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Archives for April 2021

Forest of Fame

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“All is ephemeral—fame and the famous as well.” –Marcus Aurelius

We should all be famous for something, I think. Perhaps it’s for a delicious potato salad, or a penchant for perfectly coifed hair, or a subtle, truth-telling sense of humor. Fame is one of those things in life that is bestowed by the audience, the onlookers, the admirers, the wishful want-to-be followers, or in this day and age, even the haters. The intrinsic nature of fame is attention from the outsiders.

The park we went to last weekend had a claim to fame that was mentioned on a website, the signage, and the map—the highest point in Wright County, Minnesota! Yep, all 1232 feet! Two official markers embedded in cement were in place beside the trail, one with an arrow that pointed to the other. We were confused if the 1956 was the altitude or the year, then realized the map said we were 1232 feet above sea level.

As we looked around from the highest point in Wright County, all we could see was trees—brown leaves and trees—brown leaves, blue skies, and trees. My fame fandom moment slipped away.

It was actually quite a beautiful forest of Oaks, Maples, and Basswood, even though the leaf buds were barely showing. At this time of year I appreciate seeing the topography of the land—the hills, lowlands, and gullies. One can get a sense of the ‘lay of the land’ when only gray trunks and brown leaves populate the landscape. And then we began to see signs of Spring—a glimpse of things to come that will change the landscape into a growing, vibrant, green oasis.

Mullein
Red Columbine
Bloodroot

It is startling to see a butterfly so early in the season, but the Mourning Cloak hibernates in hollow trees and logs during the Winter and comes out on warm days to feed on Oak tree sap. They are called “Harbingers of Spring!”

A decaying, uprooted tree looked like a work of art in the barren landscape. Nature teaches us that all stages of life and death are valuable and beautiful in their own unique ways.

We took a spur of the trail to an outlook and picnic area. Under the brilliant blue sky and fluffy clouds, we ate our picnic lunch and warmed ourselves in the sunshine—human butterflies perched on a picnic table.

We only saw a few people the whole time we were there, so we shared the woods with the trees and the Spring Peepers who serenaded us during most of our hike. It’s such a sweet sound!

They are cautious little Peepers, because when we finally got close to the lowland water where they lived and sang, they silenced themselves when they heard our voices!

We saw more woodland art on a boulder. I suspected the origin of the etchings were from a machine that blazed the trail, but that didn’t detract from the fact that it was interesting.

There were a few stands of Pines throughout the deciduous forest that rose in green to the blue sky. They whispered and sang in melodious concert, orchestrated by the wind.

Bloodroot flowers had been unfurling in small patches or singularly by warm trees all along the trail. They are amazingly pretty white flowers that bloom while still cloaked in the curled leaves that protect them from the cold. The sap from the plant is red-orange and has been used as a natural dye. The seeds of this early-blooming flower are spread by ants, Mother Nature’s tiny workers.

While Bloodroot is probably the first woodland flower to bloom, I was looking for other Spring ephemerals, too. About two-thirds of the way along the looped trail, I finally saw the gorgeous Sharp-lobed Hepatica bursting from the leaf litter! Like many other early-blooming flowers, Hepatica has fuzzy stems to protect them from cold nights and occasional snowy days.

On the woodland floor, the leaves of Hepatica are usually hidden under the old leaf litter, but beside the warmth of a large tree trunk that is flowing with sap, the flowers are displayed with old and new leaves.

Fame is something many aspire for, perhaps even more so in this YouTube/TikTok age, but many who have acquired fame lament how it impacted their lives. Albert Einstein said, “It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely.” Elvis Presley is quoted as saying, “Fame and fortune, how empty they can be.” When fame comes from the outside, whether that is from media coverage of George Floyd’s death or millions of followers on social media or the latest, greatest singer (both of which I have no idea who that is since I don’t follow things that way), the story is written by the outsiders. Imagine for yourself a life of fame from the inside.

“Fame for me is not external, it’s internal. So I’ve been famous for a long time.” –Lady Gaga

What are the origins of our internal fame? Our personalities, our God-given talents, our penchants and skills, and the qualities that were nurtured in childhood all add up to make each one of us an interesting and compelling person. We are each famous in our own unique way, no matter how many ‘fans’ we have. So we have to ‘own it,’ and I’m talking to myself here. The ‘famous’ highest point in the park was the least interesting thing about it! Look closely at yourself. Find your beauty. Listen to your subtle song. Appreciate your gifts. Claim your fame.

Beside Myself

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I was beside myself this week. And I had moments of satisfaction and happiness. But mostly I was beside myself—overcome with worry and anger and extreme sadness. We have made progress—good, satisfying progress on our church becoming a trauma responsive church. It is a nascent initiative that holds great promise, and it is extremely difficult to navigate into a practical, workable existence. Especially in a week like this one. The George Floyd trial wrapping up in Minneapolis. Another shooting death of a young black man just north of there. And so many other mass shootings in just one week’s time that I can’t even keep track of them. Then a friend with a devastating diagnosis, and the untimely death of yet another who deeply felt the pain of the world. Trauma upon trauma is piling up on us all, and the more vulnerable are paying an unsustainable, body- and soul-pounding price. And with each and every one trauma, the ripples of distress and devastation roll out into the lives of families and to society as a whole. I am not exaggerating.

This week’s weather has depicted the ups and downs of the week at large. A beautiful, life-sustaining rain gave rise to opening leaf and flower buds. After the long Winter months, there is a hold-your-breath moment when dormant trees and plants begin to show that life is once again flowing and growing. With a sigh of relief and wonder, I whisper, “There it is.”

‘Life-sustaining’ is a phrase that should be on our lips and our minds in all we do. Is this a life-, person-, earth-sustaining practice? Animals, plants, and people alike respond to practices and gestures that sustain life.

By mid-week, clouds rolled in again. As snow fell, I sent a card to a dear old friend, happily baked a cake for a young one, and laughed on a phone call I received.

The news can be devastating and yet we put one foot in front of the other. We gather our food and nourish our bodies. We help one another the best we can, even when our attempts seem to fall far short of what is actually needed.

We are all in this together—in this society, on this Earth, in this time in history.

By the end of the week, we had sunshine, warmth, and blue skies.

Sun-drenched catkins will produce pollen or seeds before leafing out in the life cycle of a Poplar tree.

Honeysuckle shrubs produce leaves before flowering. Every Spring plant and animal is intent on creating and sustaining life. Therein we have Hope and Beauty.

The phrases ‘beside myself’ and ‘out of my mind’ are used to describe the dissociative ways we deal with overwhelm and trauma. We are not ourselves—literally—in body or mind when events or occurrences produce such overpowering sensations and feelings. We make space, turn away from, become ‘not like me,’ do things and say things we may regret later. We step out of our bodies and ‘lose our minds’ when the trauma is ‘too much,’ when the discord between our life view and reality is so great that we literally can’t stand it. Many people are experiencing ‘too much.’ A common way for people to turn away and make space from overwhelm is to try to ‘calm’ our bodies with something that makes us feel better—I tend to use food, others use alcohol, drugs, shopping, or gambling. They are coping mechanisms that can lead to addiction and to other collateral damage. So while it seems like a good idea in the moment and can actually give us some relief temporarily, in the long run, it can be much more problematic. So what do we do? We start small. We find small things that give us a feeling of relief or happiness or satisfaction. I do qigong every morning to stretch and move my body. Yoga works. Running works. I walk in Nature to calm my body and mind. Hobbies work. Reading works. Connecting with others in some form of affirming communication is probably one of the greatest life-sustaining practices we can do. Love and acceptance activates the parasympathetic branch of our autonomic nervous system that calms our body and minds. And once again, life is flowing and growing.

Another Time, Another Season

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I remember those times in my life when change was abrupt, when my life on one side of an event was completely different from the other side and when there was a glimmer of knowing that life as I knew it would never be the same. Some of those events were life-changingly wonderful—the day I met Chris and those three December days I gave birth to our children. Joy was the gift of those days. Others changed my life with gut-wrenching sorrow and disbelief when even the thought of getting through it was untenable, let alone any possibility of healing. How slow the hours drag by when one is in pain.

It is at this time of the year when pictures from a week ago can seem like they are from a different season. A week ago the temperature was abnormally high, the ground was dry, and winds were strong enough to warrant red-flag warnings in multiple states, including Minnesota. This week we have had rain every day—steady, consistent showers with perpetual cloud cover and cooler temperatures. The Spring world has soaked it up and responded—grass is turning green, Forsythia are blooming in sunshine yellow, and leaves are emerging from the dormancy of Winter. Change comes swiftly, eagerly, and joyfully.

Our Easter hike with Aaron and Zoe was at Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge, southeast of Little Falls. Wherever I hike at this time of year makes me feel like I have come at the ‘wrong’ time. The snow is gone, and Spring has yet to show up except for the earliest, subtle signs. The Refuge seemed stark and empty, despite the beautiful blue sky. We followed the Platte River trail through an Oak savanna, the sunlight streaming through the bare branches to the brown grass below.

The Platte River was surprisingly wide as we continued through the restored tallgrass prairie. I wondered what the prairie and the beautiful big Oaks looked like in summer and noted to Chris that we needed to return to this place at another time, another season.

And then we saw the fire-ravaged trees—the benign mediocrity of the prairie morphed into signs of sorrow. Fire is one of those events that can change life forever, whether for humans or trees.

Crane Meadows is part of the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge complex where we saw the same fire damage to trees in an Oak Savanna that had been burned. A controlled, prescribed burn for the prairie should not impact the mature trees in such a way, and I wondered what had gone wrong. The loss was immense.

Like at Sherburne, there was a burned tree graveyard, even more stark in the post-Winter, pre-Spring landscape.

The River and cool water gave visual relief from the burned area of trees. A small dam crossed the Platte, widening it into Rice Lake. I wondered if this was a nest of some sort or just debris that had gathered on the rock with high water.

As the River widened into the shallow lake and wetlands, there seemed to be more ‘life’—Pines, Aspens, Willows, and wetland grasses breathed ‘potential’ into the landscape. Soon a green blush will envelop the Aspens, and the Willows will leaf out from the catkins that had emerged.

Rice Lake had a few ducks—a couple showy, black and white Buffleheads and some rafts of Common Mergansers. I was surprised there weren’t more migrating birds, however, and I wondered if we were too early or too late to see them.

Across the lake we noticed an eagle sitting on a point of land that extended into the water. Through a spotting scope at the observation deck, it looked like he was raiding a nest and eating eggs.

On the return trail, we passed by an eagle’s aerie and saw mother eagle sitting on her expertly engineered nest, panting in the afternoon heat.

I think it’s common for us to believe that something happens at the ‘wrong time.’ We even use it as an apology and ‘out’ for doing something—usually by saying “It’s not the right time for me to do this.” Valid truth-telling in the choices we make. But what about the events that are beyond our control? I have waxed and waned about the ‘wrong timing’ of some events in my life—job searching and recessions, health issues and the fall-out, moves and their impact. Valid truth-telling deemed an excuse? Are the ‘wrong timings’ in our lives a nest full of potential or is it debris? Even if it’s a nest full of potential, a predator at the top of the food chain can destroy those possibilities with a swift stroke of power. And when we try to do the right thing to preserve and maintain the ‘prairie,’ things can go wrong and more harm is done—collateral damage is real and abruptly life-changing. Stark, empty sorrow. But there is a difference between burning it down inadvertently and burning it down on purpose. The arsonists of society are too often at the top of the food chain and slip through the cracks of accountability. Was it the ‘wrong’ time for us to go to Crane Meadows? We didn’t see migrating birds or fluttering sweeps of golden Aspen leaves or blooming prairie wildflowers, but we did see the very real and authentic reality of the transition time between seasons. It wasn’t ‘pretty’ or ‘exciting,’ but it was real—like every one of our lives. Scorched trees and dreams. Bland landscapes and routines. Empty wetlands and pockets—or hearts. New saplings and plans. Life-giving water and compassion. Building nests and resilience. A refuge for them and for us. We will return to this place at another time, another season.

The World Beneath Our Feet

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Give me the man who will surrender the whole world for a moss or a caterpillar, and impracticable visions for a simple human delight.

The man who authored this quote was Bruce Frederick Cummings, born in England in 1889. He published a book of diary entries entitled The Journal of a Disappointed Man in 1919. That was also the year he died at the age of thirty from multiple sclerosis. It was only in 1915 when he was rejected from serving in World War I that he learned of his diagnosis and prognosis. Afterwards, he wrote eloquently of his struggle from his ‘naturalist at heart’ perspective. He wrote about his impending death:

To me the honour is sufficient of belonging to the universe — such a great universe, and so grand a scheme of things. Not even Death can rob me of that honour. For nothing can alter the fact that I have lived; I have been I, if for ever so short a time. And when I am dead, the matter which composes my body is indestructible—and eternal, so that come what may to my ‘Soul,’ my dust will always be going on, each separate atom of me playing its separate part — I shall still have some sort of a finger in the pie. When I am dead, you can boil me, burn me, drown me, scatter me — but you cannot destroy me: my little atoms would merely deride such heavy vengeance. Death can do no more than kill you.

It was because of the rain the day before that the world beneath our feet burst into a lush, colorful canvas. Last weekend’s rain was the first substantial Spring shower of the season, the one to wash away the accumulated grime from Winter’s melted snow piles and the one to anoint the dormant ground with Nature’s blessing. The first to respond to that blessing is an array of mosses and lichens that have been covered with snow most of the Winter. Without traditional plant structures like roots, stems, leaves, and flowers, they absorb water and nutrients like a sponge—plumping up, greening up, and livening up.

A bed of moss makes a desirable, protective seedbed for tiny new trees, helping to keep the ground moist for germination.

Since mosses and lichens have no roots or structures to transport water throughout their system, most grow close to the ground so as not to dry out. When a tree is ‘grounded,’ moss will soon overtake it.

Young saplings looked like they were wearing ‘mossy pants.’

Deer tracks dug into the soft, squishy carpet of rain-drenched moss.

Lime green Plume moss pushed aside the dark purple, rolled leaves of late Fall.

Mosses and lichens are an essential part of our ecosystem, absorbing carbon dioxide and other pollutants.

Little stars of Juniper moss twinkled among the Jack Pine needles.

The forest floor, that world beneath our feet, is a community of sticks, leaves, grasses, insects, mosses, seeds, bacteria, lichens, fungi, and others—all living and working together in a symbiotic relationship.

When mosses ‘bloom,’ they produce sporophyte stalks and spores—after the rain, they were already getting to the business of reproduction.

The ‘red coat’ protuberances of British Soldier lichens are eye-catching in the early Spring monochrome…

…as is this light green lichen on the dark wood of a Pine.

Waves of wispy grasses are matted against the moss from the weight of Winter’s snow.

But on this day after the rain, the rejuvenated moss prevails.

Glittering Wood moss—isn’t that the most magical name!?—crawls over a log.

A golden lichen, Reindeer moss (which is also a lichen), and Trumpet lichen are intricate pieces of art on the forest floor.

The world beneath our feet is often overlooked in the practicality of getting from one place to another and in the mundaneness of green and brown. It only takes a closer look to discover a world of infinite variety and exquisite artistry. We cannot abandon ‘impracticable visions’ or ‘the whole world’ in pursuit of a moss or a lichen, but a balancing of those extravagant, exuberant goals with a simple human delight will ground us in our humanity. What would be your pursuit if you knew your days were numbered? A year of a global pandemic and millions of lives lost and grieving should shake us to question that, just as Bruce Cummings did after learning of his prognosis. May the tiny Trumpet Lichens proclaim exultant victory over death, and may we all be anointed with Nature’s blessings. Amen.