Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Archives for 2020
A Sure Sign
Have you ever looked back at a season or a year and wondered how you got through it? I’ve had a few of those times in my life. A number of things had happened in this last year, when I felt like I was at the bottom of a dog pile on a football field where heavy body after heavy body slammed down on me and crushed my body and spirit. I was trying to hold on to the ball, but at times I couldn’t even tell where the ball was, whose hand was on it, or if I would breathe again.
I’m not sure my eyes had even opened yet when I heard it—the sound of Spring. As the day was just beginning to show the pale faintness of light, I heard birds chirping. I love waking to that glorious sound after the silent winter. It is a sure sign that Spring is on its way. Even though we had blustery snow showers that first singing day, the next day was sunny and in the forties. The snow melt continued in earnest.
The sun is noticeably stronger and higher in the sky now, and even on days below freezing, it dissolves the snow away from the driveway.
It’s not a pretty time of year as all the dirt and grime crusts on top of the melting snow, but there is that promise of green grass.
As the snow melts, I’m always intrigued to see the evidence of all the little creatures who spend their winter under the snow. They must be happy to see the sun, too!
The circles of warmth around the trees show that it’s time to wake up from the cold hibernation of Winter.
A female Downy Woodpecker flitted from tree to tree. Like me, she may be thinking “I made it through Winter!”
There was even a puddle of water in the birdbath for the birds, as Nature’s ice and snow sculpture melted.
We still have a ways to go…
That was Friday. The weekend has been warm and sunny. The snow banks have pulled farther away from the driveway and trees. The snow has softened and hardened at the same time—softened the frigid, rigid architecture that held the trillions of snow crystals together in a Winter palace and hardened the snow pack by compressing the air pockets and sinking the snow.
Spring is in the air, in the birds, in the snow, and in me. Looking back, I wonder how I made it through, how I got out from under the snow pile of heaviness. Looking back, there were circles of warmth from people who helped me on a certain day at a certain time, and that warmth sustained me for a few more days. One day at a time, one hour at a time, if need be. But I also realize that somehow I did manage to hang on to the ball—like the benevolent hand of God who believes in us all, helped me do so. The Spring will come. The birds will sing again. The grass will turn green. I still have a ways to go, but I see the Sun, I hear the birds, I am waking up, and I can breathe again.
Stars of the Earth
The other night we walked home from a neighbor’s house in the late-night hour of eleven o’clock. It had been a deliciously fun evening with supper and a competitive card game with our friends. I was tired and ready for bed and could hardly believe Chris was still awake considering how early he rose that morning (and all mornings.) It was cold—around nine degrees—and clear. We walked like cats stalking a mouse on the icy patches—slow and sure-footed, ready for defensive action if our feet were to slip. Besides the few and far-between street lights, there was little light pollution, and the stars were absolutely brilliant! After our footing was more secure, I walked with my eyes to the sky which was a tad bit disorienting in the darkness, but the tired, late-hour time and nose-biting temperature discouraged us from stopping. There is something about a dark sky full of bright stars. Even while walking I noticed how far to the west Orion had slid in the late-Winter sky. The moon was just a sliver of light, a team-player allowing the others to shine. There is a great sense of calm when in the presence and awareness of the Universe.
Are not flowers the stars of the earth? –Clara Lucas Balfour
Winter is long in Minnesota even when it’s a normal year. Snow has covered the ground since before Thanksgiving, a fact that I love, actually. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. But even as much as I love cold and snow, as Winter wanes my mind wanders to Spring….and to flowers. There is something about the green earth full of bright flowers. There is something about having some bright flowers in the house in the midst of Winter and snow! For Valentine’s Day, Chris brought home a pot of mini-Daffodils.
And just as the yellow-gold blossoms had dried to paper-thin permanence, the grocery store displayed buckets of pretty pink Tulips with an eye-catching sale. I wrapped them in plastic and warm air to get them to the car and to the house in the cold.
I’ve been feeling the dichotomy of transitions—the excitement and looking forward to what is to come, right alongside the sadness and looking back at what was left behind. Whichever one is most dominant depends on the day. Nobody gets through a transition of any kind without this present day wrestling of feelings about the future and the past, though some are more aware of it than others. Sometimes it is only with hindsight and insight that we look back at a transition and realize just how difficult it was for us.But the wrestling is good—the work of it gets us to where we need to be. What helps in the meantime? A comfortable and relaxed evening with friends. A walk in the crisp, dark night under a symphony of stars. A bouquet of Earth’s stars that delights our senses and whispers hope and promise of the future. The calm of the Universe—the way it’s supposed to be.
Walking Across the Mississippi River
On the spectrum of safety, I know I fall on the ‘safety first’ side. The implication of safety first is not only for that person individually but also for all persons who may be impacted by the situation. On the other side of the spectrum is the risk-taker—gamblers, innovators, extreme sports and ‘roll-of-the-dice’ people. Often their risk-taking is centered on themselves—rarely do they consider the consequences of their actions on those around them, particularly those who are most vulnerable.
Our son worked for Will Steger at Steger Wilderness Center one summer in Ely, Minnesota. Steger is an arctic explorer, educator, and author who has witnessed the effects of climate change on the arctic regions. He has dog-sledded to the North Pole, across Greenland, and across Antarctica. He also does yearly solo expeditions in Northern Minnesota and Canada—the last two years have been in the Barren Lands in northern Canada. Did I mention he’s over seventy years old? Clearly a risk-taker in my mind. And yet, I heard him a couple years ago in an interview about his ice-out trip in early spring, when the weather is warming, the ice is melting, and he is navigating that dangerous terrain—he said that he is not a risk-taker. He said that he is in prime physical condition with sharp mental acuity when on these solo expeditions. He is experienced, prepared, educated, and working for a purpose beyond himself, and therefore, he does not take risks—for he clearly understands the consequences.
Yesterday morning Chris and I went to Bend in the River Regional Park. We had been there a year ago in October on a warm, fall day. Yesterday was warm (for late February), sunny, and calm. We walked the trail from the old farmplace along the top of the bluff above the Mississippi River.
The River was covered in ice and snow, but I never once thought about walking out on it because it just seemed too….dangerous. After all, it was a big river—a big river that was flowing freely below the dam a couple miles away.
At one of the overlooks on the bluff, we talked to a guy who was on a solo hike from across the River—wait, what? He had started his hike at the Mississippi River County Park which is on the opposite side of the Mississippi from Bend in the River Park. I had questions! He said the ice was solid and safe, that he lived nearby and many times had snowmobiled down the River in years past but now enjoyed walking it.
After he walked on, I told Chris maybe we should do it! If he made it across the ice just fine, we should be fine, too!
So we left the bluff trail and went down to the River’s edge. I wasn’t comforted by what I saw: ice collars around the trees that had broken away from the rest of the frozen water and streams of running water that were flowing under the ice into the Big River. I began to doubt our decision.
But we tentatively walked on and found the footprints of the solo hiker. We stepped out onto the River.
It was easy walking in the inch or so of snow that covered the ice—the rest of our deep snow must have incorporated into the ice as it formed. We weren’t the only creatures that had crossed the River.
The ice felt solid and safe—we saw no heaves or cracks or thin spots—just a tree stump that interrupted the white expanse between the banks. But it was still kind of freaky knowing we were walking across the Mississippi River.
There was only one place where the sun had melted away the snow cover to reveal the ice below it. I wondered how thick it was…
My safety-first mentality didn’t even entertain the thought of walking across the River, but after we talked to the man who had done it, who had experience with the River and its ice, it became the highlight of our day. We still reassured ourselves about the eighteen below zero night we had earlier in the week and how just last night was five degrees. (Surely we will be okay.) Like Will, we were not treading on thin ice, we weren’t gambling with our lives, we weren’t out on a limb or playing with fire. Will Steger has had amazing, incredible adventures in his life and has educated the rest of us with his knowledge, experience, and purpose. As we walk on into our own adventures, it behooves us to listen to those who have walked before us, to those who know first-hand the struggles, perils, and pathways, and to those who have a vision larger than themselves, including for those who are most vulnerable. Walk on!
A Circle of Trees
In January, in the darkest, coldest days of Winter, I attended an event at our church entitled ‘Summoning the Light with Song: Community Singing Experience.’ We sat in a circle of chairs at the front of the sanctuary. Our song leader sang a line, and we repeated it; again and again we sang back what she sang. On some songs we sang different words and parts. Others were sung as a round after we learned the basics. It was a simple, pure way of singing, and I was surprised how beautiful it sounded in such a short amount of time and practice.
I’ve been summoning the light in a different way since our move—in a circle of trees in our backyard. Even in the bright light of midday, the sun stretches to peek above the trees as it arcs low in the southern sky. I bundle up and place an old green Army blanket on the freezing metal chair. When the sun is just right, it hits my face, the only circle of exposed skin that even has a chance of converting those golden rays into Vitamin D.
At the center of the circle of trees is a fire circle—the only fire we’ve had so far was on Christmas Day after we moved truckloads of boxes and miscellaneous garage things.
While sunshine is the ultimate ‘cherry on the top’ of my day, the more sustainable and reliable givers are the trees. Most are Pines, some are Spruces, a few are Cedars, with a couple of deciduous trees thrown in. I sit in the circle of trees, sometimes with sunlight, sometimes with snowflakes, and soak in their goodness.
After sitting in the tree circle today, I remembered an old CD we had gotten when the kids were little that was called “A Circle is Cast.” I dug it out and listened to it. It was communal singing from a group named Libana—similar to the songs we had sung at the church event! The title song ‘A Circle is Cast’ repeated and harmonized with the words ‘a circle is cast again and again and again…’ Think about the circles in our lives—our circle of friends and family, the circle of a football huddle deciding what play to run, reading a book to a circle of preschoolers, a meeting of the minds in a circle around a conference table, and playing games in a circle—cards, board games, and Duck, Duck, Goose.
Circles represent stability and safety. Each ‘point’ in the circle has a job or responsibility to the other ‘points’ in the circle.
Sometimes there is a fail in the circle. One of the larger Pines in the circle of trees has died.
It must have been in the last year—there are still dry, brown pine needles and dark cones clinging to the branches. The loss is evident; the dead remains are a poignant reminder of what once was. Mourning for a member of the circle. So there is a wobbling of the once-safe circle—it holds together with the other ‘points,’ but there is a hitch, a limp, a miss because of the loss.
But at the base of the dead tree, there are replacements growing! The old tree had spread its seeds years ago, and the offspring will take their place in the circle.
Like throwing a lasso, we cast a circle again and again in our lives. We desire a stable circle around us—points of light that have our backs, that not only do us no harm, but protect us from harm and breathe life into our wounded selves when the world seems against us. The good thing about a circle is that no one point, no one member has the responsibility for the strength and stability of the whole–-one only has to do their part. The burden is shared. There is a synergy that emerges from the circle—in other words, there is more strength and power from the group as a whole than the added parts of the individuals. That’s science. And that’s spirituality. I sit in my circle of trees—they give me oxygen, essential oils that emanate from the needles and resins, the stability of deep roots, the uplifting songs of wind and birds in their branches, and a life force that is unexplainable and undeniable. I have cast my circle—again.
Lombardy Poplars and the Lombardi Trophy
Battles are won in the hearts of men. –Vince Lombardi
When we looked at our new place, the first thing I noticed was all the trees surrounding the open yard. The second thing I noticed was the tall, slender Lombardy Poplars spaced evenly against a backdrop of evergreens. I wondered why someone had chosen to plant them. Of course I was seeing them at their worst—dry, faded brown leaves clung to the weedy branches of the columnar trees. They do not have the beautiful Winter silhouette of Oaks, Maples, or practically any other deciduous tree. In fact, they are on the ugly side. I know why people plant them—they are fast growing (up to six feet/ year), so they make a screen or windbreak in the shortest possible time. Lombardy Poplars are native to Northern Italy—one can imagine them looking stylish alongside a villa in the rolling countryside. In central Minnesota, alongside the Pines and Spruces, they look out-of-place. They also have a terrible resume—they are short-lived, often only 15 years, they are susceptible to pests and diseases, they have shallow, spreading roots, and they are messy. The weak wood breaks easily, the male tree produces abundant pollen, the female tree produces cottony seeds that blow around, and they send out suckers that are hard to get rid of. So every morning when I eat my breakfast, I look out the window at the specimens of my prejudice. Their elegant name and origin don’t rescue them from my dislike.
Last weekend we hit the road to Kansas City. The Kansas City Chiefs were in the Super Bowl for the first time in fifty years! The excitement and anticipation exploded throughout the City and region. Two super fans in our family were anxious to be among the ‘sea of red.’ We left in the frosty morning. It had snowed an inch or two overnight, and the trees and fence lines were outlined with that delicate layer of new snow.
Iowa had less snow, but at a certain point, the sky and land blended into one, and the farm places looked like floating islands in the frosty, foggy air.
We made it to Missouri as dusk was beginning to envelop the countryside.
The next morning, in Kansas City, it was shocking to see the sun and green grass!
The Chiefs played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I in 1967, but lost to the Packers and their coach Vince Lombardi. In Super Bowl IV, the Chiefs beat the Vikings and brought home the championship trophy. It wasn’t until the following year, in 1970, when the trophy was named the Vince Lombardi Trophy in honor of the coach who had won the first two Super Bowls and who had recently died from cancer. There were many years in the following decades when the Chiefs fought their way into the playoffs, but the championship game eluded them—until this year! With the great coach Andy Reid and the incredible talent of the young Patrick Mahomes, the Chiefs won the Super Bowl in an amazing comeback in the last minutes of the game. Kansas City Chiefs fans were ecstatic! Fifty years of waiting.
So what does the Lombardy Poplar tree and the Lombardi Trophy have to do with one another? Only the similarity of their names—and the fact that both have been on my mind these last weeks. The Lombardy Poplars don’t belong to us—we are not the decision-makers on their place in the world. I co-exist along with them, messy or not, ugly or not, worthy-in-my-mind or not. It’s humbling. Coach Reid and young Mahomes didn’t win the Super Bowl for themselves—they both have big hearts and a keen sense of history—they won it for the team, for the Hunt family, for all the other players in the previous fifty years, and for the dedicated fans who cheer them on every Sunday. It’s humbling and incredibly powerful. Hail to the Chiefs and to those with big, humble hearts!
When the Past Processes You
Last week I wrote about processing the Old things, the past things that I have stored in boxes for years—difficult for me to do, but necessary and freeing in its own way. But it was nothing compared to what happened when the Old things of the past processed me. Moving has always been a double-edged sword for me—on the one hand, I anticipate the excitement of a new place to discover and explore. A starting over, in a way. On the other hand, I could hardly bear to leave the old place. Each house, each place was a sanctuary for me—it was a place of safety (although that was challenged a number of times for various reasons), a place of comfort, a place I loved. So even when I was all-in on the move, it was hard. The boxing-up process was the most difficult—until the final, final, final time of walking out the door. There have been people in my life who have pushed me at those times—Chris of course, my Mom, a couple good friends, my daughter Emily this time—who box up the remaining things despite my protests and urge me out the door. Even as I desperately cling to the door jambs.
On the surface, I try to reason with myself, going between the pros and cons. With each pro-moving point, I rebut with “But how can I leave these…sunsets…
…these sunrises out my beautiful screened-in porch…
…my animal friends?
All of those surface rebuts are valid and tender and real, and they also reveal a glimpse into the essence of why this is so very hard for me. This time, this move, this boxing time was different. It was ugly and raw and wildly animalistic. I couldn’t bear to pack up my things, especially the special things, and I wouldn’t let anyone else touch them. Emily came to help me, and I resisted every move she made. I came un-done if she or Chris packed up anything without my permission. I instantly flew into a whirlwind of rage and panic: I yelled, I cried old, difficult tears, I stomped my feet, I wailed like a wounded animal. It was scaring the heck out of all of us. There had been weeks, maybe months—it was all such a blur—of tears that flowed from some artesian well of the Universe, for no one person could possibly produce so many tears, could they? And it all came to a head when my dear daughter was here to help. Every day had multiple episodes of this unreasonable behavior, and once I had control of the situation again, I was able to calm down and resume our work. And then the tantrum would happen again. Finally, after I don’t know how many exhausting days of this, we took a lunch break, and as I sat very still at the table, the tears quietly streamed down my face, still. Emily—God bless her patience and maturity—asked me what was going on. In that moment, I finally knew. I managed to finally speak the words, “I feel exactly like I did when I was in first grade, when we moved away from South Dakota.” The Past had been processing me. I talked about how difficult our life had been in the year and a half before the move, how I didn’t want to leave the farm, how I couldn’t bear to leave my animal friends—the cows, chickens, kittens, dogs, and the big, black horse, how I didn’t want to leave my grandparents, how I loved the sandbox and the weeping willow tree. I talked about how out-of-my-control it all felt, and how the boxes swallowed up all of the familiar, safe, loved things and took them into a truck to a new, unfamiliar place. And with that realization and that space and time from my loving daughter and husband, and with those words, the panic began to abate. There were a few more episodes in the next couple of days, but the fury of them had passed—and then they were gone. I was an adult once again. The process of moving moved on.
Recalibrating From the Old to the New
Out with the old, in with the new. It’s literally true when it comes to time—2019 ended and was out of here at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. The new year had arrived. Some people live their lives with that mantra in a myriad of ways—old clothes out, new clothes in; old furniture out, new furniture in; old relationships out, new relationships in. But what happens when the old things don’t go out before the new things come in—or more importantly, what happens when a person moves on to the new thing without processing the old? An easy example is the mail—the new mail comes in to that place on the cupboard or table. Organized people process the mail—junk goes in the trash can or recycling, bills go on the desk, magazines go on the coffee table where they will be seen and read, etc. Not-so-organized people soon get a pile where things get buried at the bottom, bills can get lost until past the due date, and magazines don’t get read.
I know about piles. (I’m organized about certain things and not-so about others.) I know about getting rid of the old (and keeping it), and I’m not that enticed with the newest, shiniest ‘new’ thing. Time (and maybe mail) is the only consistent flow of old and new in my life. But when the old year ended, we did something big—we moved from our old home. When the new year began, the new decade began, we were living in a new place. We didn’t time it that way, but it happened that way. The pull of ideas started long ago—those questions: what would it be like if…, I wonder if that would work…, how would it feel if we did this…? Questions can be ignored, especially if they make a person uncomfortable. But Life can get more insistent. So I started to de-clutter—we needed to do it anyway, I reasoned. I read Marie Kondo’s book—does it bring me joy? Don’t forget to thank the things that had served me well. Ugh. I wasn’t very good at it. I was nostalgic about so many things—about all the art projects the kids and I had done together when they and their curious, creative, beautiful minds had brought me so much joy during my stay-at-home years, about the papers and projects and awards they earned during their school years as they grew into these amazing people, and about all the work I had done in grad school—boxes and boxes of research articles I had read, papers I had written, and data I had gathered. The Old was staring me in the face after being tucked away in boxes since our last move. Paralyzing.
There is a ton of research out there about why our brains and bodies react as they do. Being ‘paralyzed’ comes from the ‘freeze’ aspect of ‘fight, flight, or freeze’ in the trauma response—we all (including most animals) tend to react primarily by one of those aspects when something seems overwhelming to us. But what to do with that…. I was fortunate to have some important people around me who could help me look at the big, paralyzing Old stuff in a different way. But it wasn’t easy. I balked. I cried. I resisted. I rationalized. With time and grace, understanding and encouragement from those around me, I was able to look at the Old stuff, determine what it represented to me, accept that those qualities and memories existed even without the stuff, and let it go. As the move materialized, I ran out of time to process it all, and I was determined to do more of that work once we moved.
There was another aspect of the move that needed processing—leaving all the beautiful trees and perennials that we had planted. I had the urge to take pictures of each specific one, bragging about how big it had grown, how beautiful its branches were…and I even started to do so…
Each one had a story and a timeline and a beautiful quality and an imperfection—and we loved them—and there were hundreds of them that we had planted after all the work of removing the horrible Buckthorn. With Chris’ expertise and love of growing trees and perennials, with his hard and dedicated work with the Buckthorn puller, and with my patience and tenacity for pulling weeds, we had created an oasis among the Oaks. Did I mention how much we loved them? Yet under the arc of time, that flow of old to new, year after year, we were reminded that we had done this before. We had cleared and planted and weeded and pruned and created four beautiful places in three different states in our life together. It’s what we do, it’s a big part of who we are. I also realized that I have told the stories and shared the photos of our amazing plant family over the last six years with this blog. You have shared in our love of this great, green Earth.
A friend of mine has a book that I read cover to cover when I was in the midst of confronting the Old —Ten Poems to Say Goodbye by Roger Housden. Housden wrote about poet Jack Gilbert and his love for Santorini, Greece—“Santorini as Gilbert knew it entered not only his eyes but his sinews, his very cells, like anything we have loved. It is alive in him still, not just in memory, but in his being…” Chris and I carry our Old places—the trees and plants, the houses, the people we have loved—in our cells and sinews, in our very being.
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