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Black and White Wonderland

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“If one more person says ‘Winter Wonderland’….” and he trailed off to silence. I knew the frustration he was feeling—we had been through this for years. I am that person who happily calls this snowy scenario a ‘Winter Wonderland.’ But this was the third day in a row of substantial snow, ice, and sometimes rain—as beautiful as it was, it was also extremely messy and difficult to ‘remove’ from all the places that need to be cleared on a college campus. The snow was heavy, laden with moisture as temperatures hovered for days and nights around the freezing mark. Chris gets up long before the five o’clock hour in order to be on the road—sometimes plunging through unplowed snow, other times following snow plows—to get to work. Then he bundles up to get in the snow removal machine and begins to clear the sidewalks. He and his two full-time workers have a carefully planned ‘execution map’ of their routes. The student workers are taking their finals or have already left for home, so the hand-shoveling gets pushed back on the to-do list. Sometimes the equipment breaks down, and sometimes people all over campus are emailing him to tell him about slippery spots. Welcome to Winter.

Before I worked on our own long driveway of snow removal, I walked out into the black and white Winter Wonderland world. The sky was dark gray and large crystalline flakes fell slowly and softly on the already heavily–flocked trees. It was so incredibly silent. And it felt good—we hardly notice how we are inundated with noise for most of our waking hours and for the toll it takes on our nervous system. Silence is a gift from Mother Nature. But in the midst of the snowing Winter Wonderland was the reality of a black and white world—black tree trunks and branches covered in white snow, black evergreen trees wearing coats of white, the gray sky and white ground.

Our vision and perception of what we see in the world is so fascinating to me. In physiology we learn that the retina in our eyes contains specialized cells called rods and others called cones. We are taught that rods are for night vision—they distinguish size, shape, and brightness but do not perceive color. Cones are for day vision, are highly concentrated in the central part of the retina, and distinguish fine details and all the colors we see. Black and white functions, right? Except why do our retinas contain 91 million rods and only 4.5 million cones when we are basically diurnal animals? What are our rods doing on a day like this one when what we ‘see’ looks black and white?

We do see the size and shape of an Elm tree with its fine, lacy branches…

and how these young, squat Jack Pines covered in snow look like toddlers in snowsuits…

and how the flexible branches of a Paper Birch bend and bow under the weight of the wet snow.

One has to look closely to notice any detail in the black and white snow globe. The snow obscures most of the defining features we see in the other seasons.

Black and white thinking is an ‘easy’ way of thinking. Things are right or wrong, good or bad, helpful or unhelpful. I’m a pro at it. (And notice I did it with the word ‘easy.’) It’s actually an immature way of thinking that we all go through in our development. As we grow, our developing brains are better able to detect nuances, comparisons, contrasts, subtleties, ‘gray areas,’ diversity, patterns, details, and connections—the ‘cone-like’ qualities. (This is what good education teaches us.) But as ‘mature’ as we are in our adult, educated brains, when we are emotionally triggered by unprocessed traumas and wounds, we revert back to our ‘rod-like’, child-like, black and white thinking. Our primitive reptilian brain takes over—it is ’91 million’ strong compared to our ‘4.5 million’ pre-frontal cortex. We are complex and wonderfully made creatures with both rods and cones, with both limbic and cortical regions of the brain, with both immature and mature skills and qualities. But we do not have to be at the ‘whim’ of our triggering emotions—we can use Mother Nature’s gift of silence to calm our bodies and brains in order to notice details, to see all the colors of our situation, and to know that two opposing things can be true (and okay) at the same time. We’ve had a beautiful Winter Wonderland week and a really messy, difficult, time-consuming clean-up. Welcome to Winter and Life!

Addition and Subtraction

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Have you seen that commercial where the man is stoically and rather cheerfully walking around with a enormous bear trap on his foot? It will be alright, he says. No big deal. He can handle it… Well, I can relate. Stoicism has its merits, including self-discipline and perseverance, but it can also become ridiculous. There seems to be a fine line between stoicism and self-inflicted suffering, and I have walked that line. I have also voluntarily veered into the suffering field and set up camp there. In fact, I was pretty comfortable in my suffering. But not anymore. I see the bear trap I’ve been dragging along on my foot—it’s heavy, and it hurts, and there’s no reason for it anymore.

So I have made a decision to subtract some things from my life, starting with that bear trap. I am taking away a few things I dearly love and fervently believe in, but I have realized that I can get so wrapped up in them that I neglect other things I should be paying attention to. My decision-making took long swaths of time and lots of angsty jumping back and forth across the line—should I or shouldn’t I? The process became as long suffering as my stoic self. But I finally feel like I’ve shaken some things off, and I’ve got to say, it feels….strange and rather exhilarating (in a stoic kind of way.)

Saturday was a day right on the line of freezing, give or take a degree or two. The air was heavy with humidity—at times it sputtered as snow, other times a misty sprinkle. Would we add snow or subtract it with rain? We hiked at the Little Elk area—it was a pretty spot where the Little Elk River opened up and flowed into the Mississippi River. But now both Rivers were iced over—the shallow parts had strong–enough ice for sleds and tent houses used for ice fishing. Each cold day and night adds ice. Each day above freezing deteriorates it.

Large White Pines and Oaks lined the River trail, along with little patches of prairie grasses in open areas.

For a pretty picture: just add mushrooms and a cap of snow!

We soon saw evidence that a beaver had been busy subtracting the number of standing trees along the River, and I wondered if the slushy footprints belonged to him.

I think beavers must be stoics considering their impossibly hard job of gnawing trees down in order to build their homes and make their dams. Try, try again and again and again. Perseverance and self-discipline.

As we followed the River, I began to wonder how many beavers were actually working in the area, especially when we got to this (de)construction site. Many of the trees were young Oaks—very hard wood to chew through, but what a sturdy structure they will make!

As in any forest, time, weather, insects, and diseases can subtract the number of large trees that make up the forest. Their loss is impactful. Their death and downing makes a cracking, crashing wail of letting go of what was a beautiful, productive life.

And yet, as those old beauties die, the young ones are sprouting up to take their place. Subtraction and addition.

At a point by a curve in the River was a fenced-in area that had been excavated by an archeologist in the 1980’s and 90’s. He found three dwellings of a French fort from the mid 1700’s. The area is listed with the National Register of Historic Places as the oldest European outpost in the Mississippi River headwaters region.

Logs were floated down this section of the River back in the logging days of late 1800’s/early 1900’s to local saw mills. Log jams were common and would take weeks or even months to clear. Interestingly, some of the logs sunk, caused a jam that didn’t get cleared, and created an island over the years! Addition of islands!

We left the River trail and circled into the Pine forest that followed a ridge. Red Pines joined the old White Pines, both towering above our heads. It was such a good feeling to be walking among them!

Nature is all about addition and subtraction. Birth and death. New things and old, failing things. Mother Nature also shows us how old things can be transformed into new things—downed trees into a new island! Humans seem to resist these natural transitions and transformations. At least I do. But when one is closer to the cracking, crashing wail of the end of life than to the sprouting vigor of a newborn, it is easier to let go of the things that feel like subtractions to our lives. Why carry around the heavy things just because we can? I know that I am strong enough, persistent enough, and disciplined enough—all good qualities of stoicism. But I also want to add loving enough (to myself), empowered enough, and peaceful enough. Subtraction and addition—it’s simple math.

The Way It Should Be

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My prejudice about these particular trees has been with me now for almost three years. I wrote about them in a February 2020 post, “I co-exist along with them, messy or not, ugly or not, worthy-in-my-mind or not.” I literally stare at them every morning and evening when I sit down at our table to eat. They have always been ‘not right.’ Like the Sesame Street song (modified), “Four of these things are not like the others, four of these things just don’t belong…” I don’t know who planted the Lombardy Poplars—their one ‘redeeming?’ factor is they grow quickly—up to six feet a year, so they are used for a fast screen or wind break. Neither of those reasons seem relevant here. These tall, columnar trees are native to Italy, so they do have a place in the world. The most fascinating thing about them is the word that describes how the branches grow more or less parallel to the main trunk—fastigiate. But they are messy (branches die and fall easily), ugly, and not so worthy in my mind. They are short-lived and very susceptible to pests and diseases, especially fungal diseases in more humid climates, and they have a shallow, wide-spreading root system that throws up suckers anywhere along that route, making them invasive and terrible for any kind of drainage system, including septic systems. So you won’t be surprised to hear that I was not sad at all when the trees started dying last year. As the last one put out some leaves this Spring, then slowly withered and died, I was already contemplating their removal. But Summer and most of Fall slid by without me gathering the troops to help bring them down…until the perfect solution…Thanksgiving!

I baked and cooked all day on Thanksgiving—rolls, pies, cranberry sauce, croutons, gravy, etc. and prepared for our Friday feast, and Chris lined up chainsaws, safety glasses, ear protection, and rakes out on the garage floor. I was much more excited for the after-dinner activities than a person really should be, considering it was a holiday!

Our Thanksgiving meal was wonderful, and I dangled dessert like a carrot on a stick for ‘afterwards.’ Our son Aaron and his talented, professional chainsaw instructor of a partner Zoe, along with my brother Scott and his partner Kris were our co-workers on the felling of the Lombardys. The chainsaw wizards felled the tall trees with precision, saving all the young Pines growing in their midst. Clean-up was swift and fun with six purposeful people and gratefully, two young and strong bodies to carry logs. I was happy.

As we commented about how much better it looked with the Lombardys gone, I anticipated that the neighborhood deer would be very curious about the change to their territory. Sure enough, the evening after, the little herd showed up. First two, then three, then four….

They munched on the brush in the pile, the one pile that may have had some semi-tender green branches from the last live-ish tree. Then they wandered one-by-one through the trees to the stumps and checked them out.

From the southeast, a young buck emerged from the trees, watching the others munching and exploring, then watching me when he saw me through the window. He wasn’t concerned. He took his turn through the trees, noticing the changes to their wandering grounds.

So now my view is the ‘way it should be.’ The native Pines are growing and will soon fill in the gaps left by the big Lombardy Poplars. They will not be missed.

I am not the only person who is so prejudiced against Lombardy Poplars. Michael Dirr, the author of the tree bible ‘Manual of Woody Landscape Plants’ wryly writes, “if anyone plants poplars they deserve the disasters which automatically ensue.” So maybe prejudice is not the correct word since there are plenty of valid reasons for the rejection of this tree, especially in Minnesota’s northland. We have our own native poplars—Quaking Aspens, Big-toothed Aspens, and Eastern Cottonwoods. They grow and flourish among the evergreens.

When something seems ‘not right,’ we owe it to ourselves to investigate that feeling. Do we carry a bias or a prejudice that is invalid or erroneous? Do we feel that way because others around us feel that way or impel us by their words? Do we really know what we’re talking about? Experience, facts, and reason are valid ways we navigate our inquiries—whether that’s all the downfalls of a species of tree, the actual workings of an election system, or the character of our neighbors. Anyway around it, the Lombardy Poplars lost.

Blessings and Crack-ups

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I know a blessing when it presents itself to my life, and I can even spot a few that are in disguise. I know how to count them, accept them, savor them, and be grateful for them. I’ve had a few plaques hanging on my walls over the years proclaiming the goodness of blessings and offering that sentiment to anyone who sees it. I am equally familiar with the crack-ups, the break-downs, the pile-ups, and the mishaps. No Thanksgiving or any other day, for that matter, has one without the other.

Last Sunday’s hike at Mississippi River County Park was chilly and windy. The temps had dropped into the teens the previous few nights, and ice had formed on the River in record time. (We had hiked at the park across the River two days before, and the River was open.) A layer of snow had fallen after the ice formed, and then the wind blew! The wind and current sent the River ice into a crack-up! There is a dam a couple of miles down river from the park where the water becomes still and full. When the water slows down, the ice forms more smoothly. At this stretch, the north winds stirred up the current and the chaos, breaking up the ice that formed overnight. The River was a mash-up of smooth ice, piles of chards, open, flowing water, ice floes, and ‘warm’ spots that had melted and re-froze. Does any of that feel familiar?

We left the River bank and followed the trail ‘inland.’ The trail had already been groomed for skiing, and ski tracks intermingled with the footprints of humans, dogs, and deer.

The bright sunlight filtered through the trees, lighting up the ‘snow arches’ of the bent trees that live incognito during the summer.

The backwater pond, even and shallow, had smooth ice with a layer of snow that revealed the tracks of some brave animals that had already ‘tested’ the ice. I wondered how they knew they could make it across.

The beaver has been busy felling trees. I have yet to see where his lodge is, and I wonder if he is new to the neighborhood. His industriousness is impressive! Chewing down the tree isn’t even the hardest part—‘cutting up’ and dragging the chunks of wood to his building spot is the most labor-intensive.

Living in this world has given me an appreciation for the blessings in my life. It also makes me realize that blessings befall us all—they are not just doled out to a favored few. The hardest part is being grateful, humble, helpful, and beneficial to others with the gifts that come our way. The more difficult learning curve of the decades is appreciating the crack-ups, downfalls, pile-ups, and break-downs. They also befall us all. We cannot eschew them if we want to abide in a more peaceful place. The hard part is not getting tangled up in the chaos and the destruction, though that is easier said than done. But slowing down smooths things out and soothes the pain of the inevitable crack-ups and break-downs. So take it all in and be thankful. Be still. Be full of love—for our beautiful Earth, for ourselves, and for others.

The Snow is not Finished With Us Yet

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When we are young, we are mostly oblivious to the things we carry or the burdens we bear. Not a child gets through childhood without shouldering the responsibilities or the feelings of someone else. It is so universally prevalent that I have come to accept this anomaly as the norm, even as I balk at the idea that that should be so. But to rail against something that ‘should not be’ when it is actually ‘the way of the world’ is plainly unproductive. My idealism gets covered over by realism.

I get a shiver of excitement when I rise in the morning, and as the light slowly wakes the day, I see the brightness of ‘snow light.’ The first substantial snow of the season fell early Monday morning and continued for the next couple of days. It was a slowly accumulating snow, lazy and small-flaked with the stingy, lingering drought. But the moisture–laden snow (thanks to the 30 degree temps) stuck to the trees, transforming the gray November to white. The sky remained cloudy and heavy when I walked the back trail—the snow was not finished with us yet.

As I walked, I noticed how the different plants ‘wore’ the snow. The stiff seedheads of the Yarrow flowers each had elaborate, conical headwear, like a fluffy ermine hat fit for royals.

The short needles of the Jack Pine trees held little cotton balls of snow and looked like they were wearing puffy coats….

but it was a different story for the tall Jack Pine that had died the year before. Brittle branches and old cones stiffly held the snow in long lines. Some things we carry are cozy and comfortable; others should be held at arm’s length or left to die.

A little Eastern Red Cedar tree almost disappeared under the blanket of snow, for its young, supple branches were able to carry the load.

The older Cedars, still sturdy and tough, drooped with the weight of it, but were also able to bear a tremendous load of snow. Some things we carry make us strong.

The Honeysuckles were clothed in an intricate maze of lacy white, each delicate branch outlined with snow. More pretty than heavy. Some things we carry help to make us beautiful.

On the trail, a newly-fallen Jack Pine partially blocked the way. Green and brown needles, old cones, new cones, and dying branches held up a canopy of snow. Some things we carry are ambiguous.

On the other side of the trail, small Sumac trees that had borne their first small flowers and fruits, were bent over from the weight of the seedhead and wore a crystal shawl. Some things we carry were ingrained at a very young age, yet protect us in a delicate way.

I was not the first creature to walk in the fresh snow—the deer had already made tracks down the trail (and through the yard). Their stealth visits are now recorded in snow, along with…

the wild turkeys…

and the squirrels, all of whom dig through the snow and leaf litter to find food. With snow and burdens come accountability.

The Red Oak leaves that cling to the branches for most of the Winter are cloaked in the contrasting snow. Some things we carry become the antithesis of who we want to be.

The burden of snow bent the branches over the trail, blocking the way. There was no way of passing without shaking the snow off the trees onto myself. Some things we carry block our pathway of life, covering us in ways that seem insurmountable. Part of the learning journey is figuring out how to shake it off.

Even the spikey Mullein seedheads sport the snowy attire. Unlikely solutions can present themselves to us when we least expect it.

It was truly a silent Winter wonderland for me and the creatures who had passed through the woods before me.

Each tree, structure, and plant held the snow in its own unique way.

Snow in the North is a way of life. I cannot help but smile when I see snowflakes drifting from the sky. It is still a child-like wonder to me. But there are plenty of distractors, disdainers, railers, and complainers. How do you ‘wear’ the snow? And how is the snow an analogy for the things we carry, the burdens we unwillingly bear? It doesn’t have to be ‘snow in the North’ that ‘shouldn’t be’ according to us—it can be ‘the government,’ ‘the libs,’ ‘MAGAs,’ ‘the church,’ ‘heathens,’ ‘the super wealthy,’ ‘poor people’—all a realistic, present, integral part of ‘the way of the world.’ We all have our own ‘scapegoats’ that bear the burden of our own burdens, knowingly or unknowingly. We want to shake them off onto somebody or something else. It seems easier that way. But the snow shows us our tracks. We are accountable to ourselves for the burdens we find draped across our shoulders and for the journeys we take in life. And that brings me back to my acceptance of the anomalies of life—those ‘out-of-the-normal’ norms. As prevalent as the struggle is for each and every one of us, I now regard it as our work—the spiritual work of our lives. It takes the pressure off of us in a way, while at the same time, our struggle-work becomes our very own—our power is not co-opted or controlled by the other person, the media, the government, the priest, boss, or partner. No need for scapegoats. It’s just me and Thee. We are beautiful and strong, and the snow is not finished with us yet.

Promise Shines Through the Gray

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There is a stark contrast in my photographs from this post compared to the last one with all the brilliant Fall colors, though nearly a month has passed since I actually took the colorful photos. Gray November comes to us gradually. It is time to see things in a different light—the literal reality of which we have no other choice. Shades of gray and brown dominate the landscape now. We do have a choice as to how we think about the ‘colorless’ palette of late Autumn and Winter.

It is a time to see the bare basics, the silhouettes of trees and shrubs. I appreciate their form, their shape, their strength and flexibility.

The gray Mississippi reflects the gray sky, surrounded by the gray, bare trees, the gray-green Cedars, and the surprisingly yellowish-brown grass. The day was raw with a northwest wind—eighteen miles per hour of wind chill on the below-freezing day. Enough to make my eyes water as I faced the flowing River.

We had had rain, much-needed rain, in the few days prior to my hike, and the ice crystals crunched ever-so-softly under my boots. Tiny beads of snow fell, hardly perceptible to my eyes and skin.

Along with the rain had been strong winds that had toppled dead trees and limbs, making obstacles on the trail and wreckage in the woods. Beware of the gravity-defying widow-makers who have not made their way to the ground!

A pile of invasive Buckthorn had been toppled on purpose and piled neatly beside the trail. Good riddance to that which takes over the forest, if allowed, in its hungry quest for dominance.

The bare trees allow us to see things that we would not normally notice in the Summer, and though it seems to have an ‘ugly’ look, it really is ‘just different.’ Our judgement clouds the reality.

Blemishes, wrinkles, wounds, spots, holes, marks, weathering, and decline are all exquisitely evident in the unveiling Autumn. It is Nature, and it is us—how can you not love it?

Here in the forested North, we have place-holders for all the others who have lost their leaves—the Evergreens. They are the hope-keepers, the oxygen-makers, the color-bearers. Usually when I hear the wind whisking through the tops of the Pines, it sounds like singing, but on this day, it sounded more muted, less lyrical, more….story telling. The Evergreens, whether the long–needled Pines, the conical Spruces, the wispy Firs, or the sturdy Cedars, tell the Winter story for all the trees and dormant plants. It keeps them all ‘alive.’

And so, the dried Goldenrod flowers become stars of light…

the Artemisia becomes an array of tiny silver bells…

the young Pines embody the everlasting Goodness…

the Red-twigged Dogwoods represent the warm flow of life-sustaining blood…

and the clinging red Oak leaves remind us of our resilience.

Growth is a given in Nature—the eternal hopefulness of that can sustain us through the cold and gray months. Meditate on the miracle of it.

Often with growth comes the shrinking and dying of old branches, childish beliefs, old, outdated coping behaviors, and ignorant information. (To me ‘ignorant’ is uninformed or inexperienced, not a judgement.) Gray November and the cold Winter are perfect times to prune away the old, outdated branches.

Sometimes our old, tightly-held beliefs and ignorances have grown so large that they have wounded those close to us, often with no intention and knowledge on our part. Pruning allows both to heal and grow.

At the end of my hike, I saw a noisy flock of birds scouring the leaf litter under some trees. Robins and Chickadees and a Northern Flicker hopped around looking for food. The Robins and Flickers will go farther south when snow covers the ground. They are some of the last to go, but I see in them their promise to be the first to return, just as the snow uncovers the ground in Spring.

Gray November holds all kinds of Hope. We attended a beautiful wedding last weekend that held the light of young Love and the energy of Happiness and Potential. Do you remember those? At this time of year, we can see more clearly with less obstacles in the way, along with a path around the ones that fall before us. Vision and Breakthroughs. We can look at the reality of our blemishes and human short-comings and call them Authentic. Forgiveness lives on in the cold harshness of Winter. We can identify the invasive species of thoughts, beliefs, and behaviors that need to be toppled, pruned, and removed. Openness and Opportunity. With the un-busy-ness of the dormant time, the stories and glories of Summer and Growth have space and time to be told. And gray November and dark December unfold to Celebration—to giving Thanks, to decorating with stars, silver bells, ever-greenery, and warm red ribbons and bows. We celebrate Goodness and Life Everlasting. Promise shines through the gray.

A Humming Song of Hallelujah

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I’m a couple weeks behind the amazing Autumn leaf color-fest here in Minnesota—by now, most have fallen to the ground. But social displays of wonder are preempted by occurrences of life, death, and life. The possibility of losing a loved one (and I want to add the word ‘again’) grabs one’s attention from the mundane day-to-day as well as the seasonal wonder. It focuses our attention on the past, on the relationship, and on the absolute and pure preciousness of a person. When death is on deck, it changes things.

I was emotionally exhausted when we came back from Missouri. Everything tends to grind to a halt for me as I try to process everything that has happened. The first day back I was rather catatonic—I didn’t move much, and my thinking about anything was blurry and scattered. I sat outside and let the sunlight sink into my skin. The following weekend, Chris and I journeyed to the golden cathedral of a Maple forest. A forest of mostly Sugar Maples turns the most brilliant yellow-gold in those fleeting days of Autumn color. Being a prairie girl, it was an extraordinary delight when I first went to the Maples of Lake Maria State Park in the fall of 2014 and wrote ” The Trees Were Glowing.” Every year since then, we find a Maple forest in which to bathe in the ethereal glow of the gilded leaves.

The day was cloudy, which made for a different kind of glow. No rays of sunlight danced on the leaves and slipped to the leaf-covered forest floor. The cloudy light was reflected back and forth from leaf to leaf like a humming song filling the air.

A relatively ‘young’ part of the forest had tall, straight-trunked trees, like a colossal choir dressed in robes of gold, swaying to the humming song.

Two large rocks at the base of two older-barked trees, along with a flexible, bent-over young Maple, created an alter of sorts. We pray for the souls of our loved ones.

With awe, we stood by the Grandmother and Grandfather Maples whose branches reached out wide and tall, proclaiming their time-honored wisdom. Like all elders, they deserve respect for all they have seen, all they have lived through, and all the hardships they have survived.

Pines shed a certain number of needles each fall, usually from the interior of the branches. Their winged pairs often get caught on other foliage, as do the bright-colored leaves.

We came to a clearing in the forest where Sumacs grew along the edges, happy in the more abundant sunshine. The deep red leaves are a sharp contrast to the golden Sugar Maple leaves. Sumacs are one of the first to change color, so by this time, many had already lost their leaves. But in contrast to most other shrubs and trees, they retain their striking brick-red seedheads throughout the winter.

The younger stems are fuzzy and pink, and after the leaves drop, look like arms raised in hallelujah!

Tucked into a little valley that protected the Sumac from leaf-dropping wind, was a spectacular display of a community of trees of all colors, sizes, and shapes! In the center of the fall color was an Eastern Red Cedar with a shine of gray-blue ‘berries’ (actually small cones) dusted on its branches.

We walked back into the forest where even an uprooted tree looked like a woodland sculpture with the background of golden leaves.

One part of the trail had beautiful red-leaved Maples that added to the color palette of our rustling footsteps.

Then before we left, the clouds broke away, and the sun flooded the golden cathedral with shimmering light!

Death was a swing and a miss this time around, thank the Good Lord, but all the feelings and sensations of uncertainty, compassion, love, loss, and grief took us on a roller-coaster ride. It’s funny how we are never quite prepared for it, even when we’ve been in similar circumstances before. It’s like the forest coming alive with golden light as the leaves are dying—life, death, and life again. We tend to take for granted the long Summer of green when all is well, then panic and wail a bit when leaves change and fall. Mother Nature has shown us time and time again that that is not the end of the story. As people of faith and mercy, we believe that, but as people of doubt and confusion, we constantly need reassurance that it will be so. So in the aftermath of such a roller-coaster of emotions, it is a healing balm to walk into the golden cathedral forest, to be surrounded and blessed by gilded light, and to raise our arms and hearts, along with the trees, in a humming song of Hallelujah.

Mesmerizing Middle

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I’m going to begin in the middle. In the middle of our hike, that is. And only for one photograph, one minute of time, one funny little revelation. It inspires all of my hikes, and with reflection, it really is the basis of why I take photos, write this blog, and share it with you all. We walked across a ‘floating’ wooden bridge over an inlet to a shallow pond halfway through our hike at Mississippi River County Park. Duckweed has been covering the slow-moving inlet water and much of the pond for months now. On this day and all those going forward into Autumn, leaves had fallen onto the thick duckweed, creating a collage. I peered over the edge of the bridge, staring into the pea-soup green water. Since the bridge ‘floats’ on top of the water, every movement we made radiated out into the water and duckweed, producing movement and patterns through the bright green medium. “This is kind of mesmerizing,” I told my patiently waiting husband. With his usual dry humor, Chris broke my nature-spell by proclaiming his take on it all, “Makes me want to jump in and go for a swim!” I laughed at the absurdity of it, imagining his rising from the water as the incredible green hulk!

Nature is mesmerizing for me. I see things and wonder…who lives here? How did the tree die? How many young ones have fledged from this high-rise home?

Look at this pearly shell! Scooped up by the water from the sandy shore and placed on this rock for a moment in the long trend of time until a bigger wave sweeps it back to the Mississippi waters.

Seaweed and floating Willow leaves have their own kind of enchantment as the waves move through them.

In the full green of Summer, vines are often overlooked, but at this time of year, they show themselves with changing colors, as with red Virginia Creeper, orange-berried Bittersweet, or yellowing Wild Cucumber. Wild Grape vines and Wild or Bur Cucumber vines can absolutely enshroud all other vegetation or structures with their robust twining and climbing. As some of the other leaves fall, Canada Moonseed vine comes into its own with hanging purple fruit that looks a bit like edible Wild Grapes, but in actuality, is poisonous.

Another common vine is Virgin’s Bower. It is a type of wild Clematis with indistinct, small white flowers. Its fruit and seedheads are the fascinating part of this vine—the wispy tails of the fruit dry into puffs that inspire its common name of Old Man’s Beard.

In the middle of summer, Mississippi River County Park becomes very monochromatic and homogeneous after its enthralling Spring of woodland/floodplain flowers. Few plants are blooming, trails can be wet with rain and heavy with mosquitoes, and the cons often outweigh the pros for hiking there. But Autumn comes, and the park once again embraces its color and beauty.

The shallow pond in the middle of the park reflects the golden trees, provides a home for Painted Turtles, and grows Monet-worthy Lily Pads.

Colors of all shades and hues begin to pop out of the greenery. The process of the energy-producing shutdown that happens to most plants in the Northland is fascinating!

And then there’s the Sunlight. It shines on the color, over the brown seedheads of Monarda and Indian Grass, and through the green leaves of Stiff Goldenrod and others. It is the fire that fuels Spring growth, Summer production, and Fall decline. It entrances us because the Sun is just as important to us as to the plants.

Poet extraordinaire Mary Oliver wrote: “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” It is the way I live my life. It is the reason I started North Star Nature. It is my fascination with all the mesmerizing aspects of Nature that impel me to write my blog week after week for over eight and a half years now. To my readers, I thank you and hope you have been astonished along with me. Nature deserves your attention. It deserves your love. It deserves your caregiving. I hope you have an enchanting Autumn!

Work Well Done

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I’m not a betting person. I like a sure thing, not the maybe–potential–good day–bad day–luck–fate thing that seems to juice the adrenaline of gamblers on any kind of betting opportunity. Too much drama for me. That’s why I love the changing of the seasons—it’s a sure thing. And yet, there are humans who want to make even that a little more dramatic! When will the leaves be at peak color? Don’t miss your chance to go North to the place where the Fall color will be the most spectacular at this particular time! We even want to game Mother Nature. (I guess that’s nothing new.) Don’t get me wrong—I love the spectacular colors of Autumn leaves at peak times. It really is the epitome of storybook Autumn, especially when paired with pumpkins, hot cider, fingerless gloves, red cheeks, cozy sweaters, and Uggs. But I also love the process of Fall—the subtle shift when plants stop growing and pour all their energy into the production of fruits and seeds, when there is ripening and fullness and deep color to the produce, when waning energy production is noted in the loss of gloss or slight color change in leaves, and when a morning temperature in the low 40’s produces a heavy coat of dew on the warm, sun-soaked earth of the previous day.

Thursday was officially the first day of Autumn, but signs of the process of Fall have been showing for weeks now. Last Sunday Chris and I hiked at Oak Savanna Park in Sherburne County. 140 acres of the park were gifted to the County by Bill and Margaret Cox on the outskirts of Becker. There was a hint of coolness in the cloudy air when we began our hike from the parking lot of Sherburne History Center whose signage reminded us of ox-cart trails, Indian land, and settler farmers who tried and often failed at making a living on the sandy soil. In essence, they urged us to go forth on this land with the knowledge of who and what came before us.

At this park, as at the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge to the south, there are acres and acres of wetlands.

The rolling hills above the wetlands were home to an impressive Oak stand that is being managed as an Oak Savanna as invasive species like Buckthorn are removed.

Sumac is one of the first tree/shrubs to display their brilliant Fall colors and even show the process of how the leaves change from the outside tips to the central vein of the compound leaves. Aren’t they beautiful?!

Poison Ivy is coordinating its Fall colors below the Sumac.

Certain plants are stand-outs at this time of year—purple-stemmed Raspberries with carnival striped leaves, pale purple and albino bracts of Spotted Horse Mint, and the spiny brown balls of Cockleburs.

The park has horse trails and an extensive disc golf course, so at times we found ourselves on someone else’s turf.

Ash trees are one of the first hardwood trees to change color, and again, the leaves show the Fall process of losing chlorophyll.

And Gooseberries, one of the first shrubs to open their leaves in the Spring, have turned a rosy color along with the Virginia Creeper growing at their feet.

There is a subtleness to Autumn along with the spectacular color. It’s like a sigh after work well done.

Mother Nature has worked hard all Spring and Summer to grow, reproduce, develop, mature, and produce—the work of all our lives in one way or another. It takes a tremendous amount of energy (thank you photosynthesis and Sun) along with imperative resources like soil nutrients and water in order to get to the point of ‘work well done.’ Sigh…

I think we have a tendency to want the ‘good stuff’ right away—the spectacular peak colors, a great paying job as we start our career, a well-furnished ‘dream’ home—the epitome of American life. But when we embrace the process, we don’t ‘wish away’ the time it takes to get to the ultimate experience. The proverbial ‘life’s a journey, not a destination’ holds true in Nature and in our lives. If one only lives for the ‘hit’ of peak colors or for the money jackpot, what happens next? The apex experience only lasts for a minute or two, then we strive to reach the next ‘hit.’ There is wisdom and satisfaction in the process—growth and development comes one way or the other, the embraced way or the hard way. We can go forth on our journeys, satisfied with ourselves and what came before us to get us to this moment, enjoy a time of rest, then move forward into a new season of growth, development, and production. Enjoy the process!

Reckoning Our Storytelling

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We are all fantastical storytellers. You may remember your own yarns as a child, or more likely, those of children, as fanciful, creative chronicles spilled from their imaginations and mouths. And often, they were a key character in the saga. At some point in development, there is a reckoning between fantasy and reality, often involving those joyous childhood participants in legend—Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. Disillusionment and disappointment. Even anger at the deliverer of such bad news. It is all a part of growing up, a step towards maturity.

Our creative, imaginative brains, in an attempt to make sense of any given situation, continue to make up stories throughout our childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. The stories tend to live and twirl inside our own minds. They gather strength and even ‘evidence’ as the story is imagined again and again and again. “I can’t do math.” “Nobody likes me.” “I’m a freak.” “I’m a bad student.” “She’s a bad teacher.” “People are taking advantage of me.” “Someone is out to get me.” What starts out as an inner insecurity often morphs into an outward blaming of others.

Last Sunday, Chris and I traveled to the Minnesota River Valley at Fort Ridgely State Park. The fort was built in 1853 near the Dakota reservations of Upper and Lower Sioux Agencies on what had been Dakota land for thousands and thousands of years. It was used as an outpost, Civil War training facility, and buffer between the Dakotas and the surge of settler–colonists coming into the area. In the middle of the fort stands a granite monument to honor the soldiers and others who fought and were killed in the bloody Dakota War of 1862. On large brass plates on four sides of the monument, a story of the battle is articulated by some person thirty years after the war. Reading the narrative in this day and age shows a stark bias against the Indians with how the storyteller articulated false motives of young Indians who ‘started’ the war and who were ‘out to kill’ the white settlers and soldiers. The modern signage around the excavated ruins of the fort told a different story. The Indians on the reservations were being starved when food promised them from government treaties was not being delivered. The man in charge told them “to eat grass if they are hungry.” Forced from their homeland onto reservations, then starved by the government is a different reality than the story told on the monument.

The Minnesota River valley was cut out from glacial till by erosion over thousands of years. The ridge above the River has been returned to prairie.

Orange Sulphur butterfly on Rough Blazing Star
Goldenrod gall

After our fort tour (the museum run by the Minnesota Historical Society was closed), we began our hike behind the CCC-built picnic area. We curved down a hill to the Fairway Trail in a wide strip of prairie that started on top of the ridge and went all the way down to Fort Ridgely Creek. (In 1927, a golf course was built on the park grounds and has since been returned to prairie.) The Ash trees were tipped yellow, Goldenrod and Sunflowers were in their full glory, and crickets chirped an Autumn song.

Canada Rye grass

At the top of this hill is a chalet used as a warming house for Winter sledding and snow sports.

This area of Minnesota has been in drought conditions, and Fort Ridgely Creek and the Minnesota River were very low. We did see minnows swimming in the shallow water of the creek.

A couple miles north of the main park was a horse camp area in the valley of Fort Ridgely Creek. Huge walls of rock and clay on the east side of the creek created a quiet, protected area.

We passed many horseback riders as we hiked, and one proclaimed that it was much easier the way they were doing it than the way we were—but I didn’t know how right he was until we climbed the trail out of the creek bottom to the ridge.

Butterfly Weed going to seed
Tall Boneset and Goldenrod

The upper prairie was dominated by Indian Grass, its deep rusty-brown seedheads swayed in the wind and paid homage to the ancestors who had lived and died here.

Sunflowers were brilliant, their golden pollen attracting Goldenrod Soldier Beetles, a beneficial insect that doesn’t harm the plants.

Goldenrod Soldier Beetles mating

A Cranberrybush Viburnum gave a different vibe from the fall-ish yellow and browns of the prairie.

Sideoats Grama Grass and Common Milkweeds with their full pods of seeds, lined the trail in the Indian Grass prairie.

Fort Ridgely closed in 1872, and soon after, settlers unlawfully pillaged the buildings for stone and wood. In 1896, the land was set aside for the US–Dakota War Memorial, and in 1911, with an additional 50 acres, it was designated a state park, the fourth oldest in Minnesota. Now it has 537 acres of history and stories. It is a stark example of how the story changes with time and with who writes it. As I read the story of the US–Dakota War etched into the brass plates on the granite obelisk, I wondered what the Dakota version of the story would be. Our complicated, damning history.

Our stories are often paradoxical—many different versions of the same situation and all of them bearing some, but not all, of the truth. And as I mentioned before, we all have a tendency towards the fantastical, when a story does not correspond with the facts of reality. It really is a human conundrum. We tell ourselves illusory stories in part to have some sort of control over the situation, to put ourselves at the helm when things feel out of control or overwhelming. Perhaps it is ‘practice’ for real life. But too often, we only want our version of the story to be told, fantastical or not. We want our version of other people’s stories to be the truth. I have had many stories live and twirl in my mind in unrealistic fashion, so I know of what I speak. We become entwined with our own story, and the unwinding of it only promises disillusionment, disappointment, grief, and anger. No wonder we are so reluctant to the reckoning. Growing up is not easy, and growing into maturity is even more difficult. How can we be mature and generous with our storytelling? How can we navigate a fair way? How can we pay homage to our own struggles and to the struggles of others? It might take the very thing we started with as children—an open and creative imagination. Can we imagine the homeless person’s story as part of our narrative? Can we include a poor, young mother’s abortion story as part of our own mothering story? Can we envision what a displaced, starving person would do to try to regain health and agency in a repressive culture? We can have our own values and at the same time listen deeply to and walk with a person who is in a situation unlike any we have ever imagined for ourselves. It grows us as a person into a more seasoned version of ourselves. Welcome to the hard-earned, fruit-bearing, browned and aging Autumnal season of Life.