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Archives for December 2020

A Circle of Warmth

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I was standing at the front door talking to Emily on the phone when I saw a flash of rusty-red walk through the prairie grass in front of the Cedars. He sat down like the canine that he is as I rushed to end the phone call to get my camera. When I returned to the window, he had snuggled into a little ball in the cozy grass.

It was a chilly and extremely windy morning, and everything about it foretold the blizzard the weather people were warning us about. There was a deep, damp chill, the kind that creeps into your bones no matter how many layers you pull on. The clouds were gray and low-hanging, pregnant with moisture. The wind blew with a fierceness that reminds us mere mortals that we are not in control of everything like we wish to be.

I opened the front door to get a better shot, but the colliding warm and cold air condensed to a fog on the storm door. He opened his eyes to watch me but didn’t move from his circle of warmth.

I thought to myself that this was hygge for a fox, for a wild creature that is always ‘in the elements.’ It was a cozy little space out of the howling wind where he could rest. Hygge (hue-guh) is a Danish and Norwegian word for a feeling or moment of coziness. It is an ‘everyday’ thing, not contrived or fanciful, but special nonetheless. My Danish and Norwegian grandmothers could magically create a kitchen table full of baked goods and delectable treats when we would stop by for a visit. It was ‘just a little lunch’ according to them, but it was a special feast to me, a cozy moment in time and memory.

In an attempt to hygge ourselves for the blizzard, Chris and I made a list and went to the store before the snow was supposed to start. I thought for sure our departure would spook the fox into running away, but the small ball of fur stayed curled in the grass. And when we returned, he was still there but had moved a foot or so into more coverage.

Every once in a while he would look up when he heard a car or the neighbor’s barking dog, but for the most part, it was a time for a Winter’s nap.

At some point, he turned around, curling in the other direction with his back to the wind and the impending snow.

The snow accumulated on his warm fur, then melted, and he licked the moisture off like a cat or dog would after coming in from the wet weather.

The little fox napped and rested in his cozy spot for over three hours, and just as I happened to see him come to the spot that day, I also happened to see him leave. The rest of the day was snowy and blowy with the temperature dropping into single digits with below zero wind chills. I wondered where he found his next cozy sleeping place.

The next morning, Christmas Eve morning, was clear and bright. We didn’t get as much snow as forecasted or as places to our south and east. But I spent a couple hours shoveling the drifts that had blown around the house and up the driveway.

I noticed the fox had returned, walking through the yard…

through the prairie grasses…

to the place under the Cedar trees and had curled up again for a little nap in the sunshine. Perhaps this time he watched me, a form of everyday, ordinary togetherness, even when we are not aware.

Hygge has a number of possible etymological origins. It may come from the Old Norse word ‘hygga’ which means ‘to comfort,’ which may also be the origin for ‘hugge’—to embrace or hug. It could come from ‘hyggja’ which means ‘to think.’ The Danish meaning of hygge is ‘to give courage, comfort, and joy.’ Like a hug does. Like watching a sleeping fox does. Like a Grandmother’s magical, delectable ‘little lunch’ does. In this special, magical holiday season, may we think of others–goodwill towards men. May we give comfort and joy. May we each have an everyday, ordinary circle of warmth—hygge—everyday, yet special nonetheless.

The Girl, the Wreck, and the Reckoning

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There was this girl. I can say we were both girls with our youthful faces and my unblemished naivete, even though we had just slipped into chronological adulthood. She was the cutest, sweetest, doll-like person I had ever met—she had dark curls, porcelain skin, and a child-like sing-song laugh. And she lied. It didn’t take long before I realized how much she lied. There is nothing wrong with eschewing a non-virtuous trait like lying. At the time, I could not reckon with the dichotomy of outward appearance and altruistic behaviors and the manipulative, self-serving, incessant lying. So I hated her. I discounted her. I didn’t want to be around her even as she pulled us all in, and we revolved around her world. My gut reaction had lots to do with me, but at the same time, there was something that wasn’t right with how she interacted with the people around her. Leap ahead a decade and a half when I was knee-deep into parenthood and a plethora of self-help books. I came across the concept of what we hate/envy/dislike in another person is what we disown/hide/reject in ourselves. So I looked in the mirror and tried it on. ‘I am a liar.’ I couldn’t get it to fit—at all.

The St. Croix River at William O’Brien State Park was like a mirror—except where there was ice. Reflections of the trees and sky were obscured wherever the ice formed or floated.

The cloudy sky reflected steel gray on the River mirror. The dark-trunked trees and the gray bluffs could be seen in their twin forms on the water.

What we see in our reflections and in life depends on how we frame them. Do we look through a narrow lens that blocks out parts we don’t want to see and call it good?

The ice on the River became the focal point even though it clung to the shore and was a small part of the large whole of the River water. It was a distraction really.

It was captivating really.

It was interesting really.

It was intriguing really.

It distracted me from the calm, quietness of the River mirror and its reflections.

There is destruction with ice and distractions.

It immobilizes the old, spent parts of ourselves.

It mesmerizes us with confusion. How could we possibly see clearly through a maze of such entanglements?

It piles up, digs in, and creates a false narrative to the big-picture reality.

The ice-distractions even get reflected in the calm waters, entwining their way into real life, obfuscating our true north.

It takes will and determination to look away from the train wreck, to center ourselves in calm and peace, and to reflect on ourselves and our values.

But we really need it all. We need to be able to see the past, the roots of our being, the things that worked and the things that hurt. We need to be able to identify the captivating, mesmerizing distractions that pull us away from the reality of who we really are and what we need to learn. And we need to embrace the mystery of the mirror, of the reflections we see and those we discover in our hearts.

And then we walk on. Our path, our journey is only partially revealed to us at any given time.

We gaze up-river, from whence we came, notice the distractions and the reflections, all the while heading in a new direction, to an uncharted new world.

Life is a hazy, lovely mystery that catches us off guard, pulls us in, invites us to reflect, compels us to change, and blesses us with the whole process all over again.

For years after trying on and rejecting the term ‘liar,’ I pondered the concept of disowning what I disliked in others, and I wondered why I had hated her for lying. It took maybe another decade of trying to please people, being nice, avoiding conflict, following the rules, and feeling beat up before my reflection revealed that I really was a liar. I was saying I was fine when I wasn’t. I was saying I didn’t need help when I did. I was saying yes when I wanted to say no. I was a self-inflicting liar. I was hurting myself in order to make others feel comfortable. I had to reckon with my own dichotomy, my own hurts and disappointments, my own distractions and stories that were woven together into the cloak of my being. The heat of my hurt and humble embarrassment melted the obfuscating ice, and the calm water revealed my flawed, striving, righteous self. So I walked on in reckoning, recalibration, and forgiveness to the next lovely mystery of a train wreck that caught me off guard. Dear God, help me walk on.

Know from whence you came. If you know whence you came, there are absolutely no limitations to where you can go. –James Baldwin

Home Field Advantage

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In this year of Covid, most of us have become much more familiar with our homes. Home has been maximally multifunctional for many families—school house, fitness center, workplace, church, recreational spot, and social center as well as the usual place for family meals and relaxation and sleep. It has forced us to evaluate our definition of ‘home’—the purpose, the feel, the aesthetics, and the functionality.

Imagine living in a purple palace with many rooms and secret passageways that wind from place to place. Instead of a protective moat, the palace walls have barbs to keep intruders out. Food is plentiful, at least for most times of the year, and the floor of the palace is soft and comfy. That is the home for a rabbit family at William O’Brien State Park, a park on the eastern side of Minnesota. Most of the year the purple palace is covered with green leaves or with piles of snow—we just happened to see it during its most transparent time.

The woods in Winter and late Fall are also transparent, especially during this time with no snow. Tree trunks, fallen leaves, fallen trees, and rocks dominate the brown-gray landscape. A flowing creek or a frozen lake may break up the muted landscape, but even they reflect the grayness of a cloudy day.

After starting our hike beside the rabbits’ purple palace, it soon became apparent that ‘homes’ were the topic of the day. All forest creatures need a warm (relatively speaking) and safe place to live during the Winter, and as we saw nook after cranny of log homes and tree dwellings, I wondered who lived in each one.

How many frogs are hibernating here? Land frogs dig down or find a space called a hibernaculum where they spend the winter. Aquatic frogs hibernate under water. Both protect their vital organs with an ‘antifreeze’ of a high concentration of glucose.

This little home at the foot of a tree had a super highway of a driveway carved out of a root and acorn debris scattered at the entrance.

A Pine seedling found a home in the leaf litter. It needs a cover of snow to stay protected from the hungry winter-grazing deer and rabbits.

Large fallen logs weather and rot making crack-and-crevice-homes for all types of insects and small creatures.

We chose the Riverside Trail Loop to hike so we could see the St. Croix River, but first we came to Lake Alice. It was named after the daughter of timber baron William O’Brien who bought much of the land owned by the lumber companies who cleared the valley of its huge stands of White Pines. In 1945 Alice donated 180 acres of her father’s land to be developed as a state park.

As we walked along, it became very evident who lived in or near Lake Alice.

We wondered how a beaver chooses his or her next tree to chew down. Was this one coming back to finish the job? It looks like it had a previous ‘old wound’—maybe some trees just aren’t the right ones.

And then we came to a tree right beside the trail—it looked like we had literally just interrupted the busy beaver’s work! We wondered if the whole beaver family works together on the same log. Perhaps they were carrying away the logs they had already chewed off!

We walked across an earthen dam that separated Lake Alice from a channel to the St. Croix River. There was ‘beaver activity’ all across the dam, even though we didn’t see any lodges.

Just across the channel is a large island named Greenberg Island. During Spring snowmelt, the island is often covered with water for a short time. But during the summer, it is a sanctuary for many birds and mammals, including beavers, and for unique floodplain plants.

Our homes tour continued as we walked the Riverside Trail. Little hobbit houses were built into living trees and into those that had fallen down. Even though it was a transparent time of the year, the burrows were covered enough or deep enough that the occupant had plenty of shelter, a refuge from the coming Winter weather.

I like these twin curved logs that span the little creek. Old beaver marks may indicate the identity of the bridge builder.

A couple of havens were prize winners for ‘most artistic doorway,’ both of which named Mother Nature as their architect.

From the rabbits’ purple palace to the home-builder beavers to all the other creatures living in their Winter homes, Nature shows us the importance of having a shelter that is a safe harbor from harsh weather and predators. As for us human creatures, home is where we are.* Home is where we have been for months now. How does your home measure up? Is it a sanctuary of safety? Is it a port in a storm? Is it a haven of love and learning? Is it a sanctum of sacred time and practices? Is it a retreat for adventure and renewal? During this transparent time, when the landscape is stark and bare, we can see things in ways we have not been able to see before. And more importantly, we can act, but the question is are we beaver builders of dams that obstruct and impede the natural flow and goodness of our surroundings or are we bridge builders?

*I am very cognizant of the fact that many, many people do not even have a home, let alone the opportunity to shape it into a sanctuary. Much of the reason for that tragedy has been a history of dam-building. It is an example of where and why we need an army of bridge builders to traverse the muck and bring solutions to people who are in need.

Belle Prairie Shows Us ‘La Vie Est Belle’

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I am a resilient optimist. Optimists have high hopes for the world around them and high expectations for the people in that world. Actually, I don’t even consider them to be ‘high’ expectations—just good, normal expectations, like ‘don’t lie, don’t cheat, be kind, have compassion, think of and help others, don’t be a bully.’ I think every religious and spiritual text says the very same thing. My optimism has taken a beating in the last number of years; my ‘rising’ with hope and ‘things will be better’ has been more feeble, less adamant, and much less cheerful. My resilience and love and optimism have been melting from my heart and running like a river away from me to some unknown place that I have no map to find.

Last weekend Chris and I hiked at a park ‘up River’ from us—one that we hadn’t been to before—Belle Prairie County Park. What a wonderful name! Beautiful Prairie! I wholly agree with the good and right pairing of those two words! But the park has much to teach us—only a small amount of the 145 acres is prairie land. It is a convergence of hardwood forest, Oak savanna, virgin White Pines, and floodplain of the Mississippi River, along with the prairie. The land was originally owned by the Belle Prairie Franciscan Sisters, and after a few changes in ownership, became the first county park in Morrison County in 1980. It is a small park, but one rich in biodiversity, distinct natural ecosystems, and cultural history. The prairie is actually the first thing to see when turning into the park, though like most beautiful prairies, it seems overshadowed by the trees and the water.

The prairie reaches into the Oak Savanna that contains scattered large Oaks. Just as in so many woodlands and savannas in this area of the country, the noxious Buckthorn had taken over the understory of the Oaks. The large ones had been removed, making it look bare, but a thick growth of young ones were greedily devouring the space and sunlight.

Hopefully in the near future, the Buckthorn can be beat back so the prairie grasses and wildflowers take their rightful place beneath the Oaks.

From the transitional Oak savanna, we entered the forest. There were more patches of snow remaining in places that were sheltered from the sunlight. The sun-warmed Oak leaves sank into the snow, a real-life relief of leaves, footprints—both human and deer, and ‘digging spots’ where squirrels and other creatures had dug up acorns.

We crossed over an earthen dam that arose from marshy places of the floodplain area. Cattails that had burst into a halo of light, brilliant Red-twigged Dogwoods, Speckled Alders with their reddish catkins, and sky-white Aspens colored the late November landscape of Belle Prairie.

Soon the trail came to the River and followed alongside the drifting blue Beauty. The Mississippi River has such a quiet power and presence, whether she is flowing through prairie grasses or forests of conifers.

I always marvel at the tree-laden islands in the Mississippi River, whether long and pencil-thin or compact and round. They take constant pressure from the fast-moving water or from the pounding of Spring ice.

The islands contain their own little ecosystems with animals who use the shelter and food to sustain them.

An ecosystem is a biological community of interconnected organisms. This tiny little island is a reflection of the many ecosystems that make up our world, of which we—you, me, and every human—are a part of, actively and passively.

Floating down the River were patches of slushy ice. Most often we talk about ice melting, and unless one is an impatient ice fisherman, we rarely talk about ice formation. In reading about ice formation, I found a website called the National Snow and Ice Data Center. I’m kind of thrilled there is actually an agency dedicated to ice and snow, and of course, what that means to our climate and world. What I learned is there is an actual ‘ice growth process,’ starting with these slushy patches. They are called ‘frazil ice’—ice crystals that form in very cold water that is moving too much to let the ice form into a sheet. Isn’t that a great name?

From frazil ice, ‘pancake ice’ is formed from the agitated and aggregated slush. Another great name which visually makes perfect sense!

The pancake ice turns and bumps against the other ‘pancakes’ causing a ridge to form along the outside edge, and the motion causes one pancake to slide over another (called rafting). The fourth step is cementing and consolidation of the ridged pancake ice to finally form sheet ice. Isn’t that awesome?!

After we rested on the bank of the Mississippi, in the warm sunshine, beside the frazil and pancake ice, we walked through the old and impressive stand of White Pines that towered over the picnic and play area.

Sunshine streaked through the forest of large trunks and lit up the carpet of pine needles to a soft, glowing gold. The many treasures of Belle Prairie.

Belle Prairie, beautiful prairie, God knows I love the prairie. But Belle Prairie park showcases an amazing assortment of ecosystems and species, all in a small area, thriving together. There is not one entity that holds the power—the River, the Oak, the Pine, the Swan, the Cattail, the Bluestem, and the Ice all hold their own amazing power. And together they create a system that is beautiful, diverse, and functional—a succinct description of Mother Nature herself. As for me, for now I am allowing my Love, my Optimism, and my Resilience to flow away from me—I cannot stop it after all. I will let Mother Nature take them where she will. Perhaps it is an emptying that I needed, a rest of sorts. I will find the map and the trail when I need to—I will find my way, I’m certain. In the midst of that, I found Belle Prairie who taught me to see and find beautiful, not only what I love and hold dear, but all those amazing, powerful creations that are less familiar to me. ‘La vie est belle’ means life is beautiful. It is an expression of a new era and the choice to create your own path to happiness. So be it.