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Music of the Cows

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We left the ‘Great Mississippi River’ on an abnormally frosty morning Memorial Day weekend to head west to the ‘Mighty Mo.’ I navigated our route to skirt construction in Minnesota and South Dakota and was happy when the prairie greeted my eyes. South Dakota is divided down the middle by the Missouri River, delineating our common reference to ‘east river’ and ‘west river.’ The River itself is something to behold. We crossed on one of two bridges that spans Oahe, a 231-mile stretch of the River that is widened by Oahe dam just north of Pierre. The River bluffs and the Mighty Mo heralded us into ‘west river.’

The reason for our prairie trek was to see our friends and help them with their annual branding. I had long wanted to be a part of the crew, and this year, serendipitous timing and texts (and Covid shots) made it a reality. I was super excited! West river was where I spent three of the best summers of my life working with my rancher friend as wranglers at a Lutherans Outdoors’ camp. So as we headed west from the River, it felt like a homecoming of sorts.

It was good to be at the ranch with our friends, their kids and grandkids, and other family and friends who gathered to help with the sizable task of branding, vaccinating, and castrating the spring calves. When we awoke Saturday morning, it was raining. Luckily the shower was expected to move out quickly, so after a slight delay, people and equipment were gathered up, and we headed out to the branding pen pasture. The yearlings kept their eyes on those of us who stayed at the corral, while the cows and calves were rounded up by those who know the land and the cows. They used modern-day horses—Ranger side-by-sides—to bring the cattle to the holding pens from the far reaches of the big prairie pasture.

This man lives and breathes cattle. He has raised and cared for cows, calves, and bulls his entire life, planning his days around the needs of the animals and the ranch that sustains them. He has a moving, living strategic plan in his head—as detail-oriented as to a sick calf or dry cow and as big-picture as putting up hay for winter, along with a million other things in between and beyond.

After penning everybody, the calves were separated from the cows. I will mention here that as soon as we arrived at the branding pen, the bellowing began. The yearlings maybe thought they were going to be fed, and when the cows and calves arrived, everybody was talking—the yearlings to the cows, the cows to their calves (and maybe to their last year’s calves), and the calves to their mamas. It was noisy!

The chilly, cloudy morning was a good thing for the cows and the workers. Far to the west, we could see the sky beginning to clear where the sunlight was reaching the ground. It took many hours before it reached us.

Cows are curious, intelligent creatures with strong mothering abilities. Aren’t they beautiful?

Once the calves were separated and the cows returned to the original pen to wait patiently for their babies to return to them (loudly patient, that is), the calf table was oiled, the branding irons were set up, the vaccine guns were loaded, and the castrating tools and disinfectant were placed at the back of the chute. Two people vaccinated (I was one of them—yay!), one branded, one castrated with help from two others for holding and spraying antiseptic, two or three ‘pushed’ calves through the round pen into the chute, and Chris helped run the tilt table. The branding irons are heated up by electric that’s powered by a generator. Brands are used to mark cattle in order to identify the owner in case one is lost or stolen. Each brand is unique and registered, so ownership can be proved. One of the calves that ran through the chute was already branded and belonged to a neighbor. Barbed wire fences are not impenetrable for a small calf in these large pastures. So the work began in earnest. A calf is let into the chute. The tilt table holds the calf and is pulled parallel to the ground. One, two vaccinations, branding, castrating if a bull calf, disinfecting the wound, and tilting back upright and releasing to his mama. When we got into the rhythm of our work, I counted about 15 seconds for the whole process—that’s teamwork! We couldn’t see into the tub pen, but the calves kept coming, and we kept doing our work to the droning sound of the generator, the smell of singed hair, and the bellowing of the cows and calves.

After hours of those sounds saturating our ears, a funny thing happened. I thought I heard music. I looked over my shoulder to see if someone had opened the truck door and turned on the radio. Nope. I worked on. It sounded like there was a PA system playing music—I couldn’t make out any words, but the music was there! Music beyond, above, and intertwined with the white noise of the generator and the constant bawling of the cows and calves. It was surreal and ongoing. The sun began to shine, and the rhythm of our work and the music of the cows flowed through me.

It was a long, wonderful day. We ‘worked’ over 250 calves. The calves found their mamas and returned to the pastures. We went back to the ranch house for a delicious meal. My other west river friend who worked with us at the camp way back when, brought a bottle of wine to share as we caught up with each other’s lives. I fell asleep that night with great satisfaction and happiness.

The next day was an incredibly beautiful day—blue skies, hardly any wind, and comfortable temperatures. We did some hiking (next week’s post), ate, rested, then went out to the stock dam to fish. Three of them fished while I wandered around the pasture, smelling the sweet, earthy smell of sagebrush and finding beautiful prairie flowers.

Blue-eyed grass

The two-year old heifer cows and their calves that were branded the day before, were grazing and roaming this pasture. It had been a chaotic, stressful day for both the cows and the calves, but all were settled down and back to normal.

After Chris threw in ‘one last cast’ and then another ‘one last cast,’ he caught a nice-sized bass, the only fish of the evening! We headed back to the ranch, and stopped to take in the view of the breaks and a butte in the distance. A colorful sunset closed the day, aptly with a cow on the horizon.

On our way back home on Monday, I prefaced my experience to Chris with “I know this sounds strange…” and set up how the cows were bawling and the generator was humming and the work was rhythmic and it sounded like…and he stopped me. He said, “It sounded like music.” YES! Oh my gosh, you heard it, too?! So I wasn’t crazy! Willie Nelson tells a story about his grandmother telling him, “Music is anything that’s pleasing to the ear.” The bawling of the cows and calves must have been pleasing to our ears! It’s funny what our brains do, but I’m a believer in the music of the cows. I’m a believer of raising cattle on the vast prairie pastures, of the hard-working ranchers who tend their herds with diligence and tenacity, and of the love that my rancher friends have for their cattle and their incredible ‘west river’ land.

The Ripples of our Lives

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There is something very valuable about celebrating another birthday…. Actually, there are many valuable ‘somethings.’ The first of which is I’m glad to be alive. There are way too many people younger than I am who have lost their life for one reason or another. I am grateful to be here on this Earth, especially after (and yet, during) a global pandemic. Hallelujah! Secondly, six plus decades gives a person something to work with, as in life experience. Things happen in the span of sixty-some years! It gives a person ‘perspective’—a gift you don’t know you have until you have it. Also, and this was brought to my attention from the Happy Birthday greetings on the instant media we now have, over the years, we interact with and move through so many people’s lives. It is mind-boggling, humbling, and sacred all at the same time.

We enter this physical world with no choice in the matter (though that is debatable by many) and travel the path well influenced by our cultures and our families. As we progress through childhood and adolescence, we make more and more choices for ourselves and about our responses and onto which path we would like to go.

There is curiosity, risk-taking, fear, rules, rule-breaking, consequences, action, inaction, and finally, some sort of perspective from the experiences.

During that journey, we come face-to-face with beauty and with hard things, some of which are ugly, distasteful, and contrary to who we are as a person.

Thank goodness there are bridges to get us from one side to another! We can choose to be on either side, we can move away from the ugly things in our lives, and we can stand in the middle of the bridge and discern where we need to/ want to go. I’m not saying it’s easy. There are siren calls emanating from the unseen places on both sides. This dualistic reality of our lives is our lives. No one escapes it. It is a struggle and a gift.

The ugliness we see is heart-wrenching, but the beauty of life transcends and overcomes, no matter how fleeting it is. Beauty is hope.

Milestones allow us to take a moment to rest in our victories, to be grounded in our convictions, and to wonder what comes next.

But getting back to those people in our lives….

I had birthday greetings from relatives who have known me all my life, one from my high school years, many from my undergraduate college years, from my married-into family members, others from neighbors, co-workers, and church friends in three different states, and some from my graduate school years. Each one of these people is valuable to me. I can recall stories of our time together, the connections we made, the work we did, the laughs we shared, and the difficult things we may have encountered. Each is a unique beauty in my life.

It’s easy to take people for granted…or to dismiss them—when we’re in our own shell of survival, when we are too busy for our own good, or when we find ourselves on the other side of the bridge from them. A birthday reflection of our past reminds us of the sweet people who have impacted our lives.

I have grown from every relationship. It is an honor to be a part of this amazing life with each one of you.

And so I move on from this ordinary birthday milestone of life-and-friend celebration. But know this: I carry you with me—the ones who greeted me and those who did not. The ripples of our lives are entwined.

There is so much more to life than what we see on the surface—and even that is complex, multifaceted, and almost beyond our senses and comprehension! Life is good. It is a miracle. Thanks for being a ripple with me!

Fishing in the Clouds

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We had a wonderful western weekend over Memorial Day, and I’m anxious to share that…, but my mind wouldn’t let me skip over a couple other places we visited in May. Nature changes in leaps and bounds during May, so three weeks ago already seems and looks like months have passed. On our anniversary, we hiked with fishing pole in hand and picnic lunch in backpack to spend a whole day in the forest. Fishing is a pastime I don’t share with Chris—it seems to be one of those things that takes a measure of skill, a modicum of knowledge, and a whole lot of luck. I’m glad he fishes—he was coming back from a northern fishing trip with his Dad when we met in a one-in-a-million moment all those years ago. Fishing seems to be an enterprise in hope, and for that reason, I like the idea of it. What I captured with my camera when he was fishing that day illustrates ‘hope’ even more—he was fishing in the clouds!

What kind of pie-in-the-sky idea is that?! Exactly—it doesn’t make sense.

He throws a line into a place he cannot see. He ‘tries’ a lure or bait that might attract a certain fish. He waits. Cast, wait, repeat. The desire is there, but the outcome is unknown.

Meanwhile, I’m finding other things to look at on the mounded peninsula—flowers and new leaves on trees, fallen branches and logs that eventually disappear into soil, a tree bowing to kiss the water-clouds.

The outcome was no bites, no fish, and some weedy line—a perfectly ‘normal’ outcome from the bank of a never-before-fished-lake. But for a fisherman who likes to fish and who usually practices catch-and-release, the endeavor was not a bust. The point was to fish, not to catch. So we munched our snack of cheese and crackers as we gazed at the water-clouds, knowing full well that a cast into the unknown would happen again. We hiked on through the greening forest, amazed how the sunlight was already having trouble reaching the ground through the new green canopy.

The design marvel of emerging plants is enough to make anyone believe in ‘fishing in the clouds.’ From a packed spike of green pushing up through the Spring soil unfurls a Jack-in-the-Pulpit! What a simple, intricate, inconspicuous miracle.

There was a beautiful Tamarack bog where brilliant yellow Marsh Marigolds bloomed in profusion, and the Tamarack (or Larch trees) pushed out bundles of soft, new needles.

Along the marsh-gully, we saw an old car with tires and engine sunk into the mud. It had been there a very long time. Nature was working to re-claim it—in the mud, by the fallen trees, and by the new trees growing around and through it. We wondered how it got there, what its story was in relation to the pristine forest around it.

What was bare trunks and dried leaf litter just weeks ago was now green, growing, and dappled by sunlight.

Fishing begins with a cast, a toss into the unknown. The outcome is beyond our control. How many eggs don’t make a bird? How many baby birds don’t make it to adulthood?

Why does one tree die and slough off its bark while another is ‘stitched up’ with a wound-healing, zig-zag scar?

With Nature, the ‘tries’ are abundant. Millions of acorns fall to the ground and sprout by a miraculous, shell-splitting force. Maple seedlings cover an embankment. Dormant perennials emerge after every harsh winter and push away the old in order to grow, develop, and reproduce.

Mother Nature casts, waits, repeats. Thank goodness she does. We believe in the cycle of seasons; we depend on it. She reaches for the sky with all her abundance—she is full of hope. Yet Nature is also full of destruction and decay—many launches end in death: few seedlings will grow into a mature tree. Only a number of fish eggs will grow into an adult fish. Nature teaches us that we can’t just skip over the not-so-good parts to only embrace the beauty. We can’t skip over the waiting, the boredom, the loneliness, or the pain to get to the good stuff, to what we want. But we can keep on casting into the cloudy unknown—again and again and again. Our desires become a fling of fate; the outcome is unknown. Perhaps we will reel in a fish or a job or a mate. Nature’s odds have produced an amazing, abundant, beautiful world. Keep fishing in the clouds!

Land, Water, and Sky

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If you were to distill your life down to three main elements, what would they be? My mind is searching for how I would answer that! Our lives and our world are so complex and full of so many things vying for our attention, time, and energy. During our trip to South Dakota to see my Mom, I was reminded how simple things can be—it was so evident! Looking out the window or going for a walk, the three main elements of our Earth presented themselves over and over again—land, water, and sky!

The prairie keeps things simple—on the surface anyway. A Spring prairie pasture meets a puffed-cloud blue sky! It makes me take a deep, soul-enlivening breath of gratitude. We look up to the sky at clouds, turn our faces towards the sun, marvel at the Milky Way, are mesmerized by threatening thunderheads, and contemplate how the moon belongs to all of us the world over. What does the sky offer us? Hope, awe, possibilities, rhythm, aspirations, and life-sustaining energy.

Water has taken up a larger space in this place than it did four decades ago. We used to be able to drive between the two ‘ponds’ of the slough; now the slough is a lake.

Along with the water comes more inhabitants of the water. Actually these amazing birds are inhabitants of all three elements—nesting and feeding on the land, feeding and swimming in the water, and flying through the sky. A Great Egret stands regally in the water, overshadowing the two ducks swimming nearby.

Last year’s cattails provide cover for the Egrets and Canadian Geese for nesting and hiding, though my Mom saw a sneaky Coyote disappear into the rushes, probably for a nest raid.

Look at the wingspan of the Egret! Makes the Red-winged Blackbird seem small in comparison. What an elegant bird!

Songs of the Red-winged Blackbirds fill the air as they perch precariously on the dried stems of cattails. The distinctive ‘chit’ and trill are an iconic sound of wetlands, where land meets water.

Pelicans, despite their large, bulky size, are at home in the sky or water. When flying, they soar through the air in groups, often spiraling with slow, methodical wingbeats.

A group of pelicans can corral fish together for easy food gathering, then either dip their big, pouched bills into the water or go bottoms-up like a dabbling duck.

Breeding adults grow a vertical ‘plate’ on the upper mandible, giving them a prehistoric look.

Where land meets water meets land. We are drawn to bodies of water. Native peoples made their homes by rivers, lakes, and oceans, settlers chose land that offered life-sustaining water, and today, people aspire to ‘live on the water.’ What does water offer us? Basic nourishment of life, cleansing, fluidity, a mirroring of sky and self, fun, and even escape.

A small group of male Mallards with their shiny green heads and white-banded necks swam and ate, while a pair of Blue-winged Teals glided effortlessly together.

Rocks are part of the land—the bane of a tilled field, a pedestal, a stumbling block, or a sacred marker.

One of the ‘land’ birds I have missed hearing and seeing since moving to Minnesota is the Western Meadowlark. It’s not that Minnesota doesn’t have them; they just aren’t as readily seen, as they prefer open prairie and fields. I heard the flute-like warble before seeing him, and I was happy to catch a glimpse of the yellow-breasted songster.

The slough-turned-lake has carved out the land to a steep bank where lives an apartment full of Bank Swallows. The morning was chilly and windy when we walked the pasture, but the sun was warming for the little Swallows perched on a tree branch.

The land is where we return to, no matter to what species we belong. We’re not sure of the story behind this cow’s demise, but the circle of life goes on. Critters of various kinds were nourished by the carcass in its decay.

We feel a kinship to the land, especially those whose livelihoods are dependent upon it. Land is the fertile mother where everything grows in mind-blowing abundance. We feel a sense of place with the land, of grounding, and of habitat. What does the land offer us? Steadiness, protection, constancy, food, beauty, and bounty.

I think we tend to make life more complicated than it really is, even though simple things, as with the prairie and sky, are intrinsically very complex. So there may be value in distilling one’s life down to three essential elements. My mind has been contemplating that since I posed the question in the opening paragraph—before sleep and upon waking are good times to examine your own conscious for answers. The first to come to my mind was ‘home.’ It is my grounding place, the place where I have generally felt safe and at ease. Home is my ‘land,’ and land is my home. It is impossible for me to ‘feel at home’ without some land to walk on, to care for, and to grow things on. It is also the place where most of my nourishment comes from, as eating at home has always been my norm. My second essential element is ‘learning.’ Curiosity and learning have been an integral part of my life since before I can remember. It is the realm of a child’s mind when developmentally, every encounter is an opportunity to learn. Why do some people lose that, I wonder? Learning is my ‘sky.’ It is what makes me a scientist and a seeker of spirit. It is a place of endless questions, of potential and possibilities, of awe and hope. My third element is ‘love.’ It is what we are drawn to, where we want to settle, and is life-sustaining. Love is my ‘water.’ It is a mirroring of self, a place where we can cleanse away past trauma and hurt, a place where we can have fun. Home, learning, and love are all intertwined for me, just as Earth’s three essential elements are a part of and fundamental for the birds, and in essence, for all of life. What are your life’s three essential elements?

To Have and To Hold

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I’m breathing a sigh of relief. Fourteen months into this pandemic and Chris and I are vaccinated. I saw my Mom for Mother’s Day. The CDC is saying vaccinated people don’t have to wear masks. Venues and organizations are outlining plans to ‘return to normal!’ We survived a pandemic! Chris and I have also survived thirty-nine years of marriage as of this weekend. It doesn’t really sound very good to say the word ‘survive’ when speaking of your marriage, but it is the truth. When we said our vows, we had no idea what our future would hold—for better, for worse. The year of the pandemic was not the worst year of our marriage—in fact, there were lots of ‘betters’ sprinkled in among the oddities, losses, and unknowns of the ‘unprecedented’ pandemic. But we have navigated other unprecedented events in our years together that have fallen into the ‘worse’ category—things we couldn’t plan for, things that broke our hearts, things we could never imagine would happen—and it is those things that we have survived.

As a naïve young bride, I thought marriage would be simple—as simple as the name Spring Beauty for these delicate ephemeral flowers. To love and to cherish sounded simple to me, for I fiercely loved this man, and I was pretty good at cherishing things.

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What I didn’t know how to handle was the first time I realized that in this moment I hated him, which, as we learn, says much more about me than him. By that time, we had had over twenty-seven years together, so like the Leatherwood shrub, I learned to be more flexible, more forgiving, of him and of myself.

We discovered over time what side of the creek we were on—the Democrat married a Republican, the sports-lover married a sports-dare-I-say-hater, the horse-loving country girl hitched up with a city boy. But we also waded across the clear, cold creek to see and feel what it was like on the other side—he learned to ride horses, and I eventually learned to like football!

Sometimes things were a little murky. We kind of knew what was going on, but there were things we either didn’t know or we just didn’t have the mature skills to navigate with finesse. We bumbled through it. First-child parenting comes to mind. Okay, make that all-child parenting. All house buying and selling. All job changes. How many murky moments in thirty-nine years?!

We learned about perspectives. What’s real? What’s just a shadow? Which one is taking up the most space? The shadow of fear took up a ton of space in my life and darkened far too much of our relationship and my ‘being’ in the world. In sickness and in health. In shadow and in light.

There were mysteries unveiled of bodies and minds, of past and present, of life at large. God’s holy ordinance allows for mysteries, embraces them, and lifts them up for our participation and our wonder.

We learned to be rocks for one another. It always seemed like Chris was my rock, as I talked so much, cried so often, hurt so deeply, but over the years I realized how steady I was for him—in making a warm home, in explaining the science of things and the emotional aspects of relationships, and in always having topics to converse about. To have and to hold.

There have been so, so many bright spots in our life together, especially our three children. It is an honor to bring other human beings into the mysteries of life and relationships.

And yet, beauty and goodness can be caught in a tangle of rubble, unreachable and unpreachable. There are hard, messy things in life that are beyond our control. For richer, for poorer.

There are trees, and there are forests. There are details, and there are ‘big pictures.’ There is the here and now, and there is the future. We have learned who is the tree person—the detail person, and who is the forest person—the ‘big picture’ person. And we have learned the exceptions to the rule.

How long can one hide, and what is the reason for hiding? There’s almost always a reason, a very good reason. For a very long time the very good reason is often hidden from the person who is hiding. This riddle is the journey of our lives.

As young marrieds, we knew little of death. Then a puppy died, and another, and then a young dog, an old dog, many cats, my beloved horse. We chopped off heads of chickens to put in our freezer, butchered a pig we named and cared for. An infant nephew died, my dear friend, an uncle, an aunt, my Grandma, Chris’ parents, my Dad, Chris’ brother….We know about death now. It is a lesson that brings many lessons. Till death do us part.

There is spirit in marriage, there is science, and there is art. I think you need all three to make it thirty-nine years, to survive, to thrive, to become the person you are meant to be. Thereto I pledge thee my faith.

So, we have made it this far together. The fir-cone strewn path stretches on before us. We see the trees and the forest. We know precious new life and have walked with death. We respect the simplicities and complexities of life. We have experienced love and hate, fear and peace, sorrow and joy. We appreciate beauty and mystery. We go on. From this day forward.

Windows of Time

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I’ve had these windows of time in my life when much more was happening beyond the physical, conscious, daily occurrences. When I was younger, I was completely oblivious to them beyond a faint acknowledgement of not feeling so great. It could be in the form of physical discomfort or uneasiness or of a mental or emotional fatigue or depression. After a close friend of mine died when we were in our early 30’s, I had this window of ‘off’ time every year in early February. It was only after a number of years of this happening that I realized my ‘off’ time was the anniversary of his death and his birth. My body and mind were mourning the loss of my dear friend without my conscious knowledge. I ‘knew’ the anniversary of his death and birthday—a window of time of only a few days apart—in essence, without ‘knowing.’ Therein lies the incredible, miraculous marvel of our human bodies, minds, and souls.

Once I realized this connection, it made those times easier to handle. Of course I feel sad and down—I miss my friend, I loved him, and he was a joy to all who met him. The whole earth was missing a great soul who left far too early. That’s how important we each are in the whole of creation. The end of April and the beginning of May is another of those windows of time for me. It marks the deaths of Chris’ Mom and Dad who died two years and five days apart. Since I was intimately familiar with the anniversary mourning time, I used it proactively to set aside that time to honor them. I put pictures of them on our mantel, we recounted stories of them, and I ‘shared’ with them about our family. As the years passed—for now it has remarkably been sixteen and eighteen years since their deaths—the mourning morphed into a window of time of gratitude and peace. I still miss them and love them and carry them with me.

It was during this window of time when Chris and I walked at a nearby park. Our daily walks are usually faster—no tarrying for picture taking—but I took the camera in anticipation of a spectacular blooming. Good thing I did. The curled leaves of the Bloodroot flowers had opened up into a fan-tourage of magnificent flower display.

But the spectacular blooming I had anticipated was that of the White Trout Lily. From green and brown mottled, tulip-like leaves grows one exquisitely formed, curved, nodding, white flower with protruding yellow stamens and prominent white pistil.

They begin as a pink-colored bud that opens during the day and closes at night. The blooms last for just a few days, making it all the more magical to see them flowering.

The floodplain of this lowland by the Mississippi River was a carpet of White Trout Lilies—millions of them by my inexpert estimate. These colonies can be hundreds of years old, as it takes one plant six to seven years before a flower is produced. These early-flowering carpets serve as ‘nutrient pools’ for the entire forest. Without them, the spring run-off would take the nutrients with them, but instead the Trout Lilies take up nutrients such as nitrogen and phosphorus. By mid-summer the leaves die back and release those nutrients for the vibrant summer growth. They remain dormant, underground, until the next early Spring.

As the White Trout Lilies bloomed, sedge grasses and ferns pushed and unfurled from the damp soil—green is once again the dominant color!

A couple of Anemones bloom at this early Spring time in Minnesota, including False Rue Anemone with its prolific, branching white flowers that seem to dance in the breeze.

A Canadian Goose pair ate and strutted in the back water of the River and gave no bother to us as we walked by.

The feathers of the impressive gander rippled like the water in which he walked.

Farther on, another goose was dipping its black bill into the shallow water, but when it saw and heard us, it turned and swam away, honking in alarm for long past the time we were in sight.

Tiny blue violets bloomed along the trail in sharp contrast to the leaf litter beneath it.

And then I saw the turtles! A large, fat-necked turtle sprawled over a log in the River slough water, legs hanging over the sides to balance him for a sun-soaked nap. Heads were raised when they heard us, but their concern was not great enough to scramble from their perches into the water.

Beside the log turtle was another on a large rock below. Reflections multiplied the logs, rocks, and turtles as a single, red Maple flower floated by.

The next set of turtles on a log made me laugh out loud. Another fat-necked turtle had a smaller, flatter turtle as a ‘pillow’ for his rest time, and behind him, two colorful sentries guarded the rear with their watchful neck maneuvers.

Another turtle trio of different sizes piled on a log with their eyes and noses in the air. Such funny creatures!

And finally, towards the end of our slow, beautiful, enchanting, funny walk, I saw this tree stump in the slough water. Moss was growing around the circumference of the bark-stripped trunk. Old, tan grass remained from the past, while new green grass was beginning to grow. A stick was propped up against the stump like someone had left a walking stick for another. Ripples and shadows and floating plants surrounded the stump, and in the middle of the stump grew a small, newly-leafed out tree in the freshest, most vibrant green!

We are the vibrant trees growing from the ones who came before us. They are the exquisitely blooming flowers who become our ‘nutrient pools’ who nourish us in our growth. The windows of time, those anniversaries of death or trauma that are remembered in our bodies, encoded into our brains, and carved into our souls, are there for a purpose. We are supposed to remember in order to transform the grief and pain into something of substance and form, of beauty and peace, so we can recognize how important we each are in the whole of creation. Take up your walking stick, give thanks for those loving souls who came before us, don’t get bogged down by the petty, muddled world around us, and find joy in fleeting flowers and sun-bathing turtles.

Darkness Brings Promise

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Spring sunsets look like promise to me, which seems backward—one would think sunrises bring promise with the beginning of a new day. So I’m not sure what it is exactly that makes me think that, but I do know promise arises from some very dark situations.

Fire-scorched earth greeted a friend and I when we arrived for a morning walk at St. John’s Arboretum. It’s rather shocking to see acres and acres of blackened prairie and wetland. There were no more smoldering embers, but the acrid smell of smoke and ash swirled into the air and into our nostrils with the stiff breeze. The trail was the line of demarcation as we walked—on one side was the black earth, on the other side the brown and greening prairie.

Among the old, brown grass and new, green shoots, we found a clump of Pasque flowers—early bloomers of the prairie. The pale purple flowers were closed; the long, silky white hairs that covered the whole plant shone in the sunlight. The state flower of South Dakota, Pasque flowers are dear to my heart. They are known by some as May Day Flower.

Prescribed or controlled burns of prairies are a common tool to manage the land. Fire destroys invasive and woody plants, thus improving the native plant community. It quickly returns nutrients to the soil by way of the ash as opposed to years of decomposition of accumulated dried grasses.

A yellow-stemmed willow, a woody plant, is out of place on the prairie. While the matted, dried grasses provide protection for perennials over the cold Winter, it takes much more time for the prairie to ‘turn green.’ The black, burned side soaks up the sunlight, which warms the earth, the root systems, and the growth crowns of the grasses and wildflowers that remain. As stark as the burned side looks now, it will be lush and green before the other side. There is promise in fire.

So although it doesn’t look like it, much remains after the fast-burning prairie fire.

Since it was a relatively dry Winter without much snow, and early Spring was also fairly dry, the ‘wetland’ of cattails and rushes could also be burned this year.

But on the other side, the old, brown stalks of cattails and rushes gave cover to the nesting waterfowl. This young-looking Canadian Goose was frozen in her long-necked posture when we walked by on the boardwalk. At first I wondered if she was injured, but later I realized that she was probably just alarmed for her nest of eggs.

Her mate flew in as we walked on, so we backtracked to see that the female was in the cattails, probably at her nest. A nest full of potential.

As we left the prairie and wetlands, we entered the forest and saw what I was hoping to see—blooming Leatherwoods! The tubular yellow flowers hung from the tough, flexible branches of the understory shrubs.

This little Leatherwood tree looked like a child to me—fresh and bright, strong and pliable beside the tall, mature forest trees. The embodiment of prospects and hopes.

A fallen tree had scattered across the trail. It was unusual in that it had been so far-decayed while standing. Usually a dead tree falls and most of the decay process happens on the ground. The light amber wood of this tree was dry and crumbly, like a Jenga tower tumbling to the ground.

Bright, vibrant Fan Clubmoss and Shining Clubmoss grew from the old leaf litter, like miniature Cedars and Pines. Evergreens keep hope alive even through the longest Winters.

A small hanging nest, last year’s nest, was visible on the bare, budded branches. There will be new nest building and some re-use of old as the Spring promise of new eggs and new baby birds unfolds.

Nature embraces and expresses duality in most every aspect—the dark of night and the light of day, fire and ash and new, green growth, exposure and protection, decay and flexible growth. Should we think our lives would be any different? We are a part of Nature, her sons and daughters who start from eggs and grow and develop with protection and vulnerability. No matter what scorches us, our roots remain, and we can rise like the Phoenix from the ashes. That’s how sunsets show us promise, how first flowers display hardiness, how the young goose reveals potential, how Leatherwood demonstrates flexibility, and how the Jenga tree explains the cycle of Life.

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.