Archives for 2019

Risk and Reward

June 23, 2019 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

What would compel you to jump off a cliff? I mean literally jump off a cliff. Where on the risk scale are you, if 1 is ‘safety first and always’ and 10 is ‘extreme adventure is just a way of life?’ After leaving KoWaKan, Aaron asked if we wanted to stop at Thirteen Corners. That pulled me up short! I had heard the stories, even seen the take-your-breath-away video. My first thought was ‘no way do I want to see where my son and others I care for risked their lives,’ but I also knew it was a beautiful, intriguing place. So I said yes.

It is a beautiful place. Located within both Superior National Forest and Bear Island State Forest is Section 30. One hundred years ago this was a working mine for iron ore, employing 140 men. A community, also named Section 30, had been built up around the mine. There was a post office, a school with 120 children, boarding houses, private homes, a dance hall, hospital, silent movie theater, and Oppel’s General Store! All work halted in 1921 due to financial problems of the mining company after 15 years and the removal of almost 1.5 million tons of iron ore. Bust!

Section 30 has returned to the wilderness with a permanent scar of the water-filled open pit mine. Trees grow on the ‘spoils’ piles of unwanted rock from the mining, and we stood high on the hill and spoils above the water.

My knees were weak just watching Aaron walk to the ‘leaping point’—a jutting rock that overlay the green water sixty or seventy feet (or more?) below.

Trees have grown to the edge of the ragged rock cliffs, and Aaron pointed out the smaller cliffs on the other side—the ten or twenty footers where it was more just ‘fun’ to jump from. He told me of the tunnel under the inclined ledge—‘see that bright spot?’

It was like an optical illusion to me, that bright spot, until finally I could discern that it was sunlit ground from the other side of the tunnel.

The rock is actually quite beautiful with its red, purple, orange, and rust colors. There are layers of iron ore and pockets of white quartz.

But back to jumping off a cliff—what does a person ‘need’ to take a risk like that? First, you would need some skills—swimming, how to control your body when jumping, holding your breath, etc. You wouldn’t jump off a 70 foot cliff without first jumping off smaller cliffs many times—so, practice. You would need confidence in your abilities. You would need support—many eyes and hands to help see the dangers, to navigate the correct path, and to give you encouragement or warnings. And finally, you would need courage. It would be a rare person who would be able to stand on the ‘leaping point’ with no fear or trepidation.

The only evidence I saw of the mine, besides the pit and the piles of overgrown spoils, was this iron spike drilled into a rock high above the water. It must have held cables that were used to hoist the rock from the bottom of the pit. It was used for support, safety, and protection for the miners. It was important. They relied on the strength and integrity of that support for their livelihood, their well-being, even their life. Safety matters, even in risky ventures.

As I looked down at the green water, the very best I could imagine myself doing was walking out on that ridge and sitting with my feet in the water. Maybe. Perhaps. I’m a one on the risk scale, if not a zero or a negative number.

Walking through the trees, it was hard to imagine a bustling little mining town with children walking to school past the open pit where their fathers worked one hundred years ago. It was a risky job taken by Finnish immigrants in order to make a better life for their families. Those families moved on to other mining jobs and other places when Section 30 slowly dissolved after the abrupt closing of the mine. The mining company took a ‘calculated risk,’ defined as ‘a chance of failure, the probability of which is estimated before some action is undertaken.’ All businesses and all individuals at some time in their lives, take calculated risks after looking at the pros and cons, running the numbers, and having trusted people ‘weigh in’ on the issue. It is intentional; it is a choice. There are other risks people embark on from a position of vulnerability because of age, finances, health, or status—these ‘decisions’ are often a reaction of survival instead of a calculated choice. Then there is the purely physiological reality that the ‘executive function’ part of the brain, the prefrontal cortex, does not fully develop until the age of twenty-six or so. This is the rational part of the brain that is responsible for planning and impulse control. So our relationship to risk and safety changes as we mature and age.

Wherever we fall on the risk scale and for whatever reason we may or may not literally jump off a cliff or do any other kind of risky business, we can appreciate the siren call of adventure, freedom, re-birth, and fresh starts. We do, however, need to be wary of the bright spots that blind us of the risks; we need to practice discernment. We need to remember that the strength and integrity of safety matters. I thank God for the safety of the young people I know who have jumped off the cliffs—not all have fared so well, and I hope they have moved a little more towards the center of the risk scale. As for me, I need to move the needle away from my cocoon of protection and safety towards the middle ground where the unknown can bring connection, joy, and fun. Hello to Courage, and hello to “So I said yes!”

Connection Under an Azure Blue Sky

June 16, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It all began with my prejudice against red pepper flakes. We were eating our breakfast at KoWaKan, sitting at picnic tables under the tarp-covered kitchen. One of the board members we met the night before sat beside me and sprinkled red pepper flakes on his scrambled eggs. My Scandinavian sensibilities instantly went into danger mode—ie. ‘how to ruin a perfectly good, calm, comforting morning meal.’ When I cautiously mentioned his usage, he assured me that it made everything taste better. In my righteous and myopic defense of Northern European culinary practices, I quipped something like “and you’re from Minnesota?!” He was not from Minnesota. He said he grew up in Kansas City. Well, that explains it, I thought, as I told him that that was where my husband Chris grew up, too, (who also flavors his eggs with red pepper). We continued to eat our eggs and chat. When Chris walked over from the fire where he had been warmly eating his breakfast, I told him that John was from Kansas City! Chris asked him what part of KC he was from, then asked if he had gone to Southwest. John said no, that he had gone to Rockhurst High School. Things kind of went slow motion in my head as I looked from one to the other, and then he added, ‘Class of ’76.’ Chris and John were classmates! What the heck?! They used to play basketball together every day in the ‘short-guy-lunch-hour basketball league!’ We were in the northern wilderness of Minnesota at a Methodist camp and two Kansas City Catholic boys meet again after 40-some years! It blew my mind—I could hardly stand the deliciousness of it!

We were all on the same work team that morning, and the conversation between them flowed from past memories to present day to how they got here. During the shoveling, bucketing, trimming, and digging, in the midst of the smudge smoke that kept the black flies from our eyes, there was a re-connection from a distant time and place. From all the stories that Chris had told me about Rockhurst, I knew that it, too, had a ‘Spirit of the Place‘ about it.

Later in the day, I walked the trail from the Meadows to Hilltop, capturing the details of a late Spring day in the forest. Spruce, Pine, Fir, Birch, and Aspen are the largest trees in the forest, including those on the three islands of Section 12. Star-white flowers of small Serviceberry trees will produce dark, edible berries later in the summer.

Moss and lichens grow on nearly everything. The moss-covered rocks and soil are interspersed with tiny Violets, Wood Anemones, and other plants for later blooming.

Wild Blueberries grow on a sunny, rocky hill facing the lake. The low-to-the-ground shrubs with their small, pale, bell-shaped blossoms can easily be overlooked.

Wild Blueberries are the larval food for the Spring Azure Butterfly, who is almost camouflaged when its wings are folded, but who is a tiny piece of blue sky when flying.

I saw a swimmer out in the lake, gracefully going under and up in a measured, undulating cadence. From a distance, I knew it wasn’t a Loon, and Aaron confirmed that he had seen River Otters here during his work summers.

Another resident of the lake that Aaron retrieved for closer inspection was a dragonfly nymph. After the adult lays eggs on a plant in the water, the nymph grows and develops for up to four years before emerging from its shell and the water to become a flying dragonfly!

After my cold and restless second night in the tent, I was rewarded for getting up before the sunrise to see the mist rising from the still water.

Even the island was obscured in the morning mist…

…but the Loons who had sung our evening lullabies were seen swimming in early morning reverie.

We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep. –William James

Our weekend of service and connection with Aaron and our friend Luke and in this special place would have been wonderful in and of itself, despite the chilly nights. But the meeting of the classmates after more than forty years?! That chance? meeting just gave me so much delight! Later in the weekend, we also found out that two other fellow KoWaKan helpers had lived and camped at a Lutheran church camp that I had worked at in South Dakota when I was in college!! Ah, the graceful cadence of our lives! That Grace, that Cadence, is often overlooked in our busy lives or obscured by the mist of work, children, responsibilities, or ‘more important’ things. How do we connect with those other islands around us? I think first is the acknowledgement that we are already connected ‘in the deep.’ Secondly, it takes communication—talking, listening, asking questions, telling stories, and being open and brave. And finally, it takes caring, dedication, belief, faith, service, and the all-encompassing sea of Love. All of those converged that weekend under that tiny piece of azure sky of KoWaKan.

The Spirit of the Place

June 9, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

There are those moments when you feel, when you know at a deep level, you are not in your usual place. There are places—different for each of us—that are special in a soul-satisfying way. There are reasons, usually experiential, sometimes beyond our knowing, why we connect with a certain place.

On the last evening of May, we stopped at Rookie Pond after hours of traveling—we were within miles of our destination, but it is a favorite ‘sunset’ place to take in the beauty of the Northwoods. Breathing in the North air, I felt a strange combination of relaxation and excitement at the same time. I was not in my usual place!

The wildness of the Northwoods (the ubiquitous term describing the northern woodlands of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Maine, and other northern states) is humbling. We are the guests in this land—it is proper for us to take cues from it and to show respect and appreciation to our host. This is home to wolves, moose, black bears, and other creatures—it is their place. (The next day we saw picture proof of a black bear crossing the highway not far from this lookout the day before we arrived.)

A beaver’s lodge was prominently placed in the lake—not for our eyes but for its purposes. Nature’s great architect and builder goes about the business of being a beaver.

Our destination was KoWaKan, the Methodist camp that was the summer home for our daughter Emily and our son Aaron for a combination of eight or nine summers. Staff and campers live in large canvas tents on wood platforms, and most groups leave KWK to canoe and camp in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) Wilderness nearby. We arranged our sleeping bags and blankets on the cots, anticipating nighttime temperatures in the 40’s. Chris was sleeping before it was dark, and I crept into the tent with my lantern a bit later after leaving the campfire. I put on my layers of sleeping clothes—two pairs of socks, long-john pants, three layers of shirts/fleeces, and a wool stocking cap. I found myself smiling in the dark—I was so happy to be there. The frogs were singing, and the loons were calling on the lake right down the hill. But I couldn’t get to sleep. I kept getting colder. Drat! I would have to get up and put on more clothes. So I climbed out of bed, added gloves and another layer of leggings, rearranged my wool blanket to go under and over my sleeping bag, then climbed back in. The cold still crept into my toes, onto my nose, throughout my bones. I wasn’t sleeping, and I was no longer smiling. I brainstormed ways to get warmer with what we had left in the tent—all would mean getting out of my sleeping bag. Then the driving force to action struck me—the need to use the outhouse. Ugh. Boots, lantern, shivers, and I was out in the woods. But when I looked up at the sky in our tent clearing, I found the gift to my cold discomfort. The stars were a shining, masterpiece mural across the dark sky! The Milky Way swept its splendor of billions of stars in a high arch above my head. A shooting star fell before my eyes. Well then!

I slept fitfully the rest of the night until the early morning (34 degrees!) light lit the path to the outhouse. A huge anthill was piled up beside the path—home for the ants. (Did you know that bears will swipe off the top of an ant hill and eat the tiny, protein-packed ants?)

It was time to get to work! Opening camp for the season includes setting up tents, putting tarps over tents to prevent sun damage, cutting brush and firewood, raising the tarp roof over the kitchen and tent-drying areas, getting outhouses in shape, setting up cots and the kitchen, and many other things. The three staff members and other KWK helpers had started the process before we arrived, but there was plenty of work left to be done. But first, it was coffee time. What to do with coffee beans and no grinder? The flat axe head didn’t work that well, but our friend Luke’s idea of a large rock and some muscle power from Luke and Aaron soon had the coffee ground up and perking in the pot! A KWK mortar and pestle.

Section 12 is the source of beauty, of singing, of solitude, of sustenance, and of cleanliness for all who dwell in this place. One greets the lake upon rising, and the lake reciprocates. It is a prayer for one another—the greeter and the lake, and for all who eat, work, worship, and sleep on her shores.

Water is gathered with a hand pump from the lake, boiled, and put into pans for washing and rinsing dishes and hands. It is a life of simplicity, of routine, and of physical work in service to oneself and others.

We had noisy neighbors called Gray Jays during our meals. They are known for their brashness in stealing human food from campsites. They were watching us and our plates!

Another frequent visitor to the kitchen is chipmunks. They scour the ground under the picnic tables for bits of dropped food. I found an eating place of theirs along the trail where fir cone shells were left in a pile after the seeds were eaten.

Most of the year, KoWaKan belongs only to those who inhabit the woodlands and lakes—the bears, Jays, wolves, and chipmunks. It is their place. For three months of summer, we are guests of their land. It is a special place, not only for the memories our children and decades of campers have gathered, but also for the intrinsic spirit of the place. KoWaKan means ‘Place of the Almighty.’

Where is the place that satisfies your soul? The place that floods you with memories and brings a smile to your face? Those places teach us the business of being ourselves, where life is simple and hard, all at the same time. Those places challenge us, yet give us unexpected gifts. We use our minds and bodies in work and problem-solving, serving ourselves and others. May you be blessed in your special place.

What Kind of Flower Are You?

June 3, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

What if you were a flower? Which one would you be? After waiting so desperately for Spring flowers, we now have an explosion of sorts! The Crabapples and Lilacs are garnering star-status attention—eyes are drawn to their charisma and beauty. From a distance they are admired, and up close they are appreciated.

Lily of the Valley are hidden among the wide, pointed leaves—at first glance, green is all one sees. A closer look reveals pure, simple features with an exquisite fragrance.

What’s not to like about Virginia Bluebells? Beautiful shape and color and one of the first flowers to bloom in the woodland before getting covered up by the vigorous summer plants.

The tiny, delicate Brunnera is easily missed among the larger green leaves. The flowers can be mistaken for the better known Forget-me-nots.

Sweet Woodruff, a shade-loving groundcover, has a diminutive, elegant flower reminiscent of the tropical Stephanotis.

On their own, the Purple Flag Iris and the Anemone are brilliant and eye-catching, each with distinct, enchanting features. When paired together, they are a power couple!

What flowers?! Jack-in-the-Pulpit flowers don’t look like flowers at all! They blend in with the triad leaves and the purplish stems.

I always forget the name of these Spring flowers that pop up from low-growing vines. Chris reminds me they are Creeping Phlox that can be confused with the other Creeping Phlox. (The perils of a common name.)

Wild Geraniums are showy in color with large stamens and striped flower buds, but the mound of cut-leafed foliage is the most distinct feature of the plant.

Dozens and dozens and dozens of Honeysuckle shrubs are blooming in our woods right now. Some are pink, others are yellow and white, and some are a darker rose color. They are sweet-smelling and abundant.

Serviceberry and Chokecherry are best know for the fruit they produce, but without the flower, there is no fruit!

Ajuga, besides its great name, is a richly-colored ground cover that can get carried away. (In other words, it can spread into places you don’t want it.) The stalks of lobed blue flowers are impressive at this time of year.

Variegated Solomon’s Seal is a work of art with arching stems, white-lined leaves, and pendulous pairs of white and green flowers.

If you are not looking for this flower, you will miss it. The large heart-shaped leaves hide the ground-hugging purple-red flower. They are exquisite flowers when you look closely.

Spring/Winter was hard on the bulb flowers this year. The Crocuses that line the driveway grew their leaves, but did not produce one flower. The Daffodils were late to push up their lance-like leaves, and only two flowers showed their sunshine faces.

Flowers of the Nannyberry Viburnum are large clusters of many smaller flowers. Their strength and presence come from the compilation of lots of small, individual beauties.

I know some Crabapple people in my life—they are seen and heard from a distance and are admired and appreciated by many. Some people I know aren’t showy at all—their gifts are more subtle or hidden, and it takes time and effort to uncover them and get to know them. Others blend in, get covered up by more vigorous people, are confused with others, or are missed entirely. They are the ones that need intention, time, noticing, and listening from the rest of us. Their gifts and beauty are just as important to our communities and lives as are the abundant ones. Certain people are known only by the fruits of their labor, what they produce, the work they do, and the brilliance and perseverance of who they are as a person is lost in that translation. I know couples who are superb and talented individuals who are synergistic in their togetherness. And some people are having hard times and are just doing what needs to be done to survive—their sunshine faces are clouded over. We are all flowers, each in our own exquisite way. When you look closely, we are all works of art.

The Next 364 Days Through Shadow and Light

May 26, 2019 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

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

May 19, 2019 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

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

May 12, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

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

May 5, 2019 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

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.

Hug a Tree, Plant a Tree—Your Body Will Thank You

April 28, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

National Arbor Day was Friday. It is a day that passes unnoticed by most people, I would guess. I would hate to speculate how many people do not even know what the word ‘arbor’ means. Would more people pay attention if we called it National Tree Day? Trees are important for many reasons, but their most fundamental process is to take CO2 (carbon dioxide) out of the air for use and storage and to release O2 (oxygen) back into the air—for us to breathe. That alone should have us hugging trees, planting trees, and celebrating trees every day, with every breath we take. They are literally life to us.

Trees have been the lifeblood for Chris for forty-five years now—daily interactions that go far beyond the benevolent exchange of gases. They are a part of our family—they are grown, planted, cared for, protected, and loved. Four years ago I wrote about watching/helping him plant a tree, and I thought I would share part of that post:

My dear husband Chris has been planting trees for over forty years–this flowering dogwood in front of the Odessa First United Methodist Church is just one of thousands that are the legacy of his hands and spade.

Watching him plant a large tree is a study in precision and ease and of sweat and dirt. He places the tree, then cuts a circle around it with his sharp spade. He moves the tree aside and expertly skims the sod from the circle. His foot steps the spade into the soil with a satisfying sound, and he lays that spadeful neatly beside the hole. He continues to step, lift, step, lift, step, lift–making it look easy, even as the sweat starts rolling off his face and arms. A sharp clunking sound and a jarring vibration in his hands indicate a rock, and with additional finesse and muscle, he removes it from the neat, straight-sided hole. With the handle of his spade, he measures the correct depth so the tree is not planted too deeply or too high. The width is one and a half times the diameter of the root ball. He gently rolls the tree into the hole, cuts the twine and unpins the burlap from the root ball, kneeling in the dirt he just overturned. By now his shirt is wet with sweat, and his cap and belt are dark-stained with the salty moisture. The tree is in its place, and with a vertical, cutting motion with the spade, he tamps the soil into the hole to anchor the roots in their new home. His ‘helper’ (me) turns on the water hose and trickles water as he tamps, and soon the hole is filled with dirt and water. The sod is chunked into strips and lined around the hole, and the bermed crater is soaked with a slow stream of water.

Chris has planted trees of every kind and size in four states, has grown them from seed, has pruned them, watered them, moved them, cared for them, and reluctantly cut them down. He has planted trees to memorialize people who have died and to celebrate people who are alive. He’s a tree man through and through.

So Arbor Day for us is like ‘Eat Some Healthy Food Day’ or ‘Take a Deep Breath Day’—we do it every day with little thought and with much thought. Trees are such an important, integral part of our lives—they sustain us at the most basic level of biology and at the highest stratum of spirit. And they do that for all of us, even when we are not aware.

We wander our woods and yard with excitement each Spring, noticing each tree, examining them for rabbit, deer, or winter wind damage. Some don’t make it through the winter (or the drought or whatever the challenge), but healthy color and expectant buds of new growth are signs that all is well. Others rally from the damage with Spring rains and warm temperatures, and they carry the scars through the rest of their lives. As I walked our yard this Arbor Day, I wondered how many trees Chris has planted on our one plus acre in our eleven years here. I stopped counting at one hundred. That was without counting most of the small Oaks that he grew from seed or most of the shrubs that are just starting to get their leaves or any of the trees on the wooded hillside. Here are just a few:

I know I’m kind of preaching to the choir—anyone who reads my blog already appreciates trees and all the other amazing flora and fauna of Nature. But at this time on our planet, this becomes more than a matter of appreciation. Planting trees is one of the most effective ways in which we can stave off the detrimental effects of climate change. The Nature Conservancy has pledged to plant one billion trees, and Microsoft will match your donation up to $50,000. The Arbor Day Foundation has a new ‘The Time for Trees Initiative’ to plant 100 million trees by 2022. If you sign up to support The Arbor Day Foundation, you will receive ten free trees to plant on your own. Few people can make the personal difference of actually growing and planting many thousands of trees like Chris has, but all of us can make a difference by being aware of the importance of trees, by donating to organizations that plant trees, and by planting and caring for more trees in our own lives. It truly does affect the most basic level of our biology and the highest stratum of our spirits.

Earth Day, (Re)Birth Day, Worth Day

April 21, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

On this Easter Day and Earth Day Eve, I am struggling with writing about this convergence of really important things. What is ‘worth-it’ to us as individuals, as businesses, as a country? What values are we willing to throw under the bus to get our way for power or money or whatever reason we deem important? Why do we even celebrate Easter, Birthdays, Earth Day, church days, Spring days? We don’t celebrate for the sake of celebrating—we celebrate to honor the underlying message or value of each of those days.

We have a number of friends who have or soon will be celebrating the Birth Days of their children or grandchildren. What a glorious event to witness the birth of a new human being! But just as magnificent is witnessing the growth and development of every person, no matter their age. We never stop being worthy of being celebrated.

The Re-Birth Day of Easter is celebrated today by Christians around the world. Just when things look bleak and dark, when hope seems lost, when things do not go as they should or as planned, there is a transformation that startles us from gloom and despair to light and joy. Transformation of that magnitude deserves celebration!

Earth Day is a reminder of all the glorious, life-giving gifts that our Earth offers to us every moment of every day. It is a time when we examine what is worthwhile in our daily lives. How much worth do I place on being able to breathe clean air? Is it important to have clean water to drink, to fish in, to swim in, and for our ocean animals to live in? Should companies be allowed to emit whatever they want into the air and water, even when it is known to be harmful? What things can we do to mitigate the extreme financial, emotional, and collateral hardships that occur due to frequent extreme weather events? What is the real cost of the destruction of the rain forest? How can I make a difference? For over forty years, Earth Day has been a reminder to us of these and other questions.

The April full moon or “Pink moon” shone bright on Holy Thursday and Good Friday/Passover. It is called “Pink moon” after early-blooming Wild Ground Phlox and other pink flowers that symbolize the start of Spring. Just as ‘blue moon’ and ‘blood moon’ don’t indicate the color of the moon on the given months, the Pink Moon doesn’t represent its color. But clouds and lighting captured a pink glow nonetheless.

I like how the moon illuminated the pine needles as it ‘passed by.’

We are charged with being stewards of our Earth—caretakers of the water, air, and land. At times I feel despair that these resources are being used and abused with little thought for the world that our children and grandchildren will inherit. If we deem them worthy for our own selves, then, as caretakers, it is imperative that we make sure they will be available in the future. Celebrations are a time to honor and acknowledge the gifts of a new life, a developing, maturing life, the core values of a religious or spiritual life, and the very essence and sustenance of all our lives from the Earth. I challenge you to be an illuminating presence, full of goodness and mercy, as you pass by the people and places in your world.

Archives for 2019

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