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Archives for November 2020

A Season of Neutrality

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I am not neutral about my high school Chemistry class—it was the best thing that happened in my life that year! Many may be on the opposite side of the spectrum remembering tortuous labs and wondering why the heck the periodic table is even a thing. Most may just be neutral about it—I did it, it was ok, not memorable, not torture, I barely remember it. But remember learning about atoms with their nuclei of protons and neutrons with orbits of electrons filling the energy levels and how it all fit so perfectly as diagrammed on the periodic table! So good! But just the neutrons today—they make up the nucleus of atoms along with protons. Protons have a positive charge and repel one another. (The electrons orbiting the nucleus have a negative charge and ‘bond’ with the protons to sustain the atomic structure.) The neutrons have weight or mass similar to the protons, but they have no charge—they are neutral. They in essence neutralize the positive charges of the protons and keep the nucleus, and therefore the atom, intact.

We are in a neutral time of year—most plants are dormant, the weather is neither warm nor cold, and we’ve had some snow, but nearly all has melted. We’re still in Autumn, but the majority feels like it’s Winter already. And the colors of Nature are neutral—grays and light browns—when everything seems to blend into its surroundings.

But every once in a while on our hike at Warner Lake County Park, there was a bright and shining electron or a colorful proton (so to speak.)

What would the world be like if everyone loved and studied Chemistry and Biology–the science of how our world and bodies work? As with any subject, politics included, there are people who love that subject, study it, teach it, research it, and dedicate their lives to it. They know the protons and electrons and neutrons of their subject.

The best thing about being neutral and not believing or disbelieving in anything is that the nature reveals the truth in front of you automatically. –Aishwarya Shiva Pareek

Sometimes the nature that reveals the truth is as simple as counting numbers or as complex as cyber security. The complicating factor is our human nature. We all want things to be the way we want them, but that’s not the way Life goes. Being neutral means being impartial, not helping either side, unbiased, objective, even-handed, fair, open-minded, and detached from the outcome. After a nasty partisan election season, we need a season of neutrality. Let the grays and light browns calm down the system for a period of time. Let the sporadic bursts of color elucidate mistakes and missteps of the past and illuminate the path for the future. Let’s be neutrons for a while and keep our nuclear family and our world at large, intact.

Food and Refuge

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Food. It has been my refuge for way too long. When things feel out of sorts, or stressful, or downright scary, I reach for food. I learned early on that food was comforting—with good reason—eating food, especially certain kinds, releases ‘feel good’ chemicals in our brain that really do make us feel better. It’s science. Well, it may be science, but something went wrong in how I use food. For most of his life, my Dad would say he eats to live, not lives to eat. It’s simple, but oh so hard for those of us who have substituted food as a coping mechanism for all things distressful in our lives.

Food. It is what Sandhill Cranes leave the refuge for. Our trip to Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge, while it included a hike at fire-damaged Blue Hill, was really to see the gathering, or ‘staging’ as they call it, of thousands of Sandhill Cranes. These prehistoric birds (fossil records from millions of years ago) gather here from northern breeding areas to rest and eat in preparation for their long migration to Florida. (The count on 10/29 was over 11,000.) At night, the cranes roost in the wetlands of Sherburne, and at dawn, they take to the skies and fly to neighboring fields that have been harvested for corn or soybeans. Like a bear before hibernation, the cranes feast on the grains to sustain their bodies for the long flight.

There are six subspecies of Sandhill Cranes, some migratory and others non-migratory. The Sherburne species is the Greater Sandhill Crane, standing at four and a half to five feet tall with a six foot wingspan, but only weighing between ten and fourteen pounds! The mated pairs stay together for life and both help incubate and raise the one or two young ones that hatch after a thirty-day incubation time. The young ones with their awkwardly long legs are called colts.

As dusk approaches, groups of cranes fly from the fields to return to the refuge.

There was a lot of chatter. I wondered if there were ‘leaders’ who decided when it was time to fly and what the signal was to do so. I did notice that some would flap their wings on the ground, like an impatient ‘time to go,’ while others were still very invested in consuming more corn.

At a clearing on the edge of the refuge lands, we parked to watch the mini-migration back to the roosting grounds. Wave after wave after wave of different sized groups flew over our heads and to both sides of us. We didn’t notice how long this deluge of chattering cranes continued, but we did eat our picnic supper under the constant serenade of the Sandhills.

Sandhill Cranes and animals in the wild ‘eat to live.’ It takes an inordinate amount of their time to find and consume the food that sustains their lives. The abundance of harvest gleanings at this time of year is the Cranes’ needed fuel for migration, just as the fall ‘fattening’ period is for other animals facing a tough, cold winter. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I ‘live to eat,’ but food has definitely been my ‘go to,’ my refuge, as a coping mechanism for most of my life. I know I’m not alone. So how does one leave the refuge of food and find sustenance elsewhere? The same can be asked of alcohol, drugs, gambling, and any other addiction, though food falls into a unique category in that one actually does need food to survive. Abstinence does not work. Therefore, the impetus of change needs to occur on the inside. How can I stretch out that time period between the uncomfortable, distressful feelings and the act of reaching for food? What could I possibly do that would make me feel better in this moment than half a bar (or more) of dark chocolate? In my experience, it takes an inordinate amount of will and often a lot of pain (either physically or emotionally) to initiate that will. It has so much to do with self-love and feelings of worth and self-compassion and ‘but I deserve…’ and ‘who has my back?’ (chocolate always has my back) and what’s easy and what’s hard and wave after wave after wave of very real feelings that in reality have nothing to do with food. And therein lies the answer—a new refuge is needed, and I can be its creator.

Fire and Refuge

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True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality. –Miles Neale

There was something a bit off when we drove into the parking lot of Blue Hill Trail at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. I saw prairie land, a big hill, and some scattered trees. I couldn’t identify what didn’t seem right. We readied ourselves for the four or five mile loop, then set out on the sandy trail. Almost at once I noticed the standing totem of a burnt tree—not unusual in any place we hike. But the colorful-for-Fall Sumac seedheads were much more delightful.

It was not long before we saw other burnt, dead tree trunks. Had there been a wildfire here? Most of the trees were Oak—White Oaks who had dropped their leaves and Red Oaks who were still adorned in their rust-colored finery.

From that point on, most every tree we saw had been damaged by fire. The big, beautiful Oaks were in various stages of decline—some were dead and fallen, others were dead and standing, and quite a few others were alive, but distorted in their growth. That’s what was off about my first impression—the trees no longer had a normal canopy for the size of the tree. Lower branches were gone, some limbs were dead, and the rest of the foliage was concentrated towards the top of the very tall trees. Survival seemed very uncertain for the standing, living dead.

The undergrowth, or I should say, the new growth since there wasn’t much ‘under’ left, was a combination of Hazelnuts, shrubby, multi-stemmed Red Oaks, Raspberries, and some Willows in marshy areas. The purple-stemmed Raspberries conveyed their color in sharp contrast to the brown landscape.

Hazelnuts—the actual nut—are usually long gone by this time of the year, eaten by deer, wild turkeys, squirrels, and pheasants. But the shrubs were so abundant in this area that many nuts remained, peeking out from their curled husks.

Autumn revealed an ‘unhidden’ nest in the bare branches that had earlier given protection and security to the hard-working bird.

Pocket Gopher mounds were everywhere. I wondered how they could build their burrows in such sandy soil without the walls collapsing all around them. Deer tracks were plentiful also, all along the trail. We joked about the trails being for humans or deer, and Chris noted they were just like us, taking the path of least resistance.

When would this come crashing down?

All 30,000+ acres of Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge is a combination of forest, prairie, lakes, and wetlands. It was established as a refuge in 1965 to protect and restore habitat in the St. Francis River Valley for migratory birds and other wildlife. During the months of March through August, most areas are closed to the public to allow the wildlife to breed and raise their young ones without human disturbance.

Two-thirds of the way through our hike we came to Buck Lake. More than a dozen Muskrat houses poked up from the marshy water and reeds.

On a mud bar in the middle of the lake, a family of Trumpeter Swans was busy with the business of preening and cleaning their feathers. Beyond the Swans was a flock of ducks feeding in the shallow water with ‘bottoms up.’

After the preening, Mother and Father Swan slid into the water and glided through the reeds, the wind messing their just-smoothed feathers.

The young cygnets followed their parents, their dusky gray feathers getting ruffled in the wind. They will migrate and winter as a family, and their parents will most likely return to this lake to nest again. Trumpeter Swans and Muskrats have a synergistic relationship—when Muskrat and Beaver populations increase, Swan populations also increase, as they use the tops of the dens for nesting sites.

Seven young Swans a swimming…

Beyond a Mullein patch was an evergreen forest, which I later learned was referred to as the Enchanted Forest.

It was a forest of Spruces—the first wholly Spruce forest I remember seeing. The trail wound through the towering trees. It was dark and quiet, so unlike the rest of the hike. It did seem enchanted!

We emerged from the forest with Blue Hill in our sights—the highest point in the refuge. Trees still showed their wounds, the lasting legacy of the destruction of fire.

With a little research after I was home, I discovered that Blue Hill had had ‘prescribed’ burns in 2009, 2015, and 2018. Prescribed burns are fires that are carefully planned to take into account temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction. They were being used to restore the Oak savanna by thinning non-native grasses and plants while promoting the health of native vegetation. They had protected the Enchanted Spruce Forest by how and where they set the fire. It sounds good in theory, and good practices were used, but something went wrong. They harmed the very trees they were trying to protect—the towering White Oaks. Fire will take the path of least resistance—most destructive forces will, whether of Nature or mankind. So how do we find refuge in the face of destruction? We can bury ourselves in the sand, not seeing, not listening, hoping for the best. (Though I bet there were plenty of roasted Pocket Gophers after the fire that decimated those trees.) We can run away in fear and busyness, not taking the time to ‘read the landscape’ and gather information. We can sit on our island of entitlement refusing to see the flames that are engulfing those around us. “True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality,” says Miles Neale, a Buddhist psychotherapist. It is a brilliant statement. Refuge is defined as a condition of being safe or sheltered from pursuit, danger, or trouble. To truly have refuge we need reality, the reality of facts, evidence, expertise, and truth, along with the reality of love and compassion that emanates from our spiritual beliefs. We don’t want to destroy the very things we are trying to protect. Fall into the refuge of reality.

The Meeting Place

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When I was in my early twenties, I was staying with friends of mine who lived out in the country. Before going to sleep one night, I saw a light flashing by the window. Instantly I was scared. I froze in stillness with my eyes wide open, trying to see where the light was coming from. Was it somebody walking around with a flashlight? My friends were sleeping in the next room. I was convinced I was in danger, that there was a bad person prowling around outside, but I was frozen with fear. I don’t know how long I lay there in fear, finally falling asleep against my will.

We headed east from Ely. Superior National Forest surrounded Highway 1 in Autumn glory. Our late September trip up north wasn’t quite over, even as we were heading home. We drove to the shore of Great Lake Superior. It is such an amazing sight! We stopped at Tettegouche State Park—just one of around 17 state parks that line the eastern border of Minnesota along Lake Superior, the St. Croix River, and the Mississippi River. Tettegouche is a French Canadian phrase meaning “meeting place.” The land was home to a logging camp in the late 1890’s, then a fishing camp and retreat, and conserved by a couple owners and The Nature Conservancy before becoming a state park in 1979. With the afternoon waning, we opted to hike to High Falls along the Baptism River, the highest of four falls that drop the Baptism River 700 feet to Lake Superior.

Getting up to the falls took a substantial amount of breath, but once there, we walked across the swinging bridge to peer upstream and downstream to the edge of the falls.

Trails on both sides of the River, along with the bridge, allowed us to see the spectacular rock face and sixty feet of cascading water.

We hiked back down to the car, crossing the Superior Hiking Trail that runs though the park.

We wanted to see where Baptism River meets Lake Superior. The rock cliffs guided the River to the Great Lake who had tossed up a sand bar of polished rocks, seemingly blocking the flow of the river.

The ‘rockbar’ stretched across most of the mouth, but the River rushed around the corner of it, spilling into Superior.

We rock-hounded for a while, gathering some, leaving other ‘heart’ treasures the spirited Lake protects with her cold waters.

The spectacular Shovel Point, where rock meets water, glowed in the evening sunshine.

The clouds and dancing light of the sunset reflected down on our Minnesota sea where sky meets water.

It was many years after my frightening experience when that memory came rushing back to me. It was when I saw a light flashing by a window, just like that time so many years ago. This time I didn’t freeze. I was able to walk to the window and look out…. I saw fireflies. I had had a life-threatening encounter with fireflies. This time I marveled at how bright the tiny insects were when they flew close to the window. It’s such an embarrassing story, but it was very real to me. When we are exposed to what we perceive to be a life-threatening experience in our childhood and there is no resolution, our bodies become programmed for fear—for fight, flight, or freeze. Without thinking, my body froze when I was a young adult. Adrenaline coursed through my body, my heart raced, my pupils dilated. Fear took over my brain and body.

We are a nation divided by a great chasm of belief systems that are seemingly miles and years apart. Each side fears the other. I’m here to remind us that fear first works on our bodies and in the process, shuts down the logical, reasoning pre-frontal cortex of our brains. When we are in fight or flight mode, there is no reasoning with us. I truly believed that I was in danger that night, that I was going to be harmed. But in reality, I was safe. Fireflies pose no threat. I was wrong in my fear, my very real fear. This is when and where we need to extend grace to ourselves and others. Grace is the meeting place between us humans and the divine. It allows us to have a meeting place between our hearts and minds in order to dispel the fear that is taking over our bodies. That is work only we can do for ourselves, albeit with help from others. Blessings to us all in this endeavor.

We may differ widely in environments, education, learning, knowledge, or lack of it, and in our personalities, our likes and dislikes. But if we set ourselves the task, we’ll find a meeting place somehow and somewhere. Faith Baldwin, 1893-1978

It’s Time to See Our Roots

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We take things for granted. Things unseen, things that have been in place for a long time, things we don’t think about, and things we just believe to be true and steadfast, even when the evidence says otherwise. Election season is such an interesting social experiment. I have taken voting for granted at various times in my life—I believed that all would be well whether I voted or not. I naively presumed that anybody running for office believed in the sanctity of the office being pursued. I trusted that public servants worked for all people in their constituency. And it didn’t even occur to me that there were people out there who didn’t want everybody to vote and to vote easily. (sigh)

What keeps a tree from falling over? We don’t think about it or usually see the structures that anchor a tree upright. Before leaving Ely on our Northwoods trip, we stopped to see Kawishiwi Falls, a place the kids have talked about from their summers there. Soon after we began our short hike, I saw a tree with roots like octopus legs! As I looked more closely, I realized that the tree grew out of an old stump and the roots grew down over and around the decaying wood. How unusual!

But that was not out of the ordinary in this place! Soon another rooted anomaly presented itself. The Birch tree trunk had been stripped of layers of white bark by passersby. (Not a good practice.) The tree and its roots curved around a large rock, depicting a long-necked turtle-creature being showered by Fall’s golden coins.

A stately White Cedar was poised on a knoll strewn with rocks with its exposed roots reaching towards the trail.

Another Birch grew on top of a flattened boulder, roots flowing out like a ballroom gown from a tiny-waisted dancer.

Rocky soil and years of erosion have exposed the roots of these giant trees—some with roots as big as trees themselves. It made me think about what it would look like if we could peer through the soil and see all the root systems of all the trees, intertwined, interconnected, working together to support and nourish each tree and all the others. The unseen foundation we mostly take for granted.

Along with the exposed roots, the falling leaves were everywhere. Fall is the ultimate recycling process, nourishing and replenishing the soil with fallen leaves.

I could hear the falls before I could see them. The terrain underfoot became solid rock. Then we saw the tumbling, aerated water flowing over the dark rock of Kawishiwi Falls. Kawishiwi is an Ojibwe name meaning the ‘river full of beaver and muskrat houses.’ It was a thoroughfare for Native Americans, explorers, and fur traders—all of whom had to portage around the 70-foot-high falls that links Garden Lake with Fall Lake.

In the late 1800’s, it became the route where loggers floated the huge, fallen trees to the mill town of Winton.

In the early 1920’s, as the railroad took over the transport of logs and the demand for electricity grew, the Winton dam and powerhouse were built to produce electricity. Nearly 100 years later, the power of the River is still generating zero emission, carbon-free electricity.

From the falls, the River flows around a little island into Fall Lake.

A portage trail (where people carry their canoes and supplies to get from one lake to another) still connects the two lakes for the canoeists. Along the trail I noticed this branch that had been drilled by a woodpecker. The drills were not fresh—some healing had taken place around the wounds, but the wounds were abundant. A tree can heal from wounds of many kinds unless they are too extensive.

We walked back from the falls through the forest Fall spectacular. Though most mourn the passing of warm weather a tiny bit, it is reassuring to see the next iteration of the progression of seasons.

Nature gives us some comforting certainty. With Autumn, we know the daylight hours decrease, the weather cools, the leaves change color and fall from the trees. We know that Winter will follow. We can take that for granted—for now, at least. We the people and our right to vote are the roots of our democracy. We the people are the ones that keep government upright, keep it stable and able to weather the storms of economic uncertainty or of a pandemic. I will not take my right to vote for granted again, for there has been a wounding of our democracy. Lies are wounds, foreign interference and disinformation are wounds, and the dismantling of expertise is an extensive wound. It’s time to heal. Don’t take truth and integrity for granted. It’s time to see our roots.