Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Archives for May 2019
The Next 364 Days Through Shadow and Light
When we were young married kids, I remember the anticipation and excitement of an upcoming special day—Chris’ birthday or our anniversary or Christmas. I planned ahead making gifts and cards, cakes and surprises. Fast forward a dozen years to after we had three kids, and I remember, as I’m sure Chris does, that I was sick for his early January birthday for years in a row. I had planned gifts and cakes and cards for our three children’s December birthdays and Christmas and was just worn out by the time January arrived. Once everyone was in school, the same thing happened with our mid-May anniversary—the end-of-school busyness preempted the anticipation of our anniversary—wait, how many years has it been now? Luckily we followed the belief system of Ruth, Chris’ Mom, who declared that one special day meant nothing compared to every other day of the year. Mother’s Day? Treat your Mom with love and respect every day. Anniversaries? Show your love and respect to your partner daily. I know there were special days when we endured some disappointment, for whatever reason, but we had the next 364 days to show that person what they meant to us.
The week before last, we celebrated our thirty-seventh anniversary. No more end-of-school busyness with kids, but this time it was LIFE that took away the energy and excitement of a celebration. We were slogging through our days—too many things felt heavy and out of control. So we went to the woods, to the pine forest, to the place we’ve been before, where we knew the healing balm of Nature would give us respite for a little while. One of the first things we saw along the trail were bright yellow Bellworts with their hanging, nodding heads.
We walked through deciduous trees with their newly-emerging leaves, passed by Cedars and blooming Elderberry shrubs…
until we got to the Pine forest, in all its glory.
The first towering evergreens were Scotch Pines with their peeling bark towards the top of the tree that exposes butterscotch-colored trunks. Only the mature trees that had peeled away the onion layers of carefully crafted bark revealed the rich, golden treasure of color that identified the tree.
Red Pines made up the majority of the forest with their scaly, gray bark that ‘reddens’ with maturity. Evening sunlight streamed through the trees, striping the pine-needle-covered trail. We walk through shadow and light all the moments of our lives.
At times, it really is hard to see the forest for the trees. The trees are up-close, obscuring our sight, demanding our attention. Our lives shrink down to a narrow focus, often fear or survival-driven—it is the way our mammalian brain works.
So what do we do? We notice there are other things in the forest besides trees. Growing up through the old pine needles, cones, and twigs is a shade-loving Columbine that will soon show its intricately-shaped flower to those who notice.
I stop and touch the warm bark of a tree. There is sap coming from a wound—it has become thick and sticks to my hands. But it is fragrant with the very essence of the Pine, as are the layers of shed needles that we walk on. The living, breathing, fundamental essence of the Pine tree fills our nostrils with the most delightful perfume. I breathe deeply, and my headache slips away.
We notice and become aware of the future. A decaying Pine stump exposes the interior structures that built and maintained the tree during its long life. It really is a marvel of engineering—thank you, Creator. I like the dense, twisted wood where a branch was, where a knot would be if it was planed down into a board. That spiral of wood is often the last part to disintegrate back into the soil.
We take a closer look at the shadow and light bands of our lives. We have been through tough shadow times before, remember hon? We have been in this place before. We came through those shadow dark times to light once again.
Then, as we walked along, there in the forest, I saw a burning bush! A young pine was lit in sunlight, burning with brightness!
Here I am, on holy ground.
Not wanting to leave the luminosity of the burning pine, I wondered where we should go next. What path? How? Why? We continued to slowly walk the pine-cone-strewn path—those old fruits with new seeds. We saw vibrant young pines growing at the foot of the wise ones and the sun shining on them all.
We could see the forest, the hallelujah forest, with the old ones, the young ones, the sunshine, the bark, and the needles, lifting a song of life straight up to the sky.
But then we heard a crow cawing us back to our bodies, back to our lives, back to our headaches and questions. What do you see from your vantage point?
We saw footprints that led us back to the bridge that returned us to our car, to our real and present lives. What do you know from trekking the path before us?
It was an anniversary to remember. It was a path we had walked before, yet as always, the same things bring new things. I had bright flowers and sweet perfume—that soul-filling pine perfume. Some of our wounds were temporarily clotted with the thick sap of it. It is a fragrance that makes a person know they are alive. I was grateful for the relief. We had stillness and singing, stillness and movement as we walked together through the cathedral of Pines.
In thirty-seven years, we have peeled back quite a few layers of the carefully crafted bark of our previous years. It’s a gift to craft and a gift to peel back the parts that are no longer needed. What a privilege to see the golden treasure underneath. So here we are. Standing on holy ground. What does the luminous voice from the burning bush tell us? Where do we go? What do we do? Where is this land flowing with milk and honey?
The Gold in All of Us
I remember the feeling I had when I went off to college of having the opportunity to become a new person. I’m not sure if that was an expectation of society or an internal wish on my part or both. Stepping from dependence to independence (the first error in my thinking) seemed like a good time to become this new self, my true being.
It’s happening right now as I write, as the birds sing their joyful songs, as the breeze blows through the grass that needs its first mowing—each and every tree, shrub, and perennial plant is stepping into its full being! The hints and false starts and stubborn stuckness is over—this week we are rising to the crescendo of Spring!
It is striking when the higher-arching sun illuminates the new leaves with gold. The fresh new cells of the emerging leaves seem to carry an inner brightness and glow that is sparked by the warm sun. Green and orange and red glow with gold.
New growth of a Red Oak unfolds from a single bud that was swollen with potential. It emerges like a butterfly from a cocoon or a calf from the womb—wrinkled, wobbly, and fragile looking.
Timing of each tree’s unfolding varies—some are early starters, in full-leaf by the time others are just pushing out their tiny works of art—all in the glow of becoming. It’s supposed to be that way. Only a fool would expect Nature to be all the same.
And then there’s this. Even as these brand new leaves emerge, there is already a connection to another kingdom, another species. Nature is a web of interdependence, seen and unseen.
College was a time of growth and learning, but by no means did I step into my full being. I think perhaps we are like the trees—we get a chance to emerge into a new being with each year of our lives. We have an inner energy that can’t be denied and guides us toward the next step. It’s supposed to be that way—it’s the high-arching journey of our lives. It also provides us with grace—we don’t have to get it ‘right’ at any certain time, but we learn and grow and hopefully get better with each iteration of newness. So, we always have these innate buds of potential waiting to emerge, and we need to be protective of their wobbly births and beginnings. The seen and unseen connections that bind us to others can be uplifting or destructive, not only to our new births, but to Nature’s web as a whole.
“Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.” –Chief Seattle
Here’s to new beginnings! Here’s to all of us stepping into a higher, better iteration of ourselves. Here’s to the new, developing cells in the warm glow of becoming. Here’s to the uplifting, positive forces that know the truth and power of Chief Seattle’s message. Here’s to the gold in all of us!
A Primal Rhythm of Motherhood
Things were going fine. I had done this before. I was patient and attentive. We all knew the routine. Then something changed. Most Moms have experienced that moment. It seems like there is calm before the storm, but in reality the energy is gathering. Something on the inside isn’t right—tension and discomfort are building. The crying begins…and doesn’t stop. Diapers are changed; food is offered. Rocking and walking and bouncing all in one continuous, gentle movement is the motion of motherhood. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. This particular time, it didn’t. As her distress continued, my inability to comfort her distressed me. Soon we were both crying. Walking, rocking, bouncing, crying—a primal rhythm of attachment and motherhood.
In our quest for Spring this week, we achieved a landmark—the green blush of new leaves on the stands of Aspen trees down by the River. The Oaks, Maples, and Ashes will soon obscure the Aspens, but for now, they allow us to see through them, past them, to the tender green beginners.
And then the rain came—the nourishment of new growth. It was exactly what we needed, what was expected.
Onion-like Chives shot up out of the ground while Creeping Thyme slowly greened behind them.
The stems on the Ostrich Ferns s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d in spurts of growth, even as the fiddleheads continued to hold their curls.
That afternoon, the rain changed to snow. The wind picked up. What seemed like a calm Spring rain became an energetic throwback to Winter.
The wind seemed to be coming from all directions—the snow fell in swirls, the Hemlocks twirled. Spring hope was blurred out by the tension and cries of ‘Winter!’
Eventually the wind and snow subsided, but the snow stayed on the ground through the chilly night.
By noon, the snow was gone, the calm of hope and Spring had returned. Did we really have snow just hours before?! Were we distressed just yesterday?
I don’t remember how long my baby and I walked, rocked, bounced, and cried. Time isn’t a thing during such holy moments. As my tears fell and melded with hers, I didn’t know it as a holy moment—that realization only came with the third and last baby. I do know, however, that we did it together. We weathered the storm of distress together. We got through to the calm of rest and hope together. That’s what this love-like-no-other-love means to me. That’s what the holy moments of motherhood are to me.
Worth the Wait
I remember being nine months pregnant with our first child…and waiting. Patiently waiting. It had been a relatively easy pregnancy, and I was still feeling well. My last day at work was my due date. One week went by…still waiting. Everything was ready—except for the baby apparently. Another week went by, and the doctor began the induction. Nothing. He reluctantly gave me another week…for waiting.
I feel like we are doing the same thing with Spring this year. We are waiting; a learned patience is holding the reins in an easy, yet expectant way. Like the baby, there is no doubt that Spring is coming. All the signs are here. We are so close! It is time. Of course, we need to clarify the definition of Spring—what it is that makes us think Spring is finally here. I think most would say that we need leaves on the trees and some early-blooming flowers to finally breathe a sigh of relief that Old Man Winter will no longer be knocking unexpectedly at our door. And while the trees are still winter-esque in their bare silhouettes, there is evidence that our waiting time is soon over! Each branch has swollen leaf and/or flower buds. Perennials are pushing their way up through Fall’s leaf litter. Brown is still the predominate color—but not for long! Delivery time is nigh!
Three weeks after her due date, the doctor informed us that one way or another, we would have this baby—today. No more waiting. Mother Nature is on the precipice of the birth of Spring, in all its glory. Once the birthing process begins and progresses, there’s no stopping it! But wait—for just one moment—think about all the biological processes that are taking place while we wait, the things we don’t see, the marvels of pregnancy and development. Therein lies the reason for our learned patience, the reason for the waiting, the reason why we are not the ones in charge of the timeline. Things are happening while we wait. Soon enough, we will forget about the anxious waiting and the pain of birth when we hold our miracle baby. Soon enough, we forget about the cold and snow and brownness of Winter when the green and sweetness of Spring suffuses our senses. With a nod and a prayer to the Power that is greater than all of us, we breathe in the delicious smell of new baby or new Spring and let out a sigh of recognition that indeed, it was worth the wait.