Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Archives for August 2022
Grow With It
I remember the hard work of growing up. I remember the hard work of growing other humans for those first nine months and for the twenty years after that. At the time, I didn’t even realize that those two things were happening simultaneously—as I stewarded the growth of my children, I myself continued to grow and develop.
It’s hard work to grow. It’s hard work to turn soil nutrients, water, and sunlight into a prolific number of new cells that function in numerous ways in order to reproduce. Plants, insects, birds, and animals are productive from Spring to this time of late Summer. And the fruits of their labors are evident. Flowers, fruits, seeds, and offspring combine to showcase the miracle of an ecosystem where not only is the organism’s genetic material passed on to another generation but the organism or its fruits or seeds are used by others for sustenance for their growth. It truly is a circle of life, a web of interconnected growth, give, and take.
The abundance of growth and production is a visual treat for the eyes on the prairie and woodland trails at Saint John’s Arboretum. Big Bluestem—big as in four to seven feet tall and Bluestem as in the purplish tint to leaves and three-pronged ‘turkey foot’ seedheads—was the predominant grass on the prairie. In all its glory. It provides cover, nesting sites, and food (seeds) for a number of species of birds and is considered by ranchers to be ‘ice cream for cows’ in pastureland. ( I like that depiction.) Gray-headed Coneflowers provide food and housing for butterflies and moths and seed treats for goldfinches and other song birds.
Goldenrods of numerous species are the golden magnets for butterflies and other beetle bugs. Stiff Goldenrod has thick, leathery leaves that look like feathers, especially the basal leaves.
The fruits of the Wild Rose—rosehips—are turning red and are food for birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bears.
I think the winner in cell production in one season is the Compass Plant—look at those sturdy, almost tree-like stems! While the deeply-cut leaves can be up to two feet long, the flower stems can grow up to twelve feet high providing a prairie perch for birds. The sunflower-like flowers provide seeds for birds and small mammals, and the hardened sap can be chewed like gum.
A slightly shorter relative to the Compass Plant is the Cup Plant. It has sturdy square stems with large leaves that clasp the stem and form a cup that catches rainwater and provides drinks for birds and insects.
I was happy to see a few Monarchs in the prairie—knowing they are endangered makes seeing one that much sweeter.
One of my favorite prairie grasses is Grama grass—a short, drought resistant grass with horizontal seed heads that look like tiny brushes.
The ponds were surrounded or inundated by tall cattails, so it was difficult to see the water birds, but I was able to catch a glimpse of a Trumpeter Swan family. They had a perfect place for their July-August molting and regrowth of flight feathers—very protected for their flightless time. Usually the females lay 5-7 eggs in the Spring, so I was a bit surprised there were only two cygnets.
Swamp Smartweed displayed a pretty pink spike of a flower. Dew and rain beaded on leaves of Jewel Weed, sparkling like diamonds. It has a succulent stem with an aloe-like juice that can relieve itching from poison ivy. The seed capsules will explode when touched, sending seeds in all directions. Hummingbirds are especially attracted to the dappled orange flowers, but butterflies and bees also pollinate them.
Shallow water with minimal movement is a perfect place for Wild Rice to grow. The pointed stalks sway in the breeze, heavy with the developing seeds. Zizania palustris (isn’t Zizania a great genus name?) has a higher protein content than most cereal grains and is an important food source for waterfowl and Native American tribes. Minnesota has more acres of non-cultivated Wild Rice than any other state.
Another edible wild thing is Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. These were accompanied by other pretty and interesting fungi growing close by.
Then there’s the beauty of Maidenhair Ferns with stems of shiny, black that make the fronds seem to float in the air—so elegant.
Late blooming flowers like Joe Pye Weed, Asters of all kinds, Rough Blazing Star, Rattlesnake Master, and Anise Hyssop are imperative for nectar supplies for Monarchs and other butterflies, bees, and Hummingbirds. The gift of beauty and the gift of food.
The hard work of Spring and Summer is in full display as flowers produce pollen and nectar, fruit is developed, seeds are formed, and babies grow. The circle of life is turning. The interconnectedness of flora, fauna, and humans creates an invisible web that ties us all together. As we enter slowly into a new, old season, it gives us an opportunity to pause and give thanks for the incredible burst of growth of new cells, new skills, and new fruits of labor. It is a time to celebrate the hard work—of Nature and of ourselves. All of Nature, including ourselves, take the resources and predicaments we have been given and grow with it. Poor soil, rich soil, drought, abundant rainfall, shelter, partners, wind, war, famine, predators, encroachment, mentors, protectors—so many variables. But we all grow with it, whatever it is. None of us grow by our own volition—the web of genetic material, family of origin, environment, occurrences, teachers, and friends all contribute to our growth. It is a miracle of Life, in all its glory.
Spirit of the Moment
Nobody would describe me as spontaneous. It’s not that I desire my life to be ‘planned out’—I don’t operate that way either. It’s more like a new idea always hits me as a surprise, which in some part of my brain I take as a potential threat, I think. So the idea has to be vetted and examined and evaluated and deemed sound and safe. Then maybe I can proceed….
Chris has been ‘dealing with’ this trait of mine for over forty years. Yes, bless him. And bless him for not giving up on the idea of spontaneity. Last Tuesday he came home from work, walked in the door, and dropped this bomb on me—“Let’s go camping somewhere tonight!” Yes, a Tuesday evening when we were going to eat supper, go for a walk, take a shower, watch something, you know, really important on Netflix, and go to bed. (The Routine.) I was in the kitchen making supper, and he knew enough to drop the bomb and leave it in my lap—he said he would be outside getting some rays. So in my shock and surprise, I kept making supper—it really was a beautiful day today and is supposed to be the same tomorrow—and then I washed all the baking dishes—IF we go, I’d have to have these dishes done and I’d better sweep the floor—and then I scooted over to the computer to see if Father Hennepin State Park had any open campsites—IF we go, that would be a pretty close, pretty place to go—and then I checked the cupboards to see if we even had any food to take with us—IF we go, we would need to have something to eat with minimal effort—and then I ran outside to ask Chris if he could really get the day off tomorrow with such short notice—IF we go, we really shouldn’t be breaking any rules—and then supper was ready—I really didn’t get out to enjoy this beautiful day as much as I wanted to—and then, much to both of our surprises, I said, “This is one of the craziest things I’ve ever done, but let’s do it!” Lol! (It is not beyond my understanding that the ‘crazy’ part may not be the part about spontaneously going camping, but ‘C’est la vie’ says this old folk.)
So we ate, reserved a campsite, packed our tent and sleeping bags, put some food in the cooler, packed our toothbrushes and a few other clothes, and left our Tuesday evening Routine and drove north and east to Father Hennepin State Park on the shore of Mille Lacs. (And truth be told, I was a little giddy with our crazy actions as I informed the kids to prove to them I was not entirely a ‘stick in the mud.’)
We pulled into the campground, found our site, set up the tent, and then I grabbed the camera, walked a very short path from the back of our campsite to the fishing pier on the lake and was presented with a gift for my spontaneity. The gentle laps of the water reflected the subtle colors of the sunset—so beautiful and calming. Twenty minutes later when I returned with Chris, the colors had intensified, and together, we watched something really important.
After watching the sunset, we climbed into the tent, into our sleeping bags, but I could not fall into sleep. I marveled at how quiet it was—we were far away from any other campers, so we heard no one. The Aspen trees sang a soft fluttering lullaby, and still I resisted the Sandman. A couple of owls started hooting back and forth, and I thought how it sounded like they were telling one another about their day. I wonder if owls are spontaneous. At some point a couple of hours later, I fell asleep, but it was a sporadic slumber. The wind picked up during the night, and I could hear the waves hitting the rocks on the shore and rocking the squeaky pier. Three (too many) times I crawled out of the tent and saw stars and clouds through the tree tops. When dawn arrived, I was ready to start the day, despite my lack of sleep.
Cold coffee and tea and bowls of granola nourished us for breakfast. Then we hiked along the lake on Pope’s Point trail. The eastern sunlight shone through the trees to the trail, lighting up a mass of mushrooms growing on a large tree.
Many backwater channels contained wetland plants and some standing water. Large-leaved Arrowheads bloomed on tall, stiff stalks, their delicate white flowers almost orchid-like. Another name for Arrowheads is Duck Potatoes—the edible tubers are a favorite food for muskrats, geese, ducks, and swans.
We saw a number of interesting rocks that were piled along the lakeshore. This one looked like it had cuts through it—was it an artifact from another time?
The choppy waves were creating foam along the shore, but then we saw a river of foam snaking through the middle of the lake. There must be a change of current or direction that is stirring up the water.
At Pope’s Point, the trail ended, and Mille Lacs stretched out in front of us like an ocean. The water pounded against the rocks and the trees hardy enough to stand it.
Look closely at the water horizon about one-third of the way from the right side of the photograph. The tiny speck of white is Hennepin Island, one of two small boulder islands that make up Mille Lacs National Wildlife Refuge, one of the last nesting places in Minnesota for the Common Tern.
Closer to shore are the ducks who hid out in the Bulrushes that provided some shelter from the wind and waves.
We dubbed this rock the Green Face….
and this one, the Leaf Rock.
After our backtrack of the Pope’s Point trail, we circled around the park, through the forest, past this bed of flowing Sedge grass…
and a Common Saint John’s Wort, whose leaves and petals have tiny sacs of oil that can be used in a herbal remedy for infections and depression.
Once we were in the forest, the mosquitoes started to bother us for the first time since we got to the Park. When we entered the Pine forest, a mosquito spontaneously flew into my ear—all the way into my ear. What a weird, creepy feeling to have a mosquito fluttering its wings inside your ear. Chris couldn’t even see it, but it kept trying to fly while in my ear, and I kept trying to shake it out. The rest of the hike back to the campsite was not quite so peaceful, though finally the fluttering stopped.
We tried to entice it out with the light from a headlamp—fly towards the light, little mosquito, but that didn’t work. I could still feel it in there. So Chris googled ‘How to get a mosquito out of your ear,’ and we weren’t the first to do that. “Pour mineral oil in your ear, let it set for ten minutes, then drain the oil out of your ear.” (Hopefully with the bug.) Well, we didn’t bring any mineral oil on our spontaneous camping trip, but we had passed a little grocery store in the little town outside of the park. We were lucky to find mineral oil there, and with the picnic table as the exam bench, Chris poured the mineral oil in my ear. He never saw the mosquito come out, but when I sat up, there was a flattened mosquito on the picnic table. Was that my ear dive-bomber?!
We ate a picnic lunch, Chris grabbed his fishing pole, and we returned to the pier and to the great Mille Lacs water at midday. It was such a beautiful day!
Spontaneous is defined as ‘impulsive, instinctive, automatic, acting without deliberation or premeditation, not planned, an open, natural and uninhibited manner.’ There are qualities about spontaneity that I eschew—acting impulsively doesn’t seem like a productive way to live life. I also know I can be bogged down in my routine of safety and miss out on some wonderful aspects of life. Surprise is one of our six core emotions—it contains the emotions of startled and shocked, which are very close to another core emotion of Fear. It’s no wonder my hypervigilant brain gets activated by something that surprises me. But on the other side of surprise are the contained emotions of amazed and excited, which are close to the core emotion of Happy! So once we actually acted on the spontaneous trip, I felt a surge of excitement and joy. But I still did a lot of examining and evaluation of the idea in the time when Chris left me alone while I was preparing supper. Another definition I came across for spontaneous was ‘spirit of the moment,’ which felt much different from ‘impulsive’ and ‘automatic.’ ‘Spirit of the moment’ reminds us to live in the moment and in doing so, we are living with Spirit! Once we were on the shores of Mille Lacs, it was easy to do so. The sky, water, plants, rocks, and trees all became something really important to notice and appreciate. Even the mosquito in my ear honed me in on the present moment! Perhaps my current of Fear is changing. Perhaps I can swim out of my bulrushes of safety to experience the larger world. Perhaps Spirit is leading me towards Happiness.
Hallelujah!
I call this the Hallelujah Tree. Sunlight shone down on its crown and through the canopy to the ground, lighting up the trail before us. Its ‘arms’ were raised in praise of this glorious day, and it was framed by a chapel door of trees. After walking through the heavily shaded forest, the light was notable. Another notable was how dry the forest floor was, not only on the trail but throughout the stand of Maples and Basswood. The undergrowth was stunted and almost barren-looking from too long a lack of moisture. We were less than an hour from home, where grass and growing things were more nourished, and I could hardly get over the stark, unexpected difference.
A hardy resident of the dry forest jumped on the sandy trail. He didn’t seem concerned…about anything. American Toads are the most abundant toads in Minnesota. I liked his orangish-red speckles on his legs and back.
As with any forest, there were many broken trees, but this one caught my attention. It was a relatively new break, still attached to the tree, and the break seemed complex. It looked like there was a burl at the break site, a place where insects or fungi invade and the tree grows ‘scar’ tissue around it.
We hiked by the dry wetland of the park that usually has standing water and squishy trails. We found blooming Goldenrod and Joe Pye Weed, though they were far from robust, so even the wetland was suffering from the drought.
We did, however, see the tallest Jack-in-the-Pulpit I’ve seen in a long time! It had little competition from other plants besides the small Jewel Weeds growing at its feet. The cluster of green berries will turn bright red towards Fall, attracting birds and rodents. But beware, the leaves, berries, and roots can cause painful irritation if humans touch it.
The wetland abruptly ended as the ground cover of ferns stopped, and brown, crunchy leaves took over.
Almost every lake in Minnesota has a resident Loon, and this small lake was no exception. The Loon seemed unpaired so was probably a yearling. But he took great care in preening and cleaning his feathers, having the advantage of living in his own large bird bath! Hallelujah!
Handsome!
The small, shallow lake was also home for an abundant population of White Water Lilies. While they seriously impede the lake activities of humans, they are actually a food and shelter haven for many insects, amphibians, turtles, ducks, muskrats, beaver, and moose!
The fragrant flowers close at night and open in the morning and have a profusion of pollen for insects with their forty or more yellow stamens.
The drought had instigated an early Fall in the forest. Maple seedlings had dried up and would not grow into saplings. Aspen leaves were turning color and dropping to the ground. But in the midst of that, the sun shone on a well-established spider web and created all the colors of the rainbow!
Environmentally (and in many other ways), it feels like we are on shaky ground. Extreme weather is causing unprecedented damage and suffering to people and all God’s creatures around the world. It’s scary. And scared people and animals tend to lash out at others and self-protect in any way possible. The broken trees of society are complex.
I happened to be going to the store this week when I heard an interview on the radio with the Minneapolis author Richard Leider. His latest book is ‘Who Do You Want to Be When You Grow Old? The Path of Purposeful Aging.’ He instructed that our daily purpose in life is to grow and to give—a simple mission we can all undertake. How do I grow today? How do I give today? That is the very purpose of Nature! Growing and giving! The ecosystem isn’t working only for the largest, most powerful of the flora and fauna—it benefits all. One plant like the White Water Lily feeds tiny thrips and gigantic moose, and looks and smells beautiful at the same time.
We live in a world that has some very scary things going on, and people are suffering. Fear has us lashing out at others, making them enemies, while history and logic are defied and defiled. We want to defend ourselves, take for ourselves, hold on to our own ideas. We end up hurting others—and ourselves. It is the antithesis of growing and giving, the antithesis of Nature. Think about how much each of us is blessed by Nature’s growing and giving—not just blessed, but sustained. Nature can flourish without us. We cannot live without Nature. I can’t help but have a foreboding feeling that we’re not doing enough to stop the earth wreck. But I will continue to appreciate and share the incredible beauty and intelligence of our natural world in hopes of making a difference. Let us not destroy what we love. I’m going to hold on to the Hallelujahs.
The Land of Oz
It’s hard to see a storm coming when you’re in the forest, nestled in the trees, no horizon in sight. In fact, hardly any sky in sight. It’s a different story when the flatland prairie stretches in all directions, and the sky is big, open, and expressive. I lived on the prairie when I was hit by a metaphoric storm—it turned out to be a tornado, in fact. It picked me up out of my ordinary life, spun me around and around until I didn’t know which side was up or if I would even survive it. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see it coming because I was surrounded by ‘tall trees’ of ordinary life—three children in three different schools and their activities; graduate school with classes, research, animal caretaking and data-gathering, tests, and writing; church goings-on; family fun and responsibilities. Those details of life kept my eyes directly on what was in front of me—no time for sky-gazing or soul-searching. Looking back now, it was that swirl of activity that helped perpetuate the storm, not just my blindness towards some outside force moving in from the horizon to bowl me over, though there was that, too.
Elevation helps a person see the storm coming when you’ve been in the trees. It lifts you above the interesting, compelling details right in front of you. It helps you see a little farther, a little further.
I can definitely get bogged down in the details—I love them. They are so darned interesting. Look at these papery seedpods of the Ironwood tree. They look like hops, which is why the other name for the tree is American Hop Hornbeam! The highly serrated leaves are similar to Birches, but they do not turn brilliant yellow in the fall like the Birches do. They grow extremely slow, thus making the wood very hard—ironwood.
And look at these Wild Rose hips or fruits forming after the pink petals fall from the flowers. They will turn a bright red color and develop sweetness as Autumn comes, especially after a frost. They are one of the highest plant sources of Vitamin C and contain antioxidants that make them a desirable food for humans, birds, and other animals. Wait…what? There’s a storm coming?!
Perhaps the greatest skill is being able to examine and interact with what is happening close to you—whoa, look at that Mullein flower—and being able to check in with the bigger picture—the prairie meadow is beautiful at this time of year, and the Maple Leaf hills must be spectacular in the Fall! Near and far. Present and future.
It also matters which direction you are looking…. During our hike up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park, we were facing west, so we noticed the storm clouds building.
Did you know you can make a lemonade-like drink from the red berries of Staghorn Sumacs? Did you know you can eat the leaves and seeds of Broadleaf Plantains, either raw or cooked?
We finished our Hill hike, sensing that it would be our last hike of the day given the storm clouds, then we drove the five-mile Park Drive. It was a gravel/packed dirt road past a small campground and boat launch, then continued on a narrower, one-way trail. We stopped at a wildlife observation hut on Beaver Lake—no wildlife to be seen at that moment.
Farther down the road we saw a mama deer with her two spotted fawns who leapt away when they saw us.
On a hill overlooking Field Lake, we saw the sky getting darker and the clouds beginning to envelop the park. They were no longer on the horizon—the storm was imminent. A restored prairie on the banks of Field Lake had Leadplants in full bloom and Purple and White Prairie Clovers, their colors rich and vibrant with the darkening sky.
As we wound through the Maple forest on the rutted road, we were hoping to beat the rain. I knew by the map we were close to the end of the one-way road when we passed Cataract Lake. It looked like late evening instead of three in the afternoon—time through a cloudy lens or perhaps in a different realm.
We drove to see the other big lake of the Park—Beers Lake—and the campground by it. Rumbles of thunder and sprinkles of rain began to reach our ears and the windshield. A small pond by the road had a family of ducks swimming happily in the ripples and bubbles of the rainy water.
When we reached the end of the road at Beers Lake, there was one family still fishing on the pier and a lone Loon swimming and diving nearby. It wasn’t so dark anymore, and the roiling storm clouds had morphed into a consistent palette of gray from which the rain fell in a steady cadence. The ‘big storm’ part must have passed to the south of us. We drove back to the Trail Center, a small building with tables and chairs, maps and safety equipment. We ate our picnic dinner there as the rain fell.
With elevation and open prairie, we could easily see the storm clouds coming towards us. When we were driving through the Maple forest, all we could see was the darkness falling on the afternoon light. It’s shocking when we don’t see the storm clouds of life coming towards us. Sometimes there is no warning, even if we are scanning the horizon. All of a sudden we’re in the dark, not knowing, not prepared, not able to get our bearings. Other times, we see the billowing signs of an impending storm but ignore them. And still we get hit hard. When we notice the storm coming and believe it, we can make different choices, we can plan for the future, and we can ready ourselves, both physically and mentally. Like Dorothy, I landed in Oz after being swept up in the tornado—in this surreal place of bad and good, fantasy and reality, past and present. The land of Oz was my own brain and heart and being that I explored with the help of my guide and lots of courage. It took a while—for time is often warped in the midst of a storm—but I finally found the home of my-Self. It’s a place where I can do sky gazing and soul searching and immerse myself in the sweet details of life. There’s no place like it, you know.