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In the Midst of the Storm

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Everyone was getting ready for it. The news people said it was another bomb cyclone headed for the upper Midwest. Who even knew what a bomb cyclone was? Why is this new term in our vocabulary, much less twice in a month’s time? Snow removal equipment that had been optimistically ‘put away’ for the season was dragged back out. Parents were expecting yet another snow day off of school. How many does that make? April 10th was the day of preparation. The birds and animals knew something was up. Lots of feeding, flurry, and frenzy. By late afternoon, the snow had begun to fall, and cancellations were being announced for just about everything for the next day.

Early in the morning of April 11th, the wind came up with a rage. It whistled through windows, forced itself through cracks in the house, moved the heat out and replaced it with a cold draft. Good thing it was April and not January. We had some inches of snow overnight that promptly got rearranged with the northeast wind. I was surprised how many birds were out trying to feed in the storm. The suet cake feeder was flung from side to side, its protective roof askew, but a Red-breasted woodpecker and a large Pileated woodpecker clung to its mesh sides.

I marveled at how long they both swung there, holding on and grabbing bites of fat and seed. Finally the Pileated woodpecker rested on the off-wind side of the Maple tree. What an incredible and unusual bird!

Dead branches and pine cones dislodged from the trees and tumbled across the yard. A White Pine branch planted itself, and the snow filled in around it.

Dark-eyed Juncos and Sparrows braved the wind to eat seeds that had blown from the feeders. They faced into the wind and only occasionally did I see one tumble across the snow.

A couple took refuge behind and under a Spirea shrub to conserve some energy and eat in peace.

At mid-morning, we had thunder and lightning and bits of hail that pelted the windows. Every type of precipitation fell that day—snow, rain, sleet, and hail, and all with the accompaniment of the fierce wind.

Early afternoon the sky and snow turned an eerie yellowish-brown color. Along with all the debris that had blown off the trees, there was now a layer of reddish-brown dirt covering the snow. Later I learned the dust was blown all the way from Texas on this cyclone of a wind.

It was hard to tell how much snow/precipitation we had that day with all the changes in state. It’s one of those things we usually take a silly pride in keeping track of—knowing how much snow or rain, how cold or hot it is on any given day. It records our days in a very concrete way—each of us our own scientist. But on this day, it didn’t even matter. It was a Spring mess we just wanted to get over in order to get to the Spring we desired.

By Friday morning, the winds had calmed down, but the snow continued. The critters continued to feed and scratch and sing—a Spring feeding with all the singing—a difference worth noting.

Along with the singing was the unmistakable sign of the imminent and unstoppable Spring—the swollen, red flower buds of the Maple tree.

After the storm, AccuWeather announced that we did not just survive a bomb cyclone—it was a ‘monster storm’ and a ‘powerhouse blizzard’—but technically did not qualify as a bomb cyclone. The pressure needs to drop 24 millibars over 24 hours of time to be considered a bomb cyclone—this one only dropped by 20 millibars. So…there…we…go. We were out of the woods on the backside of the storm. Technicalities aside, the storm was real. If it looks like, sounds like, and feels like a bomb cyclone, then so be it. In weather, we are fortunate to have meteorologists studying and forecasting what’s to come. Science is real. If only we had such forecasters for our own lives. We could get ready. We could prepare ourselves. We could make plans, stock up, let go, and drag out whatever equipment we would need for the upcoming upheaval. Instead we are caught in the raging wind, sometimes tumbled around; we hang on, find some peace, do what we have to do. We plant ourselves in a new reality and let the chips fall where they may. We are battered, yet brave. In the midst of the storm, there is singing—along with an imminent pull towards the future. It is a difference worth noting.

The Sentry Awaiting Spring

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It seemed like no one lived here over the long frigid months of Winter—the ice and feet of snow covered the moving, living, reflecting body of water. I know for certain there were frogs of various sorts, turtles with their colorful, hard-shelled homes carried on their backs, crayfish, and densely-furred, rat-tailed muskrats buried under mud and stick homes in hibernation mode. Life was here, but like the trees and so many things in Nature, it was dormant. Awaiting Spring.

Anxious to find a temporary home, perhaps a place to build a nest, mate, lay a clutch of eggs, and raise a feathered family, migrating waterfowl found this little lake. It seemed desirable, even with the ice still covering large portions of the water. Small, thin-billed Hooded Mergansers with fan-shaped, collapsible crests courted the few females with their elegant plumage and royal carriage.

A pair of Mallards, clumsy and large compared to the Mergansers, trooped across the ice and dipped into a frigid pool that opened like a dark streak in the white frozenness. Despite their clumsiness, there are so many things I appreciate about the Mallards—the male’s iridescent green head, the curled tail feathers, and the sturdy, orange legs and webbed feet.

I wonder what it was about this place that enticed these ducks and geese to stop, to rest, and to explore. It is a quiet place beside a dead-end road, surrounded by beautiful Birch and Oak trees. It has vines of Bittersweet and petite shrubs of Wild Roses.

All seemed content in the awakening homeplace except for one Canadian goose. He/she seemed to be the sentry, the one on guard, the eyes and ears of the group. The Sentry squawked in alarm and nervously swam towards the others as I walked closer. The others gave no cares at all as they swam through the reeds and dipped their heads under water to pull up a tasty green shoot.

The Sentry scrambled onto the ice, perhaps for a better vantage point. He paced back and forth, talking, scolding, watching, and worrying.

Is this the place to make a summer home? To raise a family? Are there hidden dangers?

It pays to be watchful, to know the signs of danger, particularly if one is susceptible, like to the potent berries of Poison Ivy that seem benign without the triad of shiny green leaves seen in summer.

Finally the Sentry slipped back into the water and was joined by the other geese, and calm returned to the swimmers. My presence no longer seemed like a threat. Maybe this is a good place. Perhaps Spring is leading us to where we need to go. There is hope in the Willows.

There are parts of most of us in the North that hibernate in the dark, cold, snowy months of Winter. Some whose internal lights shine strong with abundant energy and youthful vigor can move through Winter just as they do the rest of the year. They are beacons to the rest of us. Otherwise, the shift that occurs in Spring ignites a dormant flame, compelling us to move towards an awakening of sorts. Like the ducks and geese, the hibernating creatures under the mud, and the trees and plants all around, energy is quickened. Daylight and warmer temperatures turn on genetic programming and instincts. It’s time to find a summer home, to mate, to raise a family. We need the sentries of the world to be watchful, to keep the others safe, to protect those who do not know or see the dangers that may be lurking around us. And then we move in the living, reflecting, motioning water towards the soft willow flowers of a hopeful Spring.

UnSnowed

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When we lived on our little farmstead in Missouri in our younger years, we had a trencher come and dig in a water line. The machine slices into the earth making a narrow but deep gash in which to lay the water pipe so it doesn’t freeze. Once the pipe was in place, there was a slight mound of extra dirt in a line across the field. After a rain, Chris and Emily walked along the cut path. Emily noticed a beautiful, blush-colored spear point laying on top of the soil. Unearthed by machine and rain. After all that time.

In the last three weeks, we have become unsnowed. After what seemed like a long, snowy winter (not really so long as many others), the culprit has mostly disappeared in a short amount of time. Just when we think that things we don’t like and time move slowly! Change does not often adhere to our time schedule. As a snow-lover, it is leaving too quickly for me—even as the cold temps this weekend have slowed the loss and even as a part of me desires the warmth and greenth of Spring. In my fickleness, I miss the bright snow-light of the morning. After all that time.

From our last ten-inch snowstorm to unsnowed—just three weeks in time.

I discovered some green Pachysandra in the unsnowing—our eyes and memories ‘forget’ what lies underneath the real and compelling recent past.

Where did the snow go? With the frost still in the ground, the melted snow made its way down the hill to the River. The high water just about touched the old railroad bridge as ice floes and foam bubbled from the dam.

In places, it was hard to distinguish the foam from the snow.

The old mill dam was covered by a dark, smooth sheet of water that crashed over the short drop-off into a frenzy of voluminous, white-capped churning.

We caught sight of an approaching ice floe that had been dislodged from the upstream lakes and sent on its northern trek towards the Mississippi.

It was rather mesmerizing to watch the floating ice draw near the dam, change course in the current, and break into pieces as gravity and churning water broke the tenuous bonds and instantly changed the state of ice to the state of water and vapor.

Upstream more blocks of deconstruction floated quietly by, unsuspecting of the turmoil that lay ahead.

A short ways upstream, past one more highway bridge, a boat ramp accepted excess water, just as all the lower-lying areas of all these Midwest flooded rivers have done. There is no choice in the matter.

High above the River on the bluff, where the tips of the Spruce trees rise above the Oaks, is where we live, where the snow melted, where the water ran from.

An evening silhouette of Alder cones and catkins stood beside the River, against the golden-hued trees on the opposite shore.

Squiggly, golden reflections of winter-weary trees shone on the water, bypassing the blunting, matte ice still clinging to the shore. It is time to see ourselves again.

Snow has ruled our lives for the last three and a half months—there is no choice in the matter if you live in Minnesota. (Only three and a half months—not six, for those who believe our winters are unreasonable.) It is not unusual or unexpected. Seasons unfold in unmistakable ways. And now the snow is (almost) gone. We have been unsnowed.

With longer life comes the opportunities to change our states. I have been undone, unnerved, undecided, and uncomfortable. I have felt unworthy, unsettled, unsafe, and unaccepted. Events and issues in my life have been unexplainable, unbearable, unforeseen, and unfair. And I have also lived my life with unwavering hope, unceasing love, unbridled joy, and unmitigated faith. What happens within us when things are unspoken, unresolved, untenable, and unbalanced? What happens within us when we become unburdened, untangled, unmasked, and unafraid? The state of our mind and body changes. Our eyes and memories can forget the recent or distant past, and we can unearth the treasure of who we are. We can see ourselves again. After all that time.

The Mess is Real

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It’s been kind of a tough week. One of those weeks when there seems to be an ice dam blocking the normal flow of life, flooding places I don’t want to be flooded with things I don’t want to deal with—it’s been a reflection of what’s been happening in physical time in the upper Midwest. My heart goes out to all who are dealing with the literal ice dams and floods—the damage is extensive; the mess is real.

Meanwhile, on our hill high above the River, Spring has arrived in a calm, quiet form. The warmish days and cold nights have slowed the snow melt after the rapid accumulation of rain and melting snow that have unleashed the fury to the south of us. We are beginning to see the ground.

With melting of the snow comes a revelation of the debris of Winter. Piles of sunflower and safflower seed hulls mound on the ground under the bird feeders as the snow disappears from the layers of Winter.

The Fall-raked lawn is now scattered with pinecones, sticks, and pine needles that Winter’s harsh snows and winds dislodged from the high branches of the mature trees.

The garden is considerably less filled with snow than a week ago but still quite a ways from Spring planting.

The deer have left some debris in their Winter pathways—we just watch our step and wait to see what grows in that fertilized space.

But the Spring stirring has started in the Maple trees! Flower buds have emerged from the branches, poised for exuberant activity to come. On the warm, sunny afternoons, sap is flowing, darkening the bark as the upward flow leaks out and flows back down.

Beneath the snow, there are millions of blades of green grass arising from dormancy, getting ready to carpet the world with life.

The patio is emerging from mounds of snow, the sun-warmed rocks being the first to push back the snow.

The remains of Fall still decorate the background of snow but will soon be lost in the riotous, new green growth of Spring.

Fall, Winter, and the potential of Spring collide in this first week of the Vernal Equinox.

With each day, the grass patches are getting larger, and the snow patches are shrinking. We prepared for Winter by getting everything cleaned up, tidy, and put away. But even in the dormancy, lots of things happen, and some of them are messy. In other words, we have to clean up after Winter, too. What of this dormancy and incubation time of Winter for us? I think this time of quiescence is actually a gathering of old, fall-like ideas and beliefs that rumble around under the insulation of our consciousness. What is uncovered come Spring? It’s kind of messy. It creates blockages in the flow of our ‘normal’ living. New ideas spring forth and flood the way we once thought or planned. We see the ground (thank goodness), but the seeds are not yet sown. I will watch my step. I feel poised for exuberant activity to come.

Unfinished Business

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Remember that childhood game used to decide who gets to do something or more often who doesn’t have to do something? Rock, paper, scissors? Count to three while pounding one fist in your other hand and on the third count you make a scissors, rock, or paper sign. Paper covers rock, scissors cut paper, rock crushes scissors. That’s what our mid-March weather has been like! If we had hopeful thoughts of Spring, Mother Nature crushed those ideas last weekend with a storm that dumped ten inches of snow on our accumulated heap. Winter has some unfinished business.

The snow was wet and heavy and smothered the evergreens with its power. Branches bowed to the ground, broke from the trunk, and got stuck in the snow.

The heavy hand of Winter was not letting go of its reign without one last(?) battle.

Three days later, Spring’s rains, backed by a whoosh of just-warm-enough temperatures, cut through the snow like a warm knife through butter. The rains came, and the snow melted.

The official beginning of Spring is Wednesday, and she means business. Though pushed back, she will not be denied. Snow and ice are no match for the liquid warmth of her rain.

We’ve had a ceasefire in the last couple of days in the battle between Winter’s unfinished business and Spring’s compelling unveiling. The temperatures have ducked down below freezing again, slowing the melting and flooding while laying booby traps of slick, icy patches. Beware of where you step.

But we have another player in this battle of the seasons—the power of the Sun who has returned to our hemisphere to play. Sun covers all with a renewed power. He works on the snow even with Winter in control of the temperatures. Sol joins hands with Spring to move us forward. He reveals the dirt of Winter that was somehow unseen in these months of snowy beauty. The fireball excites the dormant current of energy stored in every tree and shrub, and the warmth of that energy melts a ring around each trunk.

The melting snow reveals another season with a smidgen of unfinished business. Autumn leaves are sandwiched between layers of snow, skeleton-like in their loss of chlorophyll and organic matter. Perhaps Winter moves along their decay, so when the green grass takes over in a flush of Spring, the old leaves will finally be integrated into the soil, completing that part of the cycle once again.

We still have plenty of snow and a fair amount of time where the battle of Winter and Spring plays out. It is familiar and necessary. It is the way of Mother Nature, with unfinished business from each season slowly and surely becoming integrated into the earth. How do we handle our unfinished business? There are pieces of our past that seamlessly integrate into who we are as a person, other pieces are up for examination and debate, and still others are hidden, denied, or ignored—the past that won’t let go of us—our unfinished business. How do we know it’s unfinished? It still affects us—nightmares, illnesses, insomnia, overreactions, projections, and repetitions of similar events like accidents, to name a few. These pieces need to be brought into the light of day, questioned, listened to, and accepted. It is the most loving thing we can do for ourselves. Bit by bit, story by story, day by day, tear by tear, the finishing happens. It becomes integrated—it dissolves into our souls, minds, and bodies—completing that part of the cycle in order to feed our next season of life.

On the Path to Being a Good Neighbor

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Chris and I bought our first place when we were in our late twenties. We had a young baby, two horses, a number of cats, and lots of energy. Our place included an old farmhouse, an even older-looking barn, a cellar, an outhouse, a dirt-floored garage, and twenty acres. It was perfect to us, and with youthful enthusiasm we set about to build a new corral and put up new pasture fence for the horses. At the back of our property lived an old man—he was a small little man made more so when his wife spoke to him with a big, disapproving voice. At one time, he had some cattle back in a pasture behind us, so there was an old woven wire fence that ran along the back border. Therein lay our dilemma. When the property was surveyed before we bought it, the survey pole marking our land was four or five feet on the neighbor’s side of the old fence. Where should we set the sturdy corner post for our new fence? I remember we asked the realtor what we should do, and she advised us to put the post on the surveyed corner of our property. So we dug our deep hole with a post-hole digger, careful to keep the whole post on our corner of the property. We tamped in the dirt and congratulated ourselves on how sturdy it was! We set the brace post and called it a day. Not long afterwards we noticed the neighbor had cut the top off our big, sturdy post! And we got a very official letter in the mail from a lawyer for our neighbor saying we were trespassing on his property, and there would be dire consequences if we did not remove the post and stay off his land! I was upset and confused by this turn of events—we were conscientiously trying to do the right thing, and we had already made an enemy of our new neighbor.

A couple weeks and a number of snows ago, I strapped on snowshoes for a walk in the delicious sun and cold. It was one of those boldly invigorating days. The snow was light and fluffy, and I sank a number of inches with each step I took.

But I was not the first one out in the new snow! Some little creature, perhaps a mouse, made his way from the wild plum tree to nowhere! He either went under the snow, made his way back on his exact same tracks, or was plucked from the snow from above.

The tracks under the bird feeders left evidence of a busy night.

Where do rabbits live in Winter? In a palatial snow-covered brush pile!

There are plenty of brush-pile igloos for everyone.

The downside of having housing for rabbits is their restaurant choice! They know how to make enemies with the man of the house.

By far the most abundant tracks were from the deer. They foraged through the woods, pawed at the snow, nibbled at branches, and bedded down under cedar trees—their every move etched in the snow.

My snowshoeing destination was the granite rock overlook that was a rest stop decades ago as part of the highway system. It overlooks the Sauk River as it runs into the Chain of Lakes. Only the deer and I were spectators at this time of year.

On my way back, my snowshoe prints blended in with the deer prints—I was the one traveling on their territory.

Back in the yard, shadows from allium flower stalks darkened the snow.

Feather prints in the snow allude to the capture of another little rodent. Snow tracks show the movement and activity of the creatures that roam around our yard and the woods.

As young, naive kids on the first place we owned, we thought we were doing the right thing. As the old established neighbor, he felt we were trespassing on his land. As it turned out, we backed down and built our fence on our side of his fence—not on the survey line. The posts we put in remained in his unused pasture, a symbol to us both of the questions of what it means to be a good neighbor and what constitutes land ownership. We also got schooled by him about being a good neighbor when our hay field had a hearty bunch of Canadian thistles growing in it. Thistle seeds care nothing for fence lines. (To be fair to us, we had left them at the request of the county after they had released beneficial insects to combat thistles.) As I snowshoed to the overlook, I trespassed on an abandoned lot and on an easement deeded to another before getting to public land. The cross-country runners and a bevy of high-schoolers do the same when the weather is nice. The deer path has been used by others for decades before we moved here. Deer, rabbits, and other wildlife come and go as they please—they care nothing for property lines either. And though Chris curses the critters who destroy his young trees, we know that we live with them as neighbors. Who is encroaching upon who? It’s a good thing when we can stand tall in our integrity and look carefully at our shadows, those buried hurts and disappointments that we disown in ourselves and often project onto others. With sweeping certainty, we judge them unfit. Too often others pay for our wounds. On this journey of life, we learn what we didn’t know before—about ourselves, others, and the world. We can hope our transgressions are forgiven, we can pray to forgive those who trespass against us, and we can learn to be good neighbors.

Snow and Steel

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Don’t curse the weather. –Anna Andersen

This may not be a very popular stance in lieu of the last two months—but I’m not unhappy with Winter. I think we are exactly where we should be. In fact, I’m pretty happy with it! The previous two winters were dismal in the snow department, and I do admit that I was a little whiny about that at the time. This is Minnesota, the North! We normally have extreme cold and plenty of snow—it’s what we sign up for when we live here. That being said, I also live with a person who daily gets up super early, drives through snow to get to more snow, to move the snow, to sweep the snow, to shovel the snow, to put down ice melt, to take the complaints about snow and ice, and comes home—to more snow. He is not very happy with our record-breaking February snowfall. He’s ready for it to be gone. His mood does not improve when I tell him how beautiful it is!

Friday we had more snow—the lightest, prettiest, fluffiest snow with a crisp, cold temperature. Hello to March!

I kind of like to shovel—there is a soothing rhythm to it. Push the snow, lift, throw, pivot, walk back, push, lift, throw, pivot, walk, repeat again and again. It’s aerobic and strength-training all in one. It takes an hour or two to do our driveway, depending on how much snow is there. Friday evening while the snow was still falling, it was so silent, the flakes muffling the sounds. I was startled by a car going by, suddenly right there, with no approaching sound. Shoveling can be a meditative movement, a silent communing with Nature—if you let it.

We have paths through the snow—to the compost bin and to the bird feeders. The paths are packed with snow, and an occasional wrong step sinks me thigh-high, filling boots of any size with cold snow.

The garden is full of snow—up to the top of the fence. Snow is a good insulator—we had lost some perennials in the last couple of years because of frigid temperatures and too little snow. It also provides needed moisture for the soil and plants for the coming growing season. The down side is the deer and rabbits have little to eat except for trees and shrubs that are above the snow line.

Spring and summer do seem far away when the signs of summer—the canoe and patio—are buried in snow. But there is a rhythm of activity and rest that the seasons force upon us.

The bank of snow by the house occurs when we ‘rake the roof.’ We haven’t done it in years, but when we have this much snow, it helps prevent ice dams from occurring and possible water damage inside the house. It’s a hard job—the rake is long-handled and unwieldy, and one has to stand and walk in deep snow while pulling the snow off the roof. Not much meditative magic in this job.

A couple of other jobs that we undertake with this much snow is clearing snow in front of the mailbox so the delivery person can get close enough to put the mail in the box. The snow plow piles the snow around the mailbox—and we shovel or snowblow it away. We are also asked to shovel the snow away from the fire hydrant in order to have the hydrant available to fire fighters if they should need it at our house.

In a way, snow is magical—if the temperature is just warm enough, the moisture falls as rain. With below-freezing temps, these miraculous crystals form and gently fall from the sky! Snow can be light or heavy, soft or hard, dangerous or fun. And in a couple of weeks, it will melt and be gone!

My Grandma Anna sometimes chided my Dad to not curse the weather—that weather was the source of their livelihood. She didn’t downplay the hardship that weather can bring—and back then, she knew about hardship. But she knew the same weather that brought too much snow or rain, or not enough, was the same that brought sunshine needed for crops to grow, the breeze to dry the wet soil, and once again, rain to nourish the plants. She was wise and steadfast in her faith. Winter and snow can temper us, teach us prudence, propel us to do things we don’t really want to do, and remind us that Nature is not here to do our bidding. There is a season for everything—even the hard things. To temper steel is to improve its hardness and elasticity by rounds of heating and cooling. Perhaps that’s what the seasons—the heat of summer and the cold of winter—do for us. Hard hearts soften, soft hearts toughen, good judgement overcomes selfish wants, and unfounded fear and restriction give way to peace and openness. Like steel, we become more resilient. Like Nature, we become closer to God.

The Enchanted Rock

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And so we climbed the Rock—the Enchanted, intriguing Rock. As we climbed, we left behind the sandy soil and evergreen Live Oak trees; the trail was a solid rock beneath our feet. We could pick our own path, like scampering mountain goats, exploring the rugged terrain. Island ecosystems of Prickly Pear and grasses defied the reality of growing on solid rock.

When we turned around, we could see how far we had already come, and the way to the top looked deceptively close in the bare expanse of rock.

The wind became so strong it took our breath away. It was hard to hear anyone talking, and we used our heavy adult-sized bodies to anchor us to the rock with each footstep. We wondered how a child would even be able to walk without being blown away. The steep upward climb was made harder with the incessant push of the wind, and sometimes we sat or lay on the rock just to get a bit of relief from the gale.

It was like a moonscape on the huge dome—craters and cracks and crevices, and there was a sense of just how ancient this rock-of-a-planet Earth is that we live on. Humbling.

As we neared the top, weathering pits filled with the previous night’s rainfall glimmered in the sunlight. The footprint-like craters have spawned myths about eternally wandering ghosts, but in reality, they are the probable reason for the ethereal glow on a moonlit night, which induced someone to name it ‘Enchanted Rock.’

The larger weathering pits that retain water for weeks are called vernal pools. These delicate ecosystems are pioneer communities that contain minute plants and animals that will develop over time into an oasis of life. Tiny fairy shrimp are found and studied here, and a moss-like plant named rock quillwort is unique to this environment.

As bits of soil, seeds, and small creatures build up in the vernal pools, over time it transforms into a little island of life—willows, grasses, yucca, and prickly pear cactus—shelter and food for wildlife who live on the Rock.

The view from the top of the Rock was stunning in all directions!

The geographical high point was marked by an official survey seal, and we marked our climb with an official high point selfie!

We walked toward a pile of huge boulders on the northeast side where there was a cave. We were below the summit enough to be out of the strongest wind. Two lizards were warming themselves on the south-facing rock—a Texas Spiny Lizard and a camouflaged Crevice Spiny Lizard. What cool creatures!

Some of us climbed into the cave—not to the crawl-on-your-hands-and-knees part—but through to a secret garden area where a couple of wind-swept, twisted-trunk trees grew.

After climbing out of the secret garden—and a few moments when I thought I may be stuck on Enchanted Rock for eternity—we began our descent.

We chose a different side of the rock to hike down—an area with huge cracks and large boulders scattered in random spots.

The dome of Little Rock shows the exfoliation caused by expansion and contraction of the rocks and how broken chunks of rocks slide down the side of the dome.

A rift of amber bluegrass and one of green, grew in the nearly vertical cracks as we climbed down Enchanted Rock.

Down from the dome, down to foliage, down to Earth.

Even though we didn’t see the vernal pools of water glowing in the moonlight, I understand why this place is called Enchanted Rock. It was unlike any place I had ever been before; it had a grounded, solid feel of ancient wisdom at the same time as an other-worldly, ethereal feel of life-affirming Spirit. The wind with all its power was mesmerizing. The sunshine sublime. The patches of plants growing on rock, enthralling. It is a place to base our lives on—the quest for body-regulating grounding wisdom and for exquisite, joy-filled Spirit. The challenging trek to the top of the Rock was individually fulfilling and profoundly enhanced by our experiencing it together. The very real yin and yang of our lives—these opposite forces that are complementary and interdependent. Our interconnected earthly-divine lives living on an enchanted rock.

For the first part of our Enchanted Rock adventure, go to At the Foot of the Rock.

At the Foot of the Rock

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I can see the light of a clear blue morning/ I can see the light of a brand new day/ I can see the light of a clear blue morning/ And everything’s gonna be all right/ It’s gonna be okay –Dolly Parton

There’s something to be said for being able to clearly see what lies before you, what your task is, even what path you will choose. The first time I heard about Enchanted Rock in the Hill Country of Texas was when our daughter Emily worked at The Outdoor School in Marble Falls. It sounded, well, enchanting—a huge dome of granite rock that bubbled up as magma a billion years ago, then slowly began eroding. It is a place that humans have camped at and called home for more than 12,000 years. There are stories and legends of spirits and sacred spaces from explorers and Native Americans and of how the mammoth rock glitters on clear nights with ‘ghost fires.’ I wanted to see it, and I wanted to climb to the top. Enchanted Rock is a small visual part of a huge underground area of granite called a batholith that covers one hundred square miles, so even what is unbelievably large is small compared to what lies unseen below it. The pink granite dome rises 425 feet above the base elevation of the park—like climbing stairs of a thirty to forty story building, and the people at the top looked like ants from our vantage point. Before climbing the granite dome, we explored around the other environments at the base of the rock—the floodplain, Mesquite grassland, and Oak woodland. It had rained the night before, so the shallow creek-bed was flowing with clear water and home to a great-looking snake.

Like all the places we had visited in Texas, I was amazed at how the prickly pear cactus occupied such diverse environments and how some of the trees still wore their green leaves.

One of the unusual sights for me was a ball of green Mistletoe in a bare tree. The tradition of kissing under the Mistletoe began with the ancient Greeks, as the evergreen plant with its shining white berries symbolized fertility. Now it has become a tradition/decoration of the Christmas season. It is a parasitic plant that sends its roots into the wood of a branch and usurps water and nutrients from the tree. A heavy infestation of Mistletoe can cause dying of branches or death of a tree.

Another plant that is sometimes thought to be a parasite is Ball Moss, seen as the gray balls in the Oak trees below. They are actually epiphytes—plants that live on other plants, but absorb water and nutrients through their leaves from the air. These ‘air plants’ anchor themselves to the bark of a tree with tendrils. Some arborists believe the tendrils can strangle a branch, and eventually kill a tree, but it is very common to see a tree full of Ball Moss with their pokey seed pod stalks. ( I like how the Prickly Pears poked their ‘heads’ out of the grass in this picture.)

Yucca plants with their tall stalks of seed pods grow among the Prickly Pears, grasses, and rocks.

In fitting attire for our after-Christmas hike was the colorful fruit of the Desert Christmas Cactus, sometimes called Pencil Cactus because of the slender leaves.

In the millions of years of erosion, exfoliation of layers of rocks has tumbled down the side of the dome into piles at the foot of Enchanted Rock.

Miniature ecosystems form on and below the rocks where moisture is a bit more abundant…

…and where tiny, viney yellow-flowering plants survive in a crack between rocks, perhaps blooming in response to the recent rain.

The ecosystem at the foot of E-Rock is hard and harsh with the masses of granite rocks and cacti, and yet at the same time, there is a softness and flexibility in the flowing water, the swaying grasses, and the carpets of delicate moss that cover the rocks in the floodplain.

This impressive granite rock, with its long history of geological wonder and spiritual acclaim, attracts people to stand at the foot of the rock in awe of what lies before them. There are times in our lives when we stand in such awe looking forward in our lives—at graduations, at weddings, at funerals, at the births of children, and then again when those children leave the nest. What we see at those times is small compared to what lies unseen in the life-altering tasks before us. Perhaps naivete and enthusiasm are the glasses we need to look through in order to propel us through the droughts, the prickly places, and the hard times. Dolly sings about those long, hard nights, the long hard fights, and the “clinging vines that had me bound.” The largest and most enchanting rock that lies before us is not anything that happens in our external world, but that which happens within us. It’s time to explore. It’s time to face the daunting task of noticing the stories and legends we carry in our hearts. It’s time to eradicate the parasitic thoughts that are killing our souls. There’s something to be said for being able to clearly see what lies before you, what your task is, even what path you will choose. And through it all, we look forward to seeing the light of a clear blue morning and a brand new day. Everything’s gonna be all right. It’s gonna be okay.

Cultivated Nature–Olives and Beer

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As I’m writing this, it is ten below zero in Minnesota, and we are still cleaning up seven inches of snow from the past couple of days.  So, it is with a look to the past and a look towards the future that I bring you this post about a very warm, sunny December day in the Hill Country of Texas.  The word ‘cultivate’ is derived from a Latin word meaning ‘to care for.’  It means preparing the land to raise crops, promoting growth of a plant or crop by labor and attention, producing a product by culture, and developing or improving by education or training.  All of these definitions were incorporated into our day.  Twenty-six miles west of Austin is the Texas Hill Country Olive Company!  I didn’t know olives grew in Texas!  When we showed up for our morning tour (of which we were uncharacteristically the only ones!) we learned about the history of olives, the trees, the land, the processing, and of course, olive oil.  This family-owned business began in 2008 on seventeen acres of land with perfect conditions for growing olives: the land is sloped for good drainage, the soil is alkaline from the limestone rocks, the windy weather helps with pollinating, and the climate is warm.

We entered the Italian villa-style building to friendly greetings and the delicious smell of freshly-baked bread.  A small cafe occupied one side and a tasting room and gift shop the other.  The manufacturing and bottling of the olive oil happens in the back of the building—a much smaller area than I would have guessed for processing all the olives from this orchard and a much larger orchard in southern Texas.

Table olives and oil olives come from different varieties of Olive trees, and olive oil has different tastes and notes depending on the variety and the processing.  We were instructed to drink a small amount of five types of olive oil to discern the differences.  Each gave me a tickle in the back of my throat and some made me cough—which I found out was a good thing in the world of quality olive oil!  The most surprising one had an aftertaste of bananas!  They also had an amazing array of balsamic vinegars that we tasted on chunks of bread—so good!

Olive trees, called the tree of eternity, grow slowly and have been cultivated for over 6,000 years.  There are many sacred connotations of the Olive in the Bible, and victors of Olympic games in ancient Greece were awarded a crown of olive branches.  The Olive branch is a symbol of peace and an offer of reconciliation.

When the fruit is fully mature, nets are put under the tree, and the fruit is gently raked off the branches, then put into these crates.  The fruit is too bitter to be eaten off the tree.  Processing takes place quickly after harvest.  Olives for oil and black table olives are dark purplish-black when mature and harvested, but table olives can be picked when immature, while they are still green.  All have to be cured before eating.

Olive trees are evergreen with leathery gray-green leaves, silvery on the underside, and can live for several hundred years.  They bloom in late spring with small, white flower clusters.  A tree must be fifteen to twenty years old to produce a worthwhile crop, and some will produce for hundreds of years.

Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.  –William Shakespeare

After our Olive Company tour and tasting, we rested on the veranda in the warm sun and breeze, watching the wispy clouds and talked about the next stop of our day—the brewery.

Just down the road from the Olive Company is Jester King Brewery.  The limestone and tin buildings, the Live Oak trees, and the limestone walls and paths evoke a farmplace feel, and in fact, they call themselves a Farmhouse Brewery.  Their farmhouse ales are a ‘product of the land,’ unique to the time of year, the plants used, and even the people who work there.  They use foraged plants, local fruits and vegetables, native yeasts and bacteria, well water, and local grains.  The setting at the Brewery was like we were at a backyard gathering—picnic tables under the Oak trees, yard games, live music, wood-fired pizzas and beer, kids, dogs, and grandmas.  

The people of Jester King Brewery embody the word ‘cultivate.’  On their 165 acres, they are working the land to grow raspberries, grapes, hops (the tall poles below is where the hops will grow), and other crops to use for their beers.  They promote natural improvement of soil using cover crops and a fertilizer ‘tea’ made from old bones, aged molasses, goat manure, and beer.  They culture their sour beers with airborne yeast and bacteria or cultured wild yeast and bacteria from local plants.  They give brewery and farm tours to share their knowledge and passion for producing beer in an organic and unique way.  

 

We had such an interesting day learning about the cultivation of olives and beer-making crops and the process of making olive oil and farmhouse ales.  It was evident how both family-run businesses cared deeply for the land, the trees and crops, the process by which they produced their product, and the experience of the people who came to share in their livelihood.  It was a labor of love and love of the labor and attention to their craft.  Both places were peaceful, where we felt at home in their world, where time slowed and worries melted away.  An oasis of sorts, where we were away from the news of the day, the rancor of them vs us, and the ever-present, pervasive pull of the screen.  So what kind of place do we cultivate in our day-to-day lives?  What do we care for?  What do we give our labor and attention to?  How do we promote growth and development of ourselves and others?  What kind of culture is fermenting in our hearts?  How do we promote peace?  We each have the responsibility to cultivate our own lives and to be in community with those around us.  What does the farmplace of your life look and feel like?