Archives for November 2019

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

Archives for November 2019

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