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Archives for April 2022

Portraits of Hope

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Hope is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops at all- —Emily Dickinson

I usually love Earth Day. We all have so much to be thankful for living on this good, green earth. Sharing the beauty and goodness of the flora and fauna that surrounds us and sustains us is a great pleasure of mine. But I’m not feeling much hope this year—when the western half of the United States is in a continuing drought, short on moisture and water, and battling wildfires at all times of the year. Such loss and destruction. When the evil of an unprovoked war is tearing apart a country and killing thousands and thousands of innocent people. Extreme loss and destruction. When ‘mysterious’ illnesses and causes are wreaking havoc on our bee and insect populations, and more recently, on people’s health. Who is benefiting from such harm? It is overwhelming. It makes my small contributions to science, goodness, and beauty seem fruitless.

I gathered words and pictures from magazines at the New Year to make a 2022 vision board, and on it I placed a picture of a pure white feather with Emily Dickinson’s first line from her famous poem: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” I feel like I need it more now than even in January when I was hoping the pandemic would finally abate.

And then, things with feathers kept showing up for me this week—when I was looking out the window while eating breakfast at home and during a short, quiet walk at Saint John’s Arboretum. The corner of the house roof was a ‘cooing perch’ for a male Mourning Dove—his throat would puff out, stretching the ruff of feathers, and the calm, lonely coo escaped from his body without opening his bill, without any words. Most surprising was the patch of pastel iridescent feathers that were displayed when his throat was ballooned with air—a handsome fellow with a peaceful song.

Cardinals are so expressive with their crest of red feathers. Carotenoids from fruit and insects are responsible for the red pigment. Often during Winter or after molting, their back feathers turn a gray color until the richness of Spring when they change to brilliant crimson.

The ice was gone from the lakes at Saint John’s Arboretum, and an immature Loon swam all by himself in the big lake. His head feathers were transitioning to the shiny black of adults, and his eyes were still black instead of red. Pretty feathers of hope.

On one side of the boardwalk through the marsh swam a protective male Canadian Goose. His watchful eye and wary honks let me know that he was not going to go far from his companion.

She was on the other side of the boardwalk, peeking over the rushes. I’m sure their nest was not far away.

A nesting pair of Trumpeter Swans was hiding in the cattail rushes, almost unseen.

Feathers were everywhere. Portraits of hope. My Earth Day sadness is still clinging to me, and I don’t see a pathway to change with all the turmoil, disdain, and division in the world. But if hope is the thing with feathers, my soul has been reminded of that with abundance this week. With each bird I see or feather I find, I will be reminded of hope. With each song or coo I hear, I will remember to have faith. With each pair of loyal companions making a new nest for a new family, I will observe love. Mother Nature’s hope, faith, and love never stops at all.

A Great Wind is Blowing

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Time and the wind never leave anything alone. –Marty Rubin

There was no ignoring the wind. No ‘cooling breeze’ upside could be proclaimed, for the weather wasn’t warm and snow was coming down…sideways. We tried to time our trip to South Dakota for when the morning temp nudged above freezing and before the wind was at its worst, but it picked up speed the farther west we drove as the snow piled up alongside the road in places. And that was just day one of the gusty tempest. Night and day it continued, leaving nothing alone.

If anyone questions the value of trees planted in a ‘windbreak’ or ‘shelter belt’ around a home or for livestock, these were days that proved their worth without a shadow of a doubt. When I walked beyond the trees, the wind literally took my breath away, and I could not speak. By the third day, the bluster had diminished a bit, and we drove around Oakwood Lakes to see the waterfowl. The geese and ducks on the water were like surfers, bobbing up and down on the whitecap waves, giving in to the power of the wind and water.

Some flew against the wind for short stints, perhaps to find a more welcoming environment that didn’t consume so much of their energy.

Others had their feet firmly on the ground with a bank or rocks that helped to block the terrific wind.

There was a menagerie of waterfowl coexisting against the elements and with the elements—the wind their adversary, the water their foundation. It was wonderful to see Canvasback ducks with their beautiful red heads, sloping black bills, and shining white backs. They intermingled with others in a pileup against the shore—their heads tucked down in rest mode with some relief against the wind.

A dark slash of a wind tide in a shallow pasture puddle drew a line across the newly-melted snow and ice.

I was hoping to see some Pelicans, and my Mom noticed some of the big birds as we drove by another section of the lake. We walked along a grass road, the cold wind hitting us in the face and wobbling our cameras with every attempt to capture the peculiar and lovely birds. A bank of snow and a tangle of tumbleweeds gave the pair a bit of respite from the wind, even as they bounced around on the waves.

When I got too close, they took off to put more distance between us. Their black-tipped wings, mostly hidden in their swimming position, were in stark contrast to the alabaster white of the rest of their feathers. Their orange bills and dark orange feet completed their dazzling ensemble (the whole of what they are).

A pair of Great Blue Herons flew into a cove and farther up the shore stood another solitary fellow, his long legs and neck braced against the wind, his feathers flattened and fluttering.

The wind doesn’t leave the leafless Oak tree alone either—it will prune any dead or dying branches with a snap of its power. But the strong, hard wood of the Oak tree and the deep, expansive roots offer the best resilience to the bullying, beating wind.

Time and the wind never leave us alone, even as we wish for it to do so. How can we be halfway through the fourth month of the ‘new’ year already? Who else has ‘lost’ time to the pandemic years? Time and the wind itself aren’t the culprits—it is what they do to us and how we handle them. Too little time? Too much wind? I think all of us have experienced both. So how do we navigate the power of time and the wind? I think both require us to maintain a strong foundation, whether that be faith, intention, self-awareness, gratefulness, or physical protection (or likely all of them and more.) Catherine the Great proclaimed, “A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.” In my experience, it gives you both. It can be hurtful, harmful, harrowing, and take your breath away, and it can spark imagination, ideas, and new directions. We can’t outrun or outfly the bullying wind or the restless time, but we can accept its power, brace ourselves with resilience, and surf the ups and downs in our own lovely, dazzling ensembles.

Flying Solo

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I’m flying solo for awhile, and it’s a new experience for me. I acknowledge the many women in the world who do so on a daily basis whether from desire, need, circumstance, or the roll of the dice. And by flying solo, I actually mean hiking solo—I still have my partner around for the rest of my life. But Chris is out-of-hiking-commission for a couple months until he gets a new hip. The wear and tear of decades of physical labor is now calling the shots and winning the pain war.

I am an intrepid partnered hiker—I don’t worry about getting lost or about bothersome insects or about getting too tired or hurt. The natural world is my home, so to speak. It feeds my soul. But something happens to me when I need to do it alone. My irrational fear takes over—that something-bad-is-going-to-happen fear that has plagued me for most of my life. It rises up from my belly and takes control of my breathing and heartrate, and it hijacks my mind. The good news is I have been working on ‘overriding’ that very ingrained behavior for more than a decade now—I see it for what it is, take back control of my breathing, and talk back to the fear voice. So…all of that happened before I even got out the door to hike at Saint John’s Arboretum this week.

Chris is a patient hiking partner—he stops and waits when I see something interesting to photograph, he comes back to look at really unusual things, and he points out artistic perspectives that I miss. The kids tease me, wondering how many hours per mile we’re doing when we hike together! At any rate, literally, it didn’t matter when I was by myself. But I missed having Chris with me to share the sights, signs, and sounds of Spring—and I ended up telling myself that I would be sharing those sights and signs with you readers of North Star Nature—like you were with me. The stirring calls of Canadian geese greeted me at the trailhead—the return of the geese and Trumpeter Swans is a sure sign of Spring, a satisfying sound to hear.

I was thrilled to see the dried remains of last year’s Compass Plants—it takes many years to get these prairie perennials established. Their twelve-foot high stems are matched by tap roots that burrow down to fifteen feet in the ground. It takes a strong foundation for such tall plants!

The distinct, deeply cut basal leaves of the Compass Plant are its namesake—during the growing season the leaves stand up vertically and orient themselves with their flat surfaces towards the east and west to avoid the intense heat of the peak sunlight.

The upper stem of the Compass Plant produces several sunflower-like flowers. The shaving-brush-like seed pod holds the seeds that are favored by many species of birds. In fact, the whole plant is an ecological home to over eighty different species of insects that live on or in the plant!

Old things, Fall and Winter things, still dominate the landscape at this time of year—cattails that have gone to seed, nests that held eggs and young birds, ice-covered lakes, golden Ironwood leaves, and snow-covered trails in shady places.

But the melting snow reveals some encouraging signs that are truly only impressive when compared to the last four months of frozen landscape. Each small sign of green and growing reminds us of what is to come and whets our desire for the new season.

The melting snow also reveals some unusual finds. Bones are an important food and nutrient source for animals during Winter. All the flesh and most of the cartilage had been chewed off this bone, along with the marrow that could be reached from each of the ends.

One of the trunks of a double Maple tree was inexplicably broken about fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. My guess is a sap ‘explosion’ occurred on a freezing night during these warm days/cold nights that are imperative for the flow of sap (and thus for the collection of sap for maple syrup.)

A Crow lost a handful of feathers in some kind of recent scuffle—the feather was too pristine to have made it through a snow-covered Winter.

Bright yellow-orange is a hike-stopping color at this time of year! Perhaps this is Yellow Brain Fungus—it’s growing on decaying wood with plenty of moisture from the melting snow.

Thanks to my friend Gail who sent a post about snow fleas, I noticed these little jumping critters! Snow fleas aren’t really fleas but are able to jump several inches like fleas. They are actually tiny arthropods called springtails. (And they don’t bite.)

As a Winter color-deprived observer, I liked the colors of these rocks on the trail! Celebrating the simple pleasures of the season!

On this first day of April as I wandered alone through the prairie, wetlands, and forest of Saint John’s Arboretum, the seasonal change was palpable. The ice was melting, water was flowing in spots, waterfowl were pairing up, sap was flowing, and green things were growing. No fooling, Spring is here.

Growth—whether greening of the flora, developing of the fauna, or the expansion of our inner knowledge, resources, and strength—has its seasons. Sometimes we willingly and proactively choose to expand our comfort zone, and other times Life’s circumstances do the choosing for us. Flying solo is a choice many make intentionally, and just as often, that ‘choice’ befalls people who had no desire, will, or capacity to go it alone. But death happens, divorce and separation happen, war unfortunately happens, and all sorts of other disruptions. As unfamiliar as it is for me to hike alone without my partner of forty years, it is a small thing compared to what many other people are going through. And yet, it stretches me. It forces me to confront my irrational fears while at the same time acknowledging that solo hiking for a woman has its very relevant dangers (as does walking alone in many urban settings.) It’s at times like these that it’s helpful to burrow down deep into the foundation of our Selves—the taproot of our being—to find the strengths and skills we possess that show us the way. Old things always fade away to new green and growing things—we are no exception. I am celebrating and sharing with you the simple, colorful pleasures of the new season.