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When I Wasn’t Looking

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How much does the internet rule our lives? What would we actually do without it for a day, a week, or a month? (Maybe I should back that up to an hour also.) Even those of us old enough to remember that we had full, awesome lives before the internet, get caught up in the necessity of it. Like when we weren’t looking, it sort of took over our lives. This post began in my head more than a week ago and ended a week ago when I could not open my webpage to upload pictures and write. Not enough power or signal, or there was interference or disturbance. Whatever.

After Paul’s memorial service over Labor Day and sweet times of relaxation and mourning-tempered fun with the Brake family, we headed home to Minnesota. Our wrecked hearts were a little less wrecked, bandaged over with hugs, precious memories, and laughter. The healing had begun.

On the trip home, we stopped for a walk and a break at Sakatah Lake State Park near Waterville, Minnesota. It was a nourishing detour around the rush-hour Cities traffic. The first thing I noticed when we started walking were dark, leaping little toads all over the place. It had rained quite a bit while we were gone (and much of the summer), so the frog and toad populations were booming.

Upper Sakatah Lake was full to the rim and evidence of flooding was everywhere. Trees along the shore had toppled into the water, and debris was high in the lower spots. This area was named Sakatah by the Wahpekute tribe of the Dakota Nation. It means “the sights and sounds of children playing on the hill,” and sometimes translated to “Singing Hills.” Don’t you love that!?

Looking out over the lake, the most striking view was to the east where Double-crested Cormorants had perched and made nests in dead trees on tiny islands of Wildlife Management Areas. Cormorants are colonial nesters and often perceived to be messy, nuisance birds.

They are fish-eaters, so do not make good game birds, and their community living seems to make them messy and troublesome. (For whom?) But we saw much preening and cleaning going on as they perched in their alabaster tree-houses together.

The vegetation in the woods had decidedly turned to Fall. It seemed to happen when I wasn’t looking. Clusters of red-fruited seeds of the Jack-in-the-Pulpit, amid the tattered leaves, shouted out to passers-by after two seasons of discreetly hiding in the forest.

Sunflowers, Asters, and Goldenrods grew from every sunny spot along the edge of the woods, and juicy Wild Plums hung from the trees.

The forest gave way to wetlands and prairies as we hiked along the Singing Hills State Bike Trail that traversed the Park.

It was a short but welcome break to get into the woods after driving the Interstate for hours through the fields of Iowa. And when we were home again, our Fall visitors began to boldly traipse through the yard. The Wild Turkey population seems greatly diminished this year—only four babies with two, sometimes three females. Other years we have had twelve to eighteen young ones trailing behind their mamas.

The spotted baby fawns are now big enough to graze in the open and look for apples that have fallen to the ground.

Our surprise this year, is that there are triplets!

This Spring and Summer have slipped by me—when I wasn’t looking—when insidious, unseen influences sort of took over our lives. We blindly believe that all-or-nothing technology is in our best interest (all=good, nothing=bad). But what are we losing in the process when we are complicit to the ‘lifestyle’ of the internet and our ‘smart’ phones? How have we isolated ourselves from our community of people for the (and I don’t know the word for this exactly) thrill/ satisfaction/ seduction of all that the internet supplies? I spent many days in the last two weeks not looking at the internet. It was a relief. I’m not so attached to technology that it was uncomfortable for me to do so. In fact, it actually felt like I became more of myself. As the Brake family mourned the loss of a Dad/ brother/ uncle, we didn’t do so on social media—we did it in person. It was the face-to-face, the tears and laughter, and the hugs and stories that sustained us. When we weren’t looking for it, the healing had begun, and we were a little bit less wrecked, thank the Good Lord. So, where are the disturbances in our lives? What interferes with us feeling like ourselves in a grounded, nurturing way? I say don’t let the power in our lives be about the internet—it is unsustaining and in fact robs us of our energy and creativity in the long run. We need more Sakatah in our lives—the sights and sounds of children (and we are all children of God) playing and singing in the hills.

Wrecked

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A week ago Thursday we loaded the van and were on the road at the respectable leaving time of 5:30 a.m. Chris was ready before that, and despite the fact I had hardly slept a wink that night, I was still the one who ‘held us up,’ so to speak. We headed south to Missouri on I-35, this time for Chris’ brother’s memorial service. With wrecked hearts we drove much of the time in silence—Chris glad to skirt most of the rush-hour traffic in the Cities, me trying to catch up on a few hours of sleep. We were close to the Missouri border in Iowa when I woke up because we were stopping, right on the Interstate behind a long line of cars and trucks already stopped. Not creeping, not stop and go, but stopped. We idled for awhile, then longer, but when truckers began to get out of their trucks to stretch their legs, we turned off the car and opened the windows and then the doors. Two massive semi tow trucks passed us on the right shoulder—it must be a huge wreck. We waited for over an hour. A trucker came up to talk to us—he said a semi had jack-knifed to avoid hitting a car, and there were a couple of cars that had gone into the steep ditch. Amazingly, nobody was hurt. He checked to see if we needed water or anything, then went on to talk to others. When we finally got going, we slowly drove by the wrecked tractor-trailer, saw the driver securing things as it lay on the tow truck, saw the huge ruts in the median where he had reined that big beast of a semi to a skidding, sliding stop, saw the police cars, etc. We wanted to see what had disrupted a major highway and so many people’s lives for that ‘long’ of time.

But there are times when we don’t want to see the wreckage.

On our trip to Lake Superior and then Wisconsin in early August, we planned to stop at Pattison State Park, just south of Superior, to see Wisconsin’s highest waterfall. The Black River begins at Black Lake, 22 miles southwest of the park. It drops 31 feet over Little Manitou Falls at the south end of Pattison.

It winds its way into Interfalls Lake with its necklace of Cattails and Swamp Milkweed.

From the lake, the River flowed through a spillway under the highway; we walked from the welcome center, past the old CCC buildings, and through a tunnel that also went under the highway. The park worker told us that hiking trails around the lake and to Little Manitou Falls were closed due to severe storm damage and flooding over the summer of 2018. Large swaths of the park were wrecked from the storms of over a year ago. Some cleaning up and re-building had begun, but the damage was everywhere. Orange caution-fencing roped off areas that were too dangerous to navigate. Large chunks of macadam from the washed-away highway and trail were scattered all over at the topside of the falls. Water had gouged away the soil and plants from the side of the tunnel, the spillway, and the River. Exposed tree roots, like ghost towns, reminded us of what once was. I didn’t want to look at the wreckage; I wanted to see the beautiful falls. So I tried to ignore the wreckage, even as I stepped over it. My camera was pointed only at beauty.

We took a short trail through tall evergreens to the fenced-off precipice. The falls were nowhere in sight, but a little Fir tree with its candle cones caught my eye. The cones were adorned with dripping, hardened sap, lighting up the cloak of greenery around it.

We backtracked to the other side of the River where another short trail led us down to a wooden platform that hung over the rocks to view the white-water River.

At one point the water disappeared into the dark, basalt rock, the ancient lava swallowing the brown, tannin-rich water. We walked down to a second platform and finally saw the full glory of Big Manitou Falls!

The hard igneous rock contained the powerful water that had wreaked havoc on the soil, trees, and highway above it.

The Black River slowed and calmed as it wound its way through the bottom of the amazing gorge to meet up with the Nemadji River for their final leg of northern travel to the great Lake Superior.

So what does one do in the midst of wreckage, whether of heart, health, or home? In the face of overwhelming rubble, I cry. We are built that way; our physiology uses tears to reduce stress and process emotions. Often we need silence and contemplation after the chaos of wreckage in order to work through the myriad of feelings and oftentimes skewed thoughts that our brain’s negativity bias wrongly confirms. Cleaning up after the wreckage takes time. Sometimes a long time. We need to allow the process to unfold, not force it—it’s like sleep, in that way. As much as we want to sleep at times of unrest, we cannot force it to happen, but we can do things to allow it. In the midst of wreckage, I, like this Mourning Cloak Butterfly, feel the need to hide, to camouflage my wounded self, to remain roped off from the precipice that seems too dangerous to navigate. My emotions and body feel raw and exposed at the loss of what once was.

We step into our futures and relationships with good intentions and hope—that is probably not true for all people, but I would hope that for most. We begin with a clean heart and a strong body. Our humanness is like the water of lakes and rivers and falls—it is the wreckage and the beauty of our lives. Love is the rock that contains our humanness. It is what helps us step over the wreckage as we move slowly forward, even when we can’t bear to look. Love is what allows us to finally confront the wreckage and the reasons behind it, when we can. Love is what cares for and sustains the wounded and dying in the midst of heartbreak and grace. Love is what gives us the strength to get up in front of a crowd of people to tell the story of a brother, even as our hearts are wrecked by his death. Love is the light that guides us as we wear the mourning cloak. Love is the foundation for all we have been and for all we are going to be.

The Day it Snowed in July

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The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness. –John Muir

This post is not about clarity or the forest, and I am backing us up in time to the middle of July. The hot, humid middle of July. We had just gotten back from our trip to Missouri, Chris was back to work, and I was desperate to get away from some overarching, insistent, persistent bad feelings. Hot, humid weather never makes anything better, in my opinion; in fact, it magnifies madness, swells cells, and creates chaos. I walked down the road to the little lake on Hummingbird Lane. I don’t even remember how bad the mosquitoes and deer flies were as I sweated up the hill. And then as I saw the usually-pretty lake, I was even more disgusted when I saw how the vegetative scum had overtaken the open water.

It is at times like these when we need and crave some clear reflection of reality. Why is all this crap in the way? The reason for our trip to Missouri was to spend time with Chris’ brother Paul who was dying of pancreatic cancer. This brother who was just two years older, the one who played in dirt piles with him, went to Boy Scouts camp, and drove him to high school. We watched some Big Valley on TV, walked to get the long-neglected mail for him, got an Icee that cooled his throat, and cleaned up the kitchen a little bit. Paul joked about it all with his dry one-liners, and we laughed. It was as good and normal as ever, even as we talked about end-of-life things. The brothers reminisced about boyhood memories, and Paul held his arm over his stomach and rocked ever-so-slightly.

As we sat together, there were layers of feelings—fresh in-the-moment ones, surface take-care-of-business ones, deep, dark feelings about what was to come, and a forest of sweet memories.

I had listened to a Rob Bell podcast where he talked about the struggles and irritations in our lives, and I had written a line he said on a post-it note where I could see it every day. “This is all part of it.” This is all part of it. This pond scum is part of a hot July summer. The mosquitoes and deer flies are a part of a still, humid day. Dying is part of living. We can look a little closer at what clouds our vision, what’s getting in the way of our clear reflection. The Duckweed is actually kind of pretty close up, and do you see the three damselflies who live and fly above the Duckweed?

The flat, floating Yellow Pond Lily leaves send up surprising stalks of flowers. How did I miss them before? This is all part of it.

The intricate cluster of pink balls to open stars of the Milkweed flower housed ants and a tiny caterpillar. This is all part of it. It was a comforting mantra for my nervous body and unsettled soul.

And then, as I walked home in the July heat and humidity, it started to snow! Out of the blue sky drifted snowflakes—snowflakes of Cottonwood seeds. It was somewhat of a miracle to me—‘snow’ in July!

A month and a day after the snow in July, Paul passed from this world. He and his dear family caregivers had a week of the very serious business of dying. I can’t even imagine, though we waited for texted updates and prayed for…. oh my gosh, the things we prayed for changed as the week went on. On Sunday, it would have been ‘easy.’ Each night after that, we wondered how he was holding on, why he was holding on, who he was holding on for. I have so much respect and honor for our family members who were by his side every hour of that long week. But from my distance, it struck me like a lightning bolt that Paul’s dying wasn’t only about his letting go, seeing people one more time, saying and hearing the words that would never be said or heard again, and holding on for whatever reason—it was about us all. We are all part of it. Everybody who loved him and who he loved was a part of his dying. We all longed to see certain faces, say certain words, take away pain, if only we could, pass on peace, and change the way we do certain things in our lives. What did each of us need to let go of, say or hear said, promise to ourselves and God? How did I not notice that before? What is getting in the way? What is really important in this life? The last time I saw Paul, I kissed the top of his bald head, he said, “See you later,” and we smiled. Exquisite grace, precious moment. Snow in July is a miracle. Life is a miracle. Death is a miracle. We went through the wilderness of dying with Paul to get to the Universe of Love. All the while God is holding us all in the palm of his hand and smiling. This is all part of it.

The Question of Up North

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I was talking to a wise man recently about a controversial issue that he had been adamantly opposed to for most of his life. He told me about a number of personal experiences as well as those by people close to him that informed that issue. And then he said, “It has re-opened the question for me.” His simple, calm, and humble statement was like a wave of cool, fresh water on the hot division of our country.

When people in Minnesota talk about ‘up north,’ it can mean anywhere from Alexandria to Brainerd to Bemidji to the North Shore or to Ely and the BWCA. Even the ‘North Shore’ stretches from Duluth to Grand Portage, 145 miles along Lake Superior. Up north can be about deer hunting, skiing, weekends on the lake, hiking the Superior trail, or canoeing in the Boundary Waters. Our trip up north began with Duluth, the shipping port city on the magnificent Lake Superior. We stayed in an Airbnb high on the bluff overlooking the Big Water. In the early morning light and mist, the water, cloud bank, and sky melded together into a monochromatic panorama of simplicity.

We drank in some Nature while in Duluth—literally! We stopped at Vikre Distillery, makers of gin, vodka, whiskey, and aquavit—a Scandinavian distilled spirit. They use local grains, herbs, rhubarb, and wild botanicals including juniper berries, spruce buds, and staghorn sumac—all distilled with the clear, cold water of Lake Superior.

pic by Em Brake

We also visited two Duluth breweries—Bent Paddle and Ursa Minor, both unique experiences made better with the knowledge and energy of the four young people with us who know a thing or two about visiting breweries.

pic by Em Brake

We enjoyed a mouth-watering BBQ meal delivered by a friendly staff person from OMC Smokehouse, located a block away from Bent Paddle. A Celtic band played in a corner of the taproom as we sat on the patio across from them. A trip to the restroom was like trekking through the North Woods—mosaic tile waterfalls tumbled from the bar, a dark hallway ceiling was lit up with tiny lights in constellations from the night sky, and the wallpaper in the women’s restroom featured friendly woodland creatures. Look at those faces!

pic by Em Brake

Ursa Minor is the ‘Little Bear’ constellation in the Northern sky that contains the Little Dipper. The bright star at the end of the handle of the dipper is Polaris—the North Star! We enjoyed wood-fired pizzas made from ingredients that were snipped from the raised-bed garden around the patio. Now, I know I said nothing about the beer, although I do appreciate Ursa Minor’s marketing of ‘comfort beer!’ Beer is something I have never liked or drank—until my adult children and the craft beer industry united with a “taste this one.” Most still made me shudder, until I tried a really dark Oatmeal Stout. My comments included ‘that’s not too bad’ and ‘there’s a lot going on there!’ So I have now claimed the darkest beer (without coffee, that is—another common drink that kind of makes me shudder) as my favorite, and that just makes me laugh!

pic by Em Brake

The destination of our short Duluth stay was up the shore of Lake Superior, past Two Harbors and Split Rock Lighthouse to Black Beach. A protected cove surrounded by rock cliffs and North Shore trees has an amazing beach of tiny black pebbles. It is visually stunning, especially since the cliffs are red rocks. How did this happen? There is a mixture of larger red and black rocks in the clear water, but the beach is mostly black. This area used to be privately owned and was a dumping place decades ago for the tailings or waste rock of taconite mining. Taconite is an iron-bearing sedimentary rock that is crushed and ground to get the iron out of it. The iron powder is then rolled with clay into pellets, dried, and baked. The pellets are loaded into huge ore ships that travel the Great Lakes to steel-making towns. During those years, local fishermen complained about the poor water quality because of the mining waste, and they wanted the dumping stopped. A long ‘fight’ ensued between miners and fishermen and their supporters. Eventually the fishermen won, and the dumping stopped around 1980. So the black beach is man-made, the remains of iron ore mining, the previous dumping grounds of waste now made beautiful by decades of wind, water, and ice.

pic by Em Brake

The water was e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y cold! Two of us just dipped a foot or a hand in to feel it for ourselves. One walked in for a picture. Two stood knee deep longer than I thought possible, and one brave adventurer plunged his whole body into the frigid Wim Hof experiment. Luckily the sun-warmed black pebbles helped everyone warm up again.

pic by Em Brake

‘Up North’ encompasses a huge territory of lakes, forests, towns, and wild places here in Minnesota. It means different things to different people—the experiences are unique and meaningful to each individual, all while within the comforting clause. Each person defines and holds dear their own ‘up north.’ Lake Superior is the anchor, the expanse, the shining beacon of the North Shore—it is our ‘ocean’ of water. It makes up the body of the spirits and beer we tasted. It epitomizes the power of Nature. Who was the ‘correct’ group when it came to the waters of the Great Lake—the fishermen or the miners? Ideals and lifestyles have been the clashing grounds for eons. So what changes us? My wise friend recounted his personal experiences and those of people he cared deeply for and asked the question, “How do these experiences mesh with my admittedly rigid view of the issue?” It re-opened the question. Is cold water therapy a thing? Dive in and re-open the question. How can anyone drink beer? ‘Try this one’ and re-open the question. Just like the black beach, we can be changed and restored. It’s not about the answer per se; it’s about the question. It’s not about other people; it’s about ourselves. It’s not about correctness; it’s about possibilities. Perhaps the next time we meet on the North Shore I will be drinking coffee—who knows?!

We The Spiritual People

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One of the ways you know you’re on the prairie is the huge expanse of sky. Save for a lone tree or two, nothing impedes the view of the blue dome, the clouds, the sun and stars. Stretched out at your feet is a waving sea of grasses with golden seedheads, interspersed with a colorful variety of wildflowers.

On our way home from Missouri, we took old U.S. Highway 71 instead of the Interstate, and we navigated the old-fashioned way—by map. When we crossed the line from Iowa into Minnesota, I noticed a place on the map called Jeffers Petroglyphs. That sounds interesting! It was nearing seven in the evening by the time we saw the turn-off but decided to check it out anyway. Just four miles off the highway, we pulled into an almost empty parking lot. One man on a motorcycle was just getting ready to leave. He instructed us to find a booklet about the petroglyphs on a picnic table at the backside of the interpretive center, which had closed at five. We walked through the prairie grasses and flowers to a red rock ridge and began a scavenger hunt of sorts, to see and identify the rock carvings that had been cataloged in the booklet and on the signs. We stepped back in time by thousands of years!

Following a roped-off pathway, at first we had a hard time seeing anything but rock. As our eyes adjusted to what the carvings looked like in texture, we began to see shapes and forms. There’s a hand print and an arrow!

Is it a bird and a buffalo?

Interpretive signage told us about an ancient dart-throwing weapon used before bows and arrows called an atlatl that was used as early as 12,000 years ago. There were many carvings of atlatls, most with an exaggerated-sized stone weight on the shaft. Historians speculate that it was a ‘vision’ to increase the spiritual power that guides the hunter’s shot. Hunting, their literal livelihood, is a common theme—whether documenting actual hunts or visions of hunts to come.

The red rock is Sioux Quartzite, the oldest bedrock formation in Minnesota, where a shallow sea deposited sand and mud for millions of years, and heat and pressure formed the metamorphic rock. It was exposed again by glaciers, wind, and water. The long scraping lines on the rock face are from the ancient moving glaciers.

In 1966, the Minnesota Historical Society purchased 40 acres to preserve this site and later added more for a total of 160 acres. It has been and still is considered to be a sacred site for Native American tribes, including Ioway, Otoe, Cheyenne, and the Dakota. Sacred ceremonies are still performed here amidst the carvings depicting the spiritual power of people and place over thousands of years. Horns or lines radiating from a head often indicates wisdom or the ability to communicate with the spirit world. The circle feet may represent a place of powerful spirits. According to the Plains Indians, the Thunderbird is a sacred spirit, giver of life and death, that can be heard as thunder as it flaps its wings and seen as lightning bolts from its eyes.

Parts of the rock face are preserved as they were 1.6 billion years ago—as sand ripples and mud flats. These interesting geological formations are a treasure that the prairie never covered up.

The carvings were done over a span of thousands of years—it is estimated the earliest were 7,000 years ago and the most recent 250 years ago. (Though there is some ‘graffiti’ by early twentieth century persons.) Another theme of the carvings were kinship ceremonies—how the bonds of kinship and social life were nurtured and strengthened. There are dozens of symbols in these next three pictures, the last, of a large carving of a woman in a shawl.

One area looked like a map, perhaps a hunting map or record of some kind of journey. Dots were carved between figures of people and other places or animals. Besides pictures of buffalo, other animals and tracks were carved in all areas of the pictographs, like birds and bear.

There are 33 acres of native prairie here, undisturbed for thousands of years. Most of the other acres have been restored to prairie. The Earth and Sky are represented in the rock carvings also. The many shapes and figures in parts of the rock face are not known—perhaps they are warriors hunting buffalo, figures of the underworld, or constellations from the starry prairie sky. Other shapes may be butterflies or dragonflies—it’s all part knowledge from the elders and historians and part imagination.

We were at the site for a little over an hour, and we were actually there at a good time, as the signage said mornings and evenings are the best time to see the carvings.

Interpretation of the carvings, along with the ongoing spiritual importance, was documented by elders from different tribes. (see MN Historical Society) Although the historical and archaeological aspects of the site were important in its preservation, it is the input from the Native Americans whose ancestors lived here that highlights the incredible significance of this place and what we can learn from it. (Italics in the following quotes are mine.)

“…and the last thing I would suggest to a visitor who wasn’t a tribal or indigenous person… somewhere back down your family tree, if you can go back far enough you’re going to find out you came from a tribal people and if you let that part of you speak… maybe you’ll find something out about yourself and your own history and your place in the world.” -Tom Ross, Dakota Elder, Upper Sioux Community Pejuhutazizi Oyate, Minnesota

“And when you walk around out there and just take your time and it’s like everything you feel is you’re walking amongst the spirit of all our people. And I know that they do enjoy our company. And the things, the signs, everything that they had left out there for us -is to remind us of who we are.” -Carrie Schommer, Upper Sioux Dakota Elder, Upper Sioux Community Pejuhutazizi Oyate, Minnesota

This site is where Minnesota’s recorded history begins, but it tells the story of the whole continent before it was named. It illustrates sacred ceremonies and important events, visions and dreams, prayers and messages, spiritual and social life. It depicts the daily substance of livelihood—the means of securing the necessities of life. It portrays the map of life’s journeys, both lived and envisioned. It demonstrates the inexplicable connection we humans have with Earth and Sky and all of Nature. It describes how imperative kinship is to our well-being and to that of our society. And finally, it illuminates that we the people—all of us, no matter our livelihood, no matter where we come from, no matter the color of our skin—are spiritual beings living in a spiritual world.

The Prairie and the Grazing Buffalo

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I love the prairie, and I mourn the demise of it as more and more prairie grasslands are tilled and converted to row crop farming. The prairie ecosystem evolved with the American bison—and the buffalo became the source of life for the Native Americans of the Great Plains. The closely interwoven relationships between prairie, buffalo, and Native Americans have been severed, for the most part, for oh so many reasons. Yet there is a pull to preserve that way of life, even in the smallest of ways, because of what we can learn from the prairie, from the buffalo, and from the people whose lives intertwined with both.

Driving along the highways in Missouri in the month of July, one notices a sweet triad of color, shape, and form—Queen Anne’s Lace, blue Chicory, and Purple Clover. Tall, willowy Queen Anne’s Lace, a member of the carrot family, is the most striking of the three with large, lacy flower heads that sway in the breeze. We stopped at the Eagleville rest area on southbound I-35, the welcome center for Missouri. A large prairie area with a mown walking path covers the hillside behind the building, and Queen Anne’s Lace grows along the periphery.

Up on the hill, a grazing buffalo dropped his large head into the tall prairie grass. Animals need to feel ‘safe enough’ to graze—if there is a threat or danger of any kind in the area, they won’t be eating. Grazing or feeding and digestion are processes that are undertaken when the body is relaxed (a parasympathetic state.)

Another eye-catching and unusual plant in the tall grass prairie is Rattlesnake Master. Along with its great name, this plant is also a member of the carrot family. The gray-green seedheads hold small clusters of white flowers and were dried and used as rattles by native people.

We don’t often think about grasses flowering, but every plant that produces seeds has some kind of flower, as indistinct as it may be.

A standing buffalo on the hill was alert and watchful. Often herds of animals will have a sentry or ‘look out’ who will be aware of the surroundings and will warn others if there is some danger or predator.

Spiky crowns of lavender flower petals top Wild Bergamot or Bee Balm. Native Americans used teas and tinctures of this minty plant to treat respiratory illness and other ailments.

Another member of the Mint family is the Obedient Plant with snapdragon-like flowers that will stay in position after being turned in a certain way.

A charging buffalo haunched down in the prairie grass, head lowered, muscles taut, tail lifted. When danger has threatened the herd, energy is activated (sympathetic response), and the animals run or fight. (Running is the usual first line of defense. Males and closely threatened mamas will turn and fight.)

Blazing star or Liatris was just beginning to bloom from the top down on the purple-flowering spikes.

Dogbane is a toxic plant that was used by some native tribes as a fiber. The stems were rolled into strong, fine threads and twines.

While walking the prairie, stretching my legs, and appreciating the summer grasses and wildflowers, a Red-winged Blackbird chatted and sang its summer song.

To me, walking through a prairie feels like ‘coming home.’ It is familiar, reliable, sustainable, and beautiful—like a sanctuary. It relaxes my body, calms my mind, and feeds my soul. The wide-open sky gives me perspective on how small each of us really is compared with the world at large. The prairie grasses and plants remind me that, as small as we each are, we are part of an ecosystem or community that works together to create the greater whole. We grow and bloom in our own unique and wonderful ways. The buffalo sculptures were produced by Creative Edge Master Shop in Fairfield, Iowa, a great tribute to the icons of the prairie. Their depictions of the different states of the herd animals reflect the physiology of every mammal, including humans. One state not depicted, or not seen at least, was that of the freeze state—like that of a young calf lying in the grass, hiding from danger. Freeze, fight or flight, and rest and digest are all states that we humans slide in and out of automatically, just like the buffalo. Ideally, we would spend most of our time between the alert, aware, yet calm state and the relaxed rest and digest state, and use the freeze and fight only when absolutely needed. But how often do we find ourselves immobilized by some threat or fear? How often do we feel like running away from our life and its problems? How often do we fight with sharp words, lowered heads, and win-at-all-cost ways? Feel it. Think about it. Make a strong, powerful rope out of a toxic situation. Find your place that feels like ‘coming home.’

To Fly Above the Black Swamp

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Experience, which destroys innocence, also leads one back to it. –James Arthur Baldwin

I called bogus on myself when I re-read last week’s post before publishing—the last line was bothering me. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it wasn’t complete. Time and maturity do contribute to our becoming sparklers of light, but when I asked a question in a Facebook meme of what makes you happy during a rough time, one particular answer struck me. My friend Sharon answered with a picture of her young grandchildren—three sparklers of light with little age and no maturity. What they did have was innocence, the perfection of newness, pure emotions, and a drive to experience their world.

Our day of the dragonfly at Mille Lacs Kathio increased exponentially when we drove the short distance from Kathio to Father Hennepin State Park, situated on a large peninsula on the southeastern side of Mille Lacs Lake. I am in awe of this lake. Its size alone—207 square miles—is enough for one to appreciate, but it also contains clear and beautiful water along with a brag-worthy population of walleye and other fish.

The park was named after Father Louis Hennepin, a French priest who explored the area in 1680. He wrote about the landscape around the Lake and the Mdewakanton Dakota people who lived there. Chris and I hiked the lake-hugging Pope’s Point Trail through a hardwood forest of Maples and Basswood that must be spectacular in Autumn.

We soon came to a black water swamp/lagoon that stretched along the inward side of the trail. It was a sharp contrast from the clear, blue water of the Lake. It made me think of the Bobby Bare song Marie Laveau—‘Down in Louisiana where the black trees grow, lives a voodoo lady named Marie Laveau…’

‘She lives in a swamp, in a hollow log…’ When I researched the history of the Park, I found that Father Hennepin called this area of Minnesota ‘Louisiana’ in honor of France’s King Louis XIV (and conveniently his own name), and later published a book Description of Louisiana from his extensive writings about the area.

The black swamp was intriguing and messy compared to the simple, open water of the Lake. And while the swamp water itself and the muck surrounding it were so yucky looking, I marveled at the crisp green grasses growing up through it…

…and the many exquisite dragonflies flying and landing on grasses and branches.

As the open swamp water ended, we came to a forest of ferns, five feet tall and glistening in the sunlight.

We reached Pope’s Point Overlook with water stretching before us on three sides. A mother Mallard duck with her ten babies all in a row swam close to shore.

At ease, ducklings.

While we watched the ducklings, hundreds, if not thousands of dragonflies filled the air—dark, darting dots against the blue sky and water. Wow!

What I thought were two white boats far out on the lake were actually one white boat and one white rock island. Hennepin Island, one of two tiny islands that make up the smallest National Wildlife Refuge (less than one acre total), is home and nesting grounds for the Common Tern. Though its name implies otherwise, the Common Tern is listed as a Threatened Species due to loss of habitat. These tiny protected islands are one of the last remaining nesting areas in Minnesota for the terns.

We walked back the forest trail to the sandy beach where dogs fetched sticks from the water, children played, and adults lounged.

It is a beautiful, peaceful place, worthy of exploration, admiration, and reflection.

Many of my friends have experienced the newness and perfection embodied in the tiny being of a grandchild. They can experience again the innocence of childhood, the energy of pure emotions that aren’t labeled good or bad, and the innate drive we all have to learn and truly experience the world around us. Those tiny beings are sparklers of light. Somewhere in Life, we encounter the messy, yet intriguing muck of the black swamp. Where does it come from? Why is it there? How do we get from the perfect innocence of a new being to the messy muck? We can have all of our ducks in a row and try to stay clear of the black water, yet sometimes we find our feet stuck in the muck. That’s when we learn from the dragonfly, and if it takes thousands of them to lift us up, so be it. Any moment in time, any glimpse of someone’s life we see, any given situation we find ourselves in, is not the complete picture. It is true as the sky is blue at that moment, but we don’t see to the depths or know the influences. We no longer know or use the pure emotions to guide our behavior—we take refuge from them on the rocky islands of denial and ‘grown-up-ness.’ So in reality, I shouldn’t call bogus on anything. It’s just a snapshot picture of a bigger, more complete mural of the situation. Maybe our dragonfly message and moment is to use our time and maturity, our experiences in the muck, and the innate drive to learn and develop in order to be at ease, to return to our newness, and to fly above the black swamp.

Sparklers of Light

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As I explained in last week’s post, I was making a bee-line for the bog when we hiked the ‘Touch the Earth’ trail at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park. It was what I was anticipating in my head and needing for my spirit. But with camera in hand, I was stopped almost immediately on the trail by the presence of a Large-flowered Trillium. Trillium literally means ‘three-parted lily’ as the three white flower petals rise from a whorl of three deeply-veined leaves. It is a spring ephemeral woodland flower that blooms while sunlight still reaches the woodland floor. It is an interesting flower, protected from picking in the state of Minnesota, but unfortunately not protected from herds of white-tailed deer that can kill a colony of the fragile plants by browsing. Ants are the major source of seed dispersal, taking the fruits to their underground homes for eating then leaving the seeds. It can be several years from seed germination to flowering for these long-lived, slow-maturing perennials.

After pollination and as the flower ages, it turns a rosy pink color. Like many of the Spring Ephemerals, the foliage often dies back in the heat of summer.

Another tri-leaved flowering plant blended in with the surrounding greenery—the unusually-flowered Jack-in-the-Pulpit.

The Starflower plant has 6-8 petals and a whorl of 5-9 leaves, most commonly 7 for both.

The adaptable Columbine seem extravagant and showy in color and form as the nodding flower heads brighten the trail.

After such a rainy Spring, the bog wasn’t the only soggy place in the woods. Ferns and other plants who like wet feet were tall and vibrant with the abundant moisture.

Lavender-pink Wild Geraniums spread little carpets of color along the trail and deep into the woods.

A young Meadow Rue plant caught my attention—no flowers, no bright colors or extravagant form, but a green, flat table-top of foliage in the dappled sunshine.

A toad, still using his camouflage coat to hide from sight, was one of the few critters we saw on our hike.

A bright, white line of light shone on a meadow of grass that had gone to seed.

After our meander of the bog boardwalk and the treasures that presented themselves, I felt myself shift and settle down a bit. The landscape shifted some, too. One of the most interesting ferns was the Cinnamon Fern. The thick spikes of green fruit dots—the fertile fronds—will turn to a rich, cinnamon brown color as the sterile fronds surround them in a vase-like shape.

In a sunny area around the bog was a stand of Willows that had flowered and gone to seed. The cottony seedheads were like sparklers of light.

Gooseberry bushes were setting fruit—green striped berries that will ripen to reddish-purple.

We walked through a section of soothing Pine forest where the path is covered in fragrant, brown needles. The ‘Touch the Earth’ trail offered a sampling of many types of ecosystems.

We saw many Dragonflies on the after-bog trail. They were gently, quietly flying from one branch or stem to the next. Their iridescent wings and large eyes make them look like little sprites flitting through the greenery.

There is something that happens when we have our eyes and hearts set on a certain destination, when we single-mindedly want what we want. We often are rewarded with ‘the good stuff’ that we have anticipated. But sometimes, we are not. We get to our ‘destination,’ and the thing we desire is not there for us or circumstances have changed in such a way that our original plan is now defunct. Now what?! Often we despair, get stuck, don’t know which way to go from there. One mistake we tend to make during that bee-line journey is not paying attention to the details on the pathway to our destination. We overlook plants, people, intuitions, time, warning signs, and/or experiences that potentially have meaning for us and that could have made a difference in the trajectory of our journey. We can learn from the Dragonfly.

The Dragonfly symbolizes change, adaptability, light (joy and lightness of being), transformation, and emotions. They can move in all six directions, changing their flight pattern in their search for food or rest. They spend most of their life cycle in the water, which symbolizes emotions and the unconscious. But they also transform and adapt to land and air. Their iridescent wings can display different colors depending on the angles and polarization of the light striking them. Their large eyes represent clear vision of reality, removal of self-created illusions, and wariness of deceit. All in all, they represent mental and emotional maturity—what we all need in order to make the changes to reach our full potential as human beings. In our three-parted lives of mind, body, and spirit, we have the opportunity to grow and learn to move along with the ease of a Dragonfly. It takes time and maturity, but we can become sparklers of Light!

A Blooming Bog During Rough Traveling

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This post is dedicated to my brother-in-law Paul, who has met some rough and rocky travelin’ with humor, positivity, and tenacity. Much love and respect.

“It’s been rough and rocky travelin’ / But I’m finally standing upright on the ground / After taking several readings / I’m surprised to find my mind’s still fairly sound” Willie Nelson from his song Me & Paul

The last couple of months have been like the first line of Willie’s song. Not literal traveling like Willie referred to, but travelin’ through life. We all know times like that. The day of celebrating my birth was also a bust, with the exception of text and FB greetings–grateful for those. But I didn’t feel very well, didn’t go anywhere, or do anything.

In August two years ago, we discovered a trail at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park called ‘Touch the Earth.’ The name was taken from a quote by Luther Standing Bear speaking of the Dakota people and how they loved ‘all things of the earth.’ That trail led us to a beautiful and surprising ecosystem called a bog forest. Since we came in the heat of August, I vowed to return when the bog was in bloom, particularly the Labrador Tea, a type of Rhododendron. So on the day after my rough day, when I noticed that our cultivated azaelas were blooming, I rallied my energy and we headed back to the bog. The ‘Touch the Earth’ trail was lined with blooming wildflowers—which I will showcase next week. I was so excited to (hopefully) see the blooming bog azaelas, that I wanted to skip past those others and get to the good stuff! I was more excited than a person should be about a shrub…in a bog…in bloom, but really, it was quite spectacular!

The bog has a layer of sphagnum moss over a wet area—it is a fragile environment and can even be dangerous to navigate, so there is a boardwalk that guides hikers through this beautiful and unusual ecosystem.

Along with the Labrador Tea, another abundant blooming plant was what I was describing as a ‘star lily.’ The stems of white star-bursts are actually called Three-leaf False Solomon’s Seal—a mouthful compared to my made-up name.

In the sea of green moss and white flowers, two pink blossoms stood out—Pink Lady’s-slipper and Bog Laurel, both delicate and scarce. I feel fortunate to see such creations.

The forest part of the bog forest is made up of Tamarack (or Larch) and Black Spruce that thrive in the wet, acidic moss-soil. They have shallow, horizontal roots that keep them upright, while the Birch trees in the bog, with their vertical roots, only get to a certain size before they tip over.

There were healthy shrubs of Wild Blueberries in certain places where sunlight was more prevalent, and the fruits were just starting to form from the spent blossoms.

Parts of the bog reminded me of a fairy’s world with dancing shadows and sunlight on mossy dales and fallen-log caverns.

Just when I couldn’t be more pleased with the generous offerings of the June bog, Chris pointed out a spectacular plant in a bed of moss! It looked like chives with cotton blooms! It was standing upright three feet tall, and the bright white blossoms swayed in the breeze. The cotton chives are actually called Tussock Cottongrass, a sedge that grows in wet, northern areas. I had never seen anything like it—it was like a gift from the earth’s spirit keepers.

I had been anticipating a return to the bog for almost two years. Timing was an issue. My calls to the State Park to inquire about the bog azaelas were unanswered (make that robo-unanswered.) But on that day, after the rough day before, during that rocky time, I rather desperately needed to see the blooming bog—for reasons only known by my soul and my God. Once we got there, I made a bee-line for the bog, to the ‘good stuff’ I was anticipating in my head and needing for my spirit. I was so dang happy when I saw the masses of white Rhododendrons blooming, and I know it’s strange, but I’m kind of happy that a person can be so happy about a blooming bog. Nature and its beauties do that for me—it can be something different for each of us. Perhaps it’s having something to fix our gaze upon when things are not going the way we want them to, when we don’t feel like we’re standing upright on the ground, when we feel fragile. And when we see that dancing glimmer of hope in the dancing shadows of Life, we may be surprised by a spectacular specimen of Cottongrass and a mind that’s still fairly sound.