturdy Oak, the starry crown guides our actions, even when the trail is obscured and we have to blaze our own trail. And at any given time, on any given day, we can pray, “Good Lord, show me the way.”

*from ‘Down in the River to Pray’, a traditional African-American spiritual

Whose Home is This? Who Lives Here?

October 27, 2019 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” –Maya Angelou

I’ve always had a thing about the houses I’ve lived in. No matter their size, age, shape, or beauty (or lack thereof), I have always fallen in love with them. There was the farmhouse when I was a preschooler with a red hand-pump that was the source of our water at the kitchen sink, the huge metal register over the coal furnace, and the outhouse on the other side of the driveway. There was the hotel-like square-block-of-a-house with six bedrooms upstairs (with no heat) that we rented my senior year in high school. There was the Civil-War-era house Chris and I rented in Missouri when we were first married that only had a fuel oil stove in one room of the huge house, had ancient floral wallpaper, and a kitchen large enough and spare enough that it could have housed us and all our four-legged friends. They were all my home for a certain, wonderful, impressionable period of my life.

When I arrived at my Mom’s place last month (one of those homes on my list of homes), I looked out over the pasture and wondered out loud, “Whose home is this? Cows or geese?” The Canadian Geese were scattered from the lake like marbles tossed from a hand. They ranged across the pasture, grazing at blades of grass and tasty seeds, then settled down to rest in the sun like miniature cows.

At this time of year, they were much more interested in pasture than the lake, but would wade into the water for a drink or a bite to eat in the shore mud…

or for a quick swim with their companion ducks.

The cows grazed their ‘summer pasture’ home, making the rounds from hilltop to hilltop.

Nights and early mornings they were bedded down in the grass, chewing their cud, resting and digesting.

The bull maintained his large presence with the herd by belching out low bellows and by watching over and schooling the young calves.

Each species had their routine and their preferred places, but just as often I would see the two groups together—grazing together, resting together, at home together. My Mom said occasionally she had noticed a scuffle between a protective cow and a pugnacious goose, but for the most part, they lived in harmony.

Whose home is this? The cows and calves have returned from their rented summer home to their ‘winter pasture’ closer to their caretakers. Some of the geese stay for most of the year and enjoy abundant food, water, and protection for raising their families and living a good goose life, but still usually fly south to a new home for the coldest winter months. Who remains? The gophers, coyotes, fox, opossums, the myriad of amphibians and insects in various stages of development, and many other species. The pasture is home to many.

I would amend Maya Angelou’s quote by taking out the word human—“I long, as does every being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” The creatures around us desire a safe place to live with food, water, shelter, and protection—wherever they find themselves. And most often, they do so with one another in the web of Nature’s life. They are at home together. Another thing we can learn from Mother Nature. As humans though, with our big brains, we are challenged and compelled even, to go beyond the finding of a home with its shelter, safety, and sustenance. “It’s not about finding a home so much as finding yourself,” says actor Jason Behr. Finding yourself. Finding ourselves. See what I mean about a challenge?

The Edges of Night

October 13, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

There have only been two times this summer when I stood in absolute awe as I looked up at the night sky—during our early June trip to the Boundary Waters and when I was in South Dakota last month. Both times the sky was crystal clear, the light pollution minimal to none, and the star show dazzling. Seeing the stars on those resplendent nights makes one appreciate the darkness. It reveals what many of us normally don’t see (the Milky Way and a myriad of other stars.) Some who live in cities (or don’t look up) may never see the spectacular wonder of our night sky.

What was also spectacular when I was in South Dakota were the edges of night—the dusk and dawn times. At this time of year those transition times slip in earlier in the evening and later in the morning. We are gently reminded that we are also progressing through the seasons.

There was a Mourning Dove, sometimes two, who sat for long stints of time on the western end of my Mom’s barn roof. The Dove was always there at evening time, her gray breast feathers rosy-colored in the fading sunshine. What was she waiting for or looking at?

As the sun set, the moon rose in the eastern sky, a large, spotted, golden orb peeking out from behind the dark trees.

It ‘rose’ quickly when at the horizon…

…and hours later lit up the landscape, as a misty fog crept across the pasture when the warm rain-soaked ground met the cool, clear moon-soaked air.

Two nights later, dusk was a rainbow of colors, transforming the light of day to the darkness of night with all the beauty and hope an arch of prismatic light portrays after a storm.

Dawn is the other edge of night that shifts us from stars and sleep to light and ‘seeing.’ The morning after the rainbow sunset was just as spectacular in a more muted, pastel way. It embodies the trite phrase ‘Good morning’ with a visceral feeling that this is indeed a new and good day.

As the light lifted the veil of darkness, I could see what had not been seen just moments before. The cattle were stirring and standing from their night of slumber on the hill.

Just before the Sun rose from the brilliant orange morning sky, the western-sky Moon was still the shining one. He graciously handed the baton-of-brightness to the Sun.

Oftentimes, when we awake for the day, we forget about the rest of the natural world that is also following the rhythms of Mother Nature. Being around animals, whether cows and calves in the pasture or cats and dogs in our homes, tunes us in to a bigger, wider world beyond ourselves. The cows stand and stretch, the calves seek their mothers’ udders, the bull bellows a low, rumbling call.

How fortunate we are to experience the full glory of a sky full of stars with a wide white wash of Milky Way stars painted across the darkness. In that darkness, we see less, need to trust more, and attune to our hearing, our touch, and our intuition. Dawn and dusk, the edges of night, are also the edges of day. Sundown leads us and all animals to our nocturnal natures—sleep and rejuvenation or nighttime hunting and activity. While the night veils our vision, it allows for transformation through our dreams and introspection—like how the moon changed the look of itself and that of the landscape as it progressed across the sky. Then daybreak reveals to us what we previously didn’t see, what was obscured by darkness. It all works together in the passages of our days for our ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights.’

Stand at the Crossroads

October 6, 2019 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Every single day we are presented with a fresh expanse of time and place. On one side of that present is the old past, both recent and long ago. On the other side is the future, the new, the unknown, the potential. Our challenge is walking the alley of our day, not getting hopelessly tangled in the rusty barbwire of the past or leaping into the electric fantasy of the future.

During my time in South Dakota I walked most every day. At the mailbox, I could look east and see my destination—the crossroads that were one mile away. Easy; just walk. At the same time, each night I read from a new book a friend had given me. Easy; just read. On page 5 of the first chapter was a scripture reflection by John Valters Paintner, and these were the words:

Thus says the Lord: Stand at the crossroads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way lies; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls. –Jeremiah 6:16

I was walking to the crossroads each day, so with that passage stuck in my head, I began to stand at the crossroads also. I memorized the words as I walked, rolled them over in my mind. What are the chances these two happenings had happened at the same time? Pay attention. What are the chances of literally standing at the crossroads in rural South Dakota without getting run over? Pretty darn good.

I stood and looked east. A corral, an old windmill, a cemetery on the hill.

I stood and looked north. A highline wire, fields and farms, a thistle gone to seed, a distant hill.

I stood and looked south. I couldn’t see very far. The highline wire, tractor mud on the road, Indiangrass in the ditch.

I stood and looked west. Prairie grasses and pastures, a straight and narrow shelterbelt of trees, a clear, blue sky.

Jeremiah’s passage was so imperative, so direct: stand, look, ask, walk, and find. Easy? I stood, I looked, I walked, and I got caught up on “ask for the ancient paths.” What does that mean? “…the ancient paths, where the good way lies.” I have always tried to make my decisions with intention of following the good way. Is the ancient path easy, or the way of Nature, or is it hard, like taking the high road?

Paintner describes the book of Jeremiah as “an important aid to learning from the mistakes of the past and discerning the path ahead.” Stand at the crossroads. Look. Ask for the good way. Walk through the gate and down the alley between past and future. Find rest for your soul.

The Solitude of the Prairie

September 29, 2019 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

“The prairie, these plains….It was as if nature had taken solitude and fashioned it into something visible, carved out the silences into distances, into short grass forever flowing and curving, a vast sky forever pressing down, nothing changing, nothing but sameness, day after day after day, as far as you could see, as far as you could go. It was like the solitude of God…as awesome, and as beautiful.” from Johnny Osage by Janice Holt Giles

Seeking the solitude and healing of the prairie, I drove my wretched self to my Mom’s place. It’s not an endless prairie like the early 1800’s of Johnny Osage’s time, but there is still enough around to calm my nerves and soothe my soul. Seeing cattle out on the grassland adds another layer of calm and ‘right-ness’ to my world.

There are certain sights that are so familiar to me, almost to the point of not noticing—like the cattle standing around the dirt perimeter of a ‘stock dam’ dug out of the prairie grass. Every stock dam, slough, creek, and lake were filled and overflowing with all the rain that has fallen, from Spring thaw until this late summer. There was more water and more fallow fields (from flooding) than I have ever seen in eastern South Dakota. Too much of a good thing. Too much for normal boundaries to handle.

Late summer is the perfect time to appreciate the beauty of the prairie grasses: the maroonish-red of Big Bluestem, the delectable native grass that is like ‘ice cream for cows’…

the golden-brown of the tall, sturdy Indiangrass…

and the wispy green-gold of Switchgrass.

Old barb-wire fencing rolled into a neat circle hung on a gray corner post. Electric fencing is taking over boundary patrol for most cattle pastures, it seems. But the words cattle and prairie cannot be put together without the iconic image of the rusty wire and gray posts.

Another prairie grass, shorter in statue than the above three, is Sideoats Grama. The small oat-like seeds hang on one side of the grass stem.

Alfalfa and Sweet Yellow Clover are other haymakers found among the grasses. These legumes add more protein content to all-grass hay.

No prairie pasture picture is complete without a standard barb-wire gate attached to the fence post with a tight, smooth wire. If in a vehicle, the passenger usually ‘gets the gate’; on horseback, we used to take turns.

On the post that anchors the barb-wire gate is an old weathered board. It used to display a ‘No Trespassing’ and/or ‘No Hunting’ sign. In other words, ‘Stay Out.’ This is private property; this protects the cattle who live here.

Rarely is it one event in our lives that brings us to our knees—or takes me to the prairie. Usually it is a foggy-morning-freeway-pile-up of things that descend upon us. We are built to be resilient to the many physical and emotional assaults that we experience in life, but at times, it is too much for our normal boundaries (and bodies) to handle. We need familiarity, protection, good nutrition, sleep, and solitude to ‘right’ ourselves, to calm ourselves, and to heal ourselves. That’s what the prairie does for me—the awesome and beautiful solitude of God.

Archives for 2019

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