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Happy Days

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I have struggled writing this post. I have not been one to ’embrace’ change for most of my life. But perhaps that is a story I tell myself, that I have accepted from those around me who are comfortable placing that belief on my head. ‘Change’ is a huge word encompassing many scenarios and situations, and when I look back over my decades of life, I don’t think it’s a true statement to say I don’t embrace change. What matters to me, and probably to most people, is the kind of change.

Change can take a person by surprise in sudden ways that leave your mind confused and reeling and your body in a panic—a sudden death, a natural disaster, a fatal diagnosis, or an unprovoked war like the Ukrainian people are experiencing. Those sudden changes are so disorienting that we often try to ‘control’ our environment and our thinking so as not to be so shocked ever again. It’s a trauma response. But change can also be anticipated, expected, and slow. It can be dreamed about, planned for, and embraced by one’s whole being. I know both sides of that coin.

March always brings the Spring Equinox but does not always let go of Winter. But last Sunday’s weather forecast showed me that March was ready to loosen her fingers on the snow and cold that had gripped Central Minnesota for almost four months. But first, before the warm-up, on Monday we had another snow!

Anticipating the melting snow, I decided to take pictures through the week to show the changes. On Monday, I found myself singing, “Sunday, Monday, happy days, Tuesday, Wednesday, happy days…”* Lol—where did that come from?!

By Wednesday, the Monday snow was gone, grass was beginning to show around the tree trunks, deer tracks sank through the soft, slushy snow, and the bench and chairs around the firepit began to lose their ‘leg warmers.’

There had been a couple nights that had stayed above freezing, so the snow seemed to go quickly (relatively speaking). By Friday, larger patches of grass emerged, and some of it looked green! It’s funny how we ‘forget’ things when the landscape is covered with snow for so long—like rocks, grass, gravel, and green, green moss. A flock of snow geese flew over, heading north. More snow disappeared around the firepit, and puddles of reflecting water formed around the slush. Wispy spring clouds trailed across the blue sky. “Thursday, Friday, happy days…”*

“Goodbye grey sky, hello blue…”*

At dusk, I saw a deer run across the front yard and join his friend who was lying in the tall, dry grass. That must have felt good after months of sleeping in the snow!

“Saturday, what a day!”* Temps dipped to 17 degrees Friday night, so the moisture-rich air left a frosty coating on things Saturday morning. Then the temperature soared to 48 degrees!

And Sunday brought sunshine and temps in the 50’s! One week of snowing and melting. Changes. Happy Spring!

Greek philosopher Heraclitus wrote, “There is nothing permanent except change.” I understand his urging of us humans to accept that change happens all the time. There is a constancy about Nature’s changing seasons that is sustaining to me, even as the slow tide of evolution marches on. It feeds into my desire for there to be a steady, overarching sense of stability in the world. God knows we all need it, and for that, I thank God. It is a challenge for us, the people of the world, to respond to the traumatic change people are going through—we cannot forget the very basic human needs of safety, understanding, caring, and love, along with food, shelter, and livelihood.

I love Winter—the cold and the snow—and I am a little sad to see it go. But it is time, and I look forward to all that Spring brings to us. I mean, I was singing Happy Days to myself! “These happy days are yours and mine!”*

*Happy Days lyrics written by Norman Gimbel and Charles Fox

At the Corner of Deer and Fox

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The world’s suffering makes my heart heavy. When I see the video of all the mothers and children fleeing from their homes in Ukraine, tears stream down my face. The destruction, chaos, and trauma imposed by one unhinged guy is overwhelming and rips a deep tear in my constructed fabric of Goodness. Even here at home where the pandemic has killed nearly one million people—it’s like wiping out all the people who live in South Dakota and then a hundred thousand more. And then there are all the people I know who are suffering with or dying from a cancer diagnosis—is it just me or does that seem to be on the rise? What’s a person to do with all that suffering?

I strapped on my snowshoes and hiked into the snow and cold. Our below normal temperatures this week have preserved the snow cover, beyond the melting of the edges from the strong, March sunlight. The cold felt good on my face, a relief from the hot suffering of people I know and of the millions I do not. Our gathering place around the firepit is still engulfed in snow—only the deer have been wandering through in their quest for food. I followed their path and offered a couple old apples for their browsing brunch. Won’t that be a delightful surprise?!

Deer trails cut through the trees and over fences. The snow reveals some secrets of the other seasons—the travel routes of deer and other animals. They seem to be creatures of habit or perhaps know to take the easiest route—just like us.

My previous snowshoe tracks had been covered with a bit of snow, but the deer had already been using the trail. I felt like I was walking at the Sumac treetops with all the snow that has accumulated over the Winter. Getting off the trail definitely makes ambulating much harder!

In no time at all, at the corner of Deer and Fox (tracks), Nature took over my mind, washing away the thoughts of suffering for the time being.

Rabbit and squirrel tracks zigzagged erratic paths around and to trees, their light little bodies not worrying about sinking through the deep snow.

Last year’s fox den was definitely occupied by someone, with many curious onlookers, including myself.

I’m pretty sure Mr. Possum had been out wandering for food—see his tail track? Maybe he made the old fox den his winter home.

It’s a busy place out there.

Farther along the trail I noticed a dark spot in the snow, so I veered off the trail to investigate. A deer carcass was mostly buried under the snow but had provided many meals for the carnivores of the forest.

There was a deer-sized indentation in the snow where a deer had bedded down for the night, though the bed had a new blanket of snow on it.

I continued on the little road, following one deer trail while others intersected it, coming and going through the trees. A community of animals with their roads, homes, and eating places.

An allee of Pines with its chevron shadows create a perfect corridor for travel.

Spring is already showing its signs, despite the snow and cold. More birds can be heard singing and flitting through the trees, and on the south side of a large Pine tree, the snow has started to melt away from the warm, brown pine needles.

I had added my tracks to those of the woodland creatures as I witnessed the evidence of their Winter lives in the forest. It was a beautiful, brisk day—a perfect day for snowshoeing.

A quote fell into my lap today—timely and serendipitously—from Helen Keller: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” While it is important for us to be compassionate witnesses to the realities of war, illness, and suffering, we must also cultivate and elevate the simple acts of ‘overcoming it’ that we see in the world. I appreciate the news outlets that include snippets of that Goodness that mostly go unseen. Those who dwell on and promote the negative and divisive aspects of our society, politics, and culture do a disservice to themselves and to us all. It’s a balancing act to witness and acknowledge the reality of suffering in our world and to do the same with the acts of overcoming it. Nature is a balm for overcoming suffering, as are gathering places of loved ones who lift us up and simple acts of kindness and offering. Spring is a hopeful, uplifting season—every year it overcomes the harshness of Winter and the heaviness of suffering. Food becomes abundant, new life is nourished, and life energy flows with renewed vigor. Isn’t that a delightful surprise?

Be Like the Wolf Flower

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We are a part of Nature. In light of all that is going on in the world around us, my last post from our Christmas Texas trip reminds me just how strong, tough, scrappy, and resilient the creations of Nature are, including us.

We were introduced to the Texas Sotol plant, used as a drought tolerant landscape plant with its wheel of wondrous spikey green leaves. We saw it in the wild at Pedernales Falls State Park, sitting atop the limestone boulders and sandy soil. But we learned about the history and utility of the plant when we went to Desert Door Texas Sotol distillery on New Year’s Eve in Driftwood, Texas. First off, what an absolutely beautiful place Desert Door is! Stylish southwestern building, captivating landscape and decorating, and beautiful cobalt blue glass bottles holding the premium liquor made from the ‘heart’ of the Sotol plant. Like tequila made from Blue Agaves, the Sotol plant has a pineapple-looking core that stores moisture and carbohydrates. Traditionally, the Sotol hearts were baked in earth ovens for 36-48 hours, and the pulp was formed into patties and dried. It was an important food staple for native peoples. Sotol plants grow by the millions in west Texas and are wild-harvested for Desert Door. They steam cook the Sotol hearts, and the pulp is pressed to release the molasses-like juice. It is fermented with yeast to a Sotol beer, then distilled to make the Sotol liquor.

The tough, toothed leaves were also used by native peoples for woven mats, baskets, rope, thatching, and paper. The tall (10′-15′) flower spikes that attract hummingbirds when blooming were used like wood poles for building—a very utilitarian plant!

Prickly Pear cactus grows in the harshest hot and dry conditions and was also used as a food source. None of the plants offer an easy meal, however. It takes determined, tough people to extract food and drink from these tough, resilient plants.

Garter snake
Ashe Juniper driftwood by the Pedernales River

After leaving Pedernales Falls, we drove to another part of the 5200-acre park. Twin Falls nature trail was rugged over limestone cliffs and through Ashe Juniper forests. I wondered how one would ever ride a horse through this country….Luckily the park has cut miles and miles of equestrian trails through the rough terrain.

Another thorny, scrappy plant is the Tasajillo or Pencil cactus. The beautiful red fruits and the slender green stems are a visual reminder of Christmas, another one of its common names. It is also known as Jumping cactus, because the brittle stems break away from the plant easily when brushed slightly or even by the wind.

We hiked down to Trammell’s crossing where one would have to get wet feet in order to continue on the hiking trail. Time did not permit further hiking for us, so we explored the river bank lined with Bald Cypress trees. Their roots created a barrier to the rushing water of the Pedernales River when flash flooding occurs—stalwart soldiers in the fight against erosion.

Most every plant and tree in the state park and in this area of Texas are tough, resilient creations. They live in arid soil, in drought conditions, in high heat, and in areas where flash flooding tends to wipe things away. But in the heart of Winter grows a delicate looking plant—the Texas Bluebonnet. It goes from seed to flower to seed in one year. The cool season of winter establishes its roots for the growing / blooming season. The Bluebonnet is the state flower of Texas and symbolizes the bravery and sacrifice of the pioneer women (the flowers resemble the bonnets worn by them). The genus name Lupinus is derived from ‘lupus,’ meaning wolf. So the delicate looking foliage belies the true nature of the hardy wildflower—it is beautiful and tough.

Pedernales Falls State Park is a wild tapestry of tough, resilient Ashe Junipers, cacti, sand, limestone boulders, Sotols, Bald Cypresses, and even Bluebonnets. The environmental conditions are rough and tumble. Each has qualities that enable them to live and thrive in such conditions. The Ukrainian people have shown their tenacity and toughness in the face of Russia’s callous war—the conditions are harsh and cruel and feel untenable. And yet, they fight on for their country and for democracy. The human spirit is strong, tough, and scrappy—whether living from the land like the native people did, whether traveling and homesteading on the land like the pioneers did, or enduring a pandemic and fighting or witnessing a brutal war like the modern world has been doing. We are brave. We are tough. We are resilient. We are a part of Nature.

On the Rocks

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It seems like the world is on the rocks right now. Experiencing difficulties. Deteriorating. Eroding. Spoiled. Likely to fail? Where opinions are confused with facts. Where experts are told they don’t know what they’re talking about. There’s deep division and distrust of ‘the other.’ Where a pandemic has killed millions of people. Where climate change is impacting so many in devastating ways. Where a warmonger can invade a neighboring country and wreak havoc and death. The phrase ‘on the rocks’ used in this way came from the idea of a ship running aground on rocks and breaking apart. The idiom is often used to describe failing businesses and marriages. Torn apart. Angry. On a sinking ship. What happens when we’re on the rocks?

One sunny day in the beginning days of the new year, we traveled west of Austin into the heart of the Hill Country to Pedernales Falls State Park. We spent hours on the rocks—literally. It was my most favorite place to visit on this Texas trip—an amazing landscape of exposed bedrock, pools and streams of water, fossils, and Nature’s architecture.

The exposed rock is called Marble Falls limestone created over 300 million years ago when most of Texas was covered by a sea. Other rock formed above it, and over the eons the granite layer below pushed up the limestone into these tilted formations. When the Pedernales River formed from a spring and gained power with flash flooding, it cut the canyon where the Falls now lie. Since that time, the water has eroded and shaped the ancient rock beds into amazing formations.

Flash flooding moves rocks and sand, so the Falls landscape is always changing. A beach of sand has fallen from the moving water as it churned over the last ridge of rocks. It does not have to be raining in the Park for the Falls to flood—if the rain is intense ‘upstream,’ flooding can occur under clear skies.

A reminder to get to higher ground if water starts to rise and/or get cloudy.

Potholes of all sizes appeared in the rock. They are formed when rushing water churns small and large rocks in a swirling motion, thus eroding the bedrock to form holes.

We and other hikers scrambled on the rocks, sometimes climbing up, sometimes sliding down, picking our way through the maze of streams, pools, and crevices.

This ‘beach’ was a deposit of mostly same-sized rocks that we slowly ‘hounded’ our way through. I think we could have spent hours just in this spot!

X marks the spot.

Every pool was different—some at the bottom of the Falls had green algae growing in them; others were as clear and mirror-like as an infinity pool. Some were shallow and stone-lined; others were deep and dark.

Pothole with the large ‘churning’ rocks at the bottom.

The sides of the River Falls were scattered with boulders of all sizes that had been ‘deposited’ there by rushing water over the millennia. The present day jewel tones of the water were so beautiful and calming and combined with the sandy tans of the rocks brought me an uplifting joy.

As we climbed up the Falls, the rock we walked on changed. It literally looked like mud—hard, fossilized mud—which of course was exactly what it was. And this is where we began to see tracks! Some of the track fossils were indented into the mud rock; others were raised up from the rock. I would love to have seen the animals that made these tracks!

Along the ‘mud’ rock section, striated layers of rocks created a wall by the River. Ashe Juniper trees, Sotol plants, and cactus clung to the barely-there soil. Caves had been carved out of the walls and rounded ‘pillow’ rocks softened by the water.

A large cave high on the rock wall held a house-sized boulder. Blue, yellow, and white rock colors wept down the face of the gray wall. It was one of the most intriguing spots in the Park.

We saw more fossils—one that looked like a curved spine and others called Crinoid fossils—ancient sea animals that looked like plants and sometimes called ‘sea lilies.’

The death of a loved one can make a person feel like they are on the rocks. Failed dreams, faltering relationships, and illness can do the same. It is not a good feeling when the ideological ship one is sailing on comes crashing and thrashing on the rocks of reality. The ‘worldly’ problems seem even more daunting and out of our control. How does one fight an evil power and an existential global threat when they both feel like a flash flood that could sweep us all away? But it’s not really the rocks that are to blame for the destruction—it is the storm. The storm can be the weather or greed or narcissism or fear or hatred or ignorance. While our time on the rocks in Texas held some risk and danger—flash flooding and deep crevices—it was more about how we navigated them. The rocks themselves were grounding. They held the long history of our earth in all its changes—we could see the evidence. Storms can change us, erode us, wear us down, but we can put our faith and our feet on the grounding rock of Goodness. The opposite of ‘on the rocks’ is thriving or flourishing. With hope, engagement, positive relationships, and tenacity, the people of Goodness can overcome the storms of destruction.

Labor of Love

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What have you done in your life that has been a ‘labor of love?’ The phrase is defined as ‘productive work performed voluntarily without material reward or compensation,’ and it’s usually something you really enjoy doing. Childbirth is literally a labor of love (not high on the enjoyment list), as is parenting and grand-parenting. Coaching youth sports, caring for an elderly family member, volunteering for a food bank or the Red Cross, or making quilts for those in need are just a few examples of how a person engages in a ‘labor of love.’

Although my last five posts have been from our very warm time in Texas over Christmas and New Years (with a couple more ‘warm’ posts to go), I want to let all the snow-starved people know that central Minnesota has been staying cold and snowy since before we left for Texas in the middle of December…

…until we got back in January…

Deer tracks and where they pawed through the snow

…until now.

It makes the contrast of writing about palm trees, agave plants, and bamboo all the more stark as I look out the windows at deep snow and snuggle in my fleece. The Cactus and Succulent Garden is a part of Zilker Botanical Garden in Austin, and while a previous freezing night had the staff scrambling to cover blooming bedding plants, it was quite a wonder to be wandering through a botanical garden in January!

The most intriguing area was the Taniguchi Japanese Garden. It was built by Isamu Taniguchi when he was 70 years old on a three acre hillside in the relatively new public garden. He worked for eighteen months with no contract or salary—a true labor of love. The garden opened in 1970.

Bamboo

The three main components of a Japanese garden are water, rocks, and evergreen plants. While Western gardens are mostly constructed for visual appeal, Japanese gardens center around spiritual or philosophical ideas. Taniguchi wanted all who entered to feel peace, and that is coming from a person who experienced the upheaval of internment after the start of World War II. The garden contains a series of ponds with a connecting stream flowing through them, waterfalls, rock structures and sculptures, evergreen shrubs and plants, bridges, pathways, and pops of color from brilliant Japanese Maples.

Cyperus or Umbrella plant

One pond, under the watchful eye of a heron sculpture, was the home of a school of colorful Koi fish. They were eager to see if we had any food for them.

Another beautiful garden is the Hartman Prehistoric Garden. Petrified wood, Palmetto Palms, waterfalls, ancient Bald Cypress and Gingko trees, and an impressive dinosaur sculpture made for another-worldly experience.

Yellow Gingko leaves and brown Bald Cypress fronds

As a Northerner who loves snow and cold, it was an extraordinary time to spend those weeks in Texas where, most of the time, it was even warmer than their normally warm Winter weather. Walking through a botanical garden two days after the New Year was surreal and beautiful. Gardening is usually a labor of love, but designing and building a three acre garden after a lifetime of farming and the trauma of internment, puts Isamu Taniguchi in an elite group. It has become his legacy—an ongoing gift of peace to all who enter the Garden.

Refresh Your Soul

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How did you welcome in the New Year last month? It was another pandemic year that the collective community of the world was glad to let go of to pursue high hopes for a better 2022. Austin, Texas held its 42nd annual Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day…and we were there! Calling it a Polar Bear Plunge is a misnomer to me, coming from a state where they actually cut holes in the thick ice for people to plunge into truly frigid water! But that’s okay—it’s all relative. Austin’s Polar Bear Plunge is held at Barton Springs Municipal Pool, a natural, spring-fed pool with limestone walls, green grassy banks, and clear, turquoise water. The spring-fed water stays at a very respectable 68 to 70 degrees year round. On this New Year’s Day, the air temperature was in the 70’s (a common summer’s day temp in Minnesota) and hundreds, if not thousands of people were out jumping into the New Year and washing off the old.

After my family swam and played in the tepid waters, we walked along the well-used trail that follows Barton Creek from the pool to Lady Bird Lake. There were people running, walking, strolling, biking, etc. on one side of us, and on the other side, creatures of all sorts were swimming, sunning, resting, and plunging into their new year also. Turtles were everywhere! A group of turtles is called a ‘bale’—we saw many bales of turtles!

All along the Creek and Lady Bird Lake were huge Bald Cypress trees who love to have their feet in the water. The slow-growing, long-lived trees help prevent erosion along the banks during flash floods. The knobby protrusions at the base of the tree are called cypress ‘knees.’ They grow from horizontal roots and are theorized to transport air to the water-laden roots, along with anchoring the tree in its often precarious waterside position.

Aaron, our ever-vigilant snake guy, was the one to notice the big reptile lounging on a fallen tree branch. The Diamondback Watersnake is the largest nonvenomous water snake in North America. They like to lazily dine on fish and amphibians by dipping their heads into the water from their tree branch perches.

On another tree branch overhanging the water was a white Muscovy duck, a unique waterfowl originating in South America. They prefer to spend time in trees and less time swimming, compared to other ducks. They are more sensitive to cold than Mallard-related ducks, and they hiss instead of quack!

As Barton Creek merged into Lady Bird Lake, we saw many kayakers, paddleboarders, and rowers, along with a commotion of American Coots.

Blooming water plants floated on the Lake along with the humans in watercrafts and all sorts of waterfowl. A gorgeous, exquisitely-feathered Wood Duck greeted the New Year in his winter home.

It is a legitimate human tendency to want to wash away an old year, especially ones that were as confounding as the previous two. We want to be done with the virus, the death, the masks, the rules, and the uncertainty. We want life to be ‘normal’ again. Yet, there is something to be said by having a hardship be the experience of everyone. It helps to level the playing field, because truth be told, large numbers of people experience disease, death, unfair rules, and ongoing uncertainty even in their ‘normal’ lives. There are always ideas, habits, and behaviors we need to let go of in our lives, and the New Year is a favored time to do so. We can pursue our high hopes with renewed vigor. Matt Curtis of the Friends of Barton Springs Pool Polar Bear Plunge said, “This is an exciting opportunity to refresh your soul in the waters of Austin.” Refresh your soul. Perhaps that is the anchor we need in our lives in order to navigate the difficult times and to reach for our dreams.

Turn Back Time

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Nothing like the death of a loved one to make a person wish to turn back time. I have strained to remember the details of the last time we saw Chris’ brother, how he was, what he said. There is no doubt the pandemic ‘got in the way’—even without us knowing. We assumed we would see everybody when this dreaded thing was over. There are regrets, if onlys, missed opportunities, mistakes, and omissions—I really don’t know how one gets through the loss of a loved one without those self-flagellating thoughts. I think it’s just part of the process. But since it’s ‘part of the process,’ it too will pass. We can move on from the regrets—I know, easier said than done.

This past weekend we attended a memorial service for Jon down in Kansas City. It was finalizing—exactly one of the purposes of funerals and memorials. It helps our disbelieving minds believe it. The officiant offered prayers and condolences, then suggested we turn back time to remember something about Jon that we admired or respected…and to incorporate that quality or action into our own lives. It was a powerful suggestion.

During our Christmas trip to Austin, Texas we drove south for a day of exploring and hiking at Palmetto State Park. It was like we were turning back time to prehistoric days. No matter where we go, if we pay attention to the geology of the area, we are already in prehistoric days.

Spanish moss hung from the trees. It is an epiphyte, a member of the Bromeliad family that gathers its nutrients and water from the air and rain. It rarely kills the trees it inhabits, and in this part of Texas, it prefers Live Oak and Bald Cypress trees.

The San Marcos River runs through the park. It is not like most rivers I’m used to seeing. In many places it has cut a deep gorge into the landscape with bare banks and muddy, silty water. There is erosion and damage from flash flooding—the banks cannot recover between the aqua assaults.

And what prehistoric mud walker was here ambling to and fro? (The very primitive possum.)

Parts of the park did not look like the typical Texas landscape—it was swampy and tropical. Dwarf Palmetto Palm shrubs lined the edges of the water, and thick, woody Rattan Vines climbed trees and hung like ropes from the canopy. I could easily imagine a dinosaur walking amongst them.

One of the dichotomies of the tropical park was when we saw the swampy palms next to the desert-dwelling cacti like the flat-faced Prickly Pear and the pencil-twigged Cholla cactus. What a strange combination.

We left the swampy area and walked the Mesquite Flats Trail where some native Mesquite trees still held on to their leaves. Drought tolerant and tough, they are considered invasive in ranching country where they displace the grass, especially in overgrazed areas.

A bright green ball of leaves with shiny, pearl-like seeds hung from a bare-branched tree. It’s easy to see Mistletoe in the winter! It is a hemi-parasite that invades a branch in order to use water and nutrients from the tree. It’s Greek name ‘Phoradendron’ means ‘thief of the tree.’ Another dichotomy—Christmas ‘kissing ball’ decoration and real-life tree thief.

Throughout the woods, large invisible webs stretched between trees, and if we looked closely, we saw the colorful, crab-like spiders called Spiny-backed Orbweavers. What cool spiders!

I was surprised how much grass was growing under the trees—not something we generally see in the woods up north. But everywhere was evidence of the power of water when it does flow—deep cuts and masses of exposed roots.

Walking on, we saw mud wasps building homes and an armored Leaf-footed Bug sucking the nutrients from the Palmetto Palm leaves.

We encountered a tiny bit of Spring in December—a patch of Wild Onions with their fragrant scents and simple, white flowers.

My favorite critter of the day was a Green Anole lizard sunning himself on the outside of a bridge railing. His cool, detached demeanor dismissed our noisy admiration and paparazzi picture-taking. He was the closest thing to my turn-back-time-dinosaur in the tropical swamp of Palmetto State Park.

I love finding these unusual, out-of-the-ordinary ecosystems—it reminds me of the mystery and diversity of Mother Nature. Why was this tropical swamp here? One clue was a now-extinct ‘mud boil’ in the park, where hot water deep in the earth bubbled to the surface—it was ‘boiling’ until the 1970’s. The unfathomable ways of Mother Nature mirror the unfathomable ways of life and death of us. There’s no way to explain the birth of our beings and no way to explain our earthly departure (beyond the physiology of it all.) We are left with the unknown, the mystery, the dichotomies, the joys, the regrets, and the process. So we hold on to faith so the loss doesn’t wash us away. We hold on to hope that another season is springing up inside us even in the depth of our winter. And we hold on to the love that was there and always will be, world without end. Amen.

Christmas Butterfly

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It’s called the Hill of Life. It’s an entry point to the Barton Creek Greenbelt in Austin. The Greenbelt is composed of miles of trails, limestone cliffs for climbing, swimming holes (when there’s enough water), and ‘greenery’ that follows Barton Creek as it winds through southwest Austin. The Hill trail descends 300 feet in less than half a mile on a limestone boulder and gravel path surrounded by Ashe Juniper trees. (One of their many common names is Brake Cedar!) The Hill of Life is judiciously called another name—‘The Hill of Death’—by some who use the hill for the challenge of training for running or biking.

It was Christmas Eve afternoon, so there were not many people on the trail. I was experiencing a mild case of season dysphoria after leaving snow and cold in Minnesota and then hiking in temperatures in the high seventies in Austin. I do not associate Christmas with sweating.

Going down was fairly easy—just watching our steps on the rocks. Once we got to the bottom of the cliff, we arrived at the clear, burbling Barton Creek. The water was warm enough for Chris to wade in (what?!) The trees in Texas are a funny combination of those that lose their leaves for ‘winter’ and those that keep them year-round, like the Live Oaks. The large Sycamore trees still had some lime-green to brown leaves clutching their branches, while others had fallen to the ground.

A creek-side tree had grown in a circle—an interesting, intriguing tree to look at, to focus on—but then being able to look through the hole to the creek, to the water, to the pebbles under the clear water.

Emily knew the way to another waterfall through an open prairie meadow punctuated with spikey green Yucca plants.

We could hear the waterfalls before seeing them, then walked to the pool beneath the falls where a ‘buddha’ stump sat calmly in the sparkling water. (I may have been the only one who thought it looked like a buddha.)

We wanted to walk out to the rocks by the falls, and from a distance we saw a bike-rider carrying his bike from the rocks to the bank. When we got to the crossing point, all I saw was a small log lodged between two trees. I turned to the biker and asked how he had walked that tightrope with a bike! He pointed to another log (maybe we should just call them branches) that was lodged in the trees above the ‘walking’ one. ” Hang on to that one,” he said. Ohh-kay, here goes…

Success! When standing on a bridge or on the ice or on a rock in the middle of a stream or river, it gives a person such a different perspective from standing on the bank. I feel like I am part of the river. I look upstream to the water’s ‘past’ where it has flowed around bends, pulled soil from the banks, and swept past sun-logged turtles and other creatures.

Then I look downstream to the water’s ‘future’—where it will flow in some of the same ways as its past. But there is always something new and different in its path.

Standing on the boulders that create the ‘falls’ and watching the water run and fall over the sides, doing what it is meant to do, brings me to the present moment—present, yet ever changing. And then this Northerner, on my long journey away from the cold and snow, sees a Christmas miracle…

…a butterfly perched on the same rock I’m standing on! A Christmas butterfly!

With some Christmas Eve meal preparation to be done, we decided to leave the river of life to climb back up the Hill of Life. It was a different story. I was thirsty, hot, sweating, tired, and in total understanding of the alternative name—and I was just walking! (We did see a handful of people running past us. I wanted to applaud them.)

The Hill of Life and The Hill of Death are the same hill. One and the same. The circular tree and the water beyond it are bound together in the same way. The river’s past and the river’s future are both part of the present water in which we stand. It is actually mind-boggling in its simplicity and its complexity. How we name it or look at it (or through it) or think about it depends on what we experience. Going down the hill, I could affirm the Hill of Life name from a smug point of view. Coming up changed my tune. Even if I was focusing on the life-affirming qualities of walking up that steep hill, I was still out-of-breath and tired. We cannot think away some realities. Some people are always walking up the hill.

I think our challenge is to make sure we walk both ways. We experience the sweaty climb and the downhill breeze. We experience the peacefulness of the still water buddha and the risk of the tightrope over the rushing water. We look closely at the tree and beyond at the river. We carry our past deliberately and lightly and look to the future with hope and excitement and relish our lives in this present moment. Simple and complex—just like a butterfly.

Home (alone) on the Range

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Nobody wants their Christmas shrouded in a pall of sadness…or their birthdays…or any other special day. Expectations about Christmas have been marketed, hyped, idealized, and Hallmark movie-ized. We even do it to ourselves—we remember the child-like wonder of Christmases past or are determined to create it if we did not experience it ourselves. But in real life, in the calendar-is-not-in-charge-of-life life, special days are just like any other—people die, get sick, get hurt, get mad, and feel sad. There were a number of years when the kids were small that I was always sick on Chris’ after-the-holidays birthday. My body just sort of crashed after the flurry; I feel that this year, too.

The loss of a loved one inhabits our bodies—beyond the broken hearts we can most readily acknowledge. We are intricately and mysteriously tied to those we love, in heart, mind, and soul, but also in body. It does us good to remember that and to honor ourselves and our aching bodies in the grieving process.

Grief also does another thing—it clears our calendars for us. Well, if not clear them, it writes its name at the top of every page, of every day. It steers the agenda whether we are aware of it…or not. So all our time we had in Kansas City and in Austin over the holidays, no matter what was on the agenda, Grief was by our side. At our ‘busy’ times, it trailed along behind us, only poking us with an occasional memory. But during quieter times, open times, the loss of Jon (along with many other significant losses that Grief lassos to the present one) took center stage.

Our drive to Texas took us through Kansas and the Flint Hills Prairie. On the Kansas Turnpike there’s not much to look at besides the beautiful blue sky and the beautiful prairie grasses on the rolling hills. Beautiful even in Winter. In that emptiness, I am soothed, and it allows an array of feelings to be laid out like a crazy quilt and examined and felt. Without distractions, our hearts and minds and bodies can do the work of grief more easily, though ‘easy’ is hardly the word to use for the process.

A sign alerted us to a scenic pullover to take in the splendor of the largest remaining intact tallgrass prairie in the world and to see the Bazaar Cattle Pens. We stepped out of the car into a very strong, chilly wind. We saw the herd hunkered down out of the gale—but it wasn’t a cattle herd—it was a Pronghorn Antelope herd!

Pronghorns are the fastest land mammal in North America—living on the open prairie requires running rather than hiding in order to get away from predators. Their excellent eyesight allows them to see things up to four miles away. They are definitely home on this range.

A bridge—the Bazaar Cattle crossing—allowed us to cross the interstate to go right up to the cattle pens used to sort, work, and transport cattle from the ranches.

I loved this old hook latch on the outside of the pen’s weathered board. It didn’t look like it was for anything, but at one time, it held a gate open or shut, or held an integral piece of equipment for the cattle working process. I wonder how old it is…

We did see two inhabitants who were ‘off work’ at the time. They and the Pronghorns have an amazing place to live!

We left Bazaar, left Kansas, drove through Oklahoma into Texas for a night’s rest before our final leg to Austin.

Up to a certain point in my life, grief was dealing with the loss of someone old through death, and as a young person, that was enough. I didn’t really know grief and understand it like I do now until the years prior to my mid-century mark. And then, it knocked me off my horse, crushing the air and energy out of me. Grief also encompasses the death of long-held beliefs and losses of living people and places that were deeply loved, cared for, and cherished. Heart-breaking. Mind-numbing. Soul-crushing. Body-aching. The open prairie, an enormous Cottonwood tree, and a wise woman elder were my canvas and guide on my grief journey. The prairie has few distractions, and you are left with yourself and your pain—just where we need to be. Grief and the pain that goes with it can pile up like tumbleweeds against a fence line and overwhelm us once again. But once a person rides through the prairie of pain, it is much easier to navigate the next death or the next loss with respect and honor. You stay in the saddle and ride on.

Heartbreak and Beauty

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I had joyfully baked cookies all day—the old Christmas cds I used to play while making cookies with the kids blared from the hallway as the heady smells of sugar, butter, and chocolate filled the air. We were anticipating a trip to Kansas City to celebrate with the Brake family before taking the longer drive to Texas. We would leave in four days. Then a phone call. One of Chris’ brothers was in the ICU. It didn’t look good. Tests needed to be done. Unbeknownst to us, he had been ill for over a year, seriously ill—but didn’t want us to worry. If only cookies could heal heartbreak and cancer.

He died the day before we were leaving. We packed and drove with a heaviness that insulted the season of joy around us. Or was it the other way around? It seems like the only thing we could voice was our shock and disbelief. We spent a few days with the Brakes, in sorrow instead of excitement. And yet, seeing them, the remaining two brothers and their dear wives, placed a bandage over our wounds. In essence, it stopped the bleeding. We shared meals around the same tables the Brakes had gathered around for holiday fun for decades. Beautiful memories flooded my brain and heart. Gram and Gramps and the two uncles were still there with us.

We drove to Austin, Texas to see Emily and Shawn. The long trip was tiring. A dullness of unprocessed feelings kept us quiet, and sitting for so long in sorrow stiffened our muscles. Nothing like death to make a person feel old. We spent the night in Denton before braving the constant construction on I-35. One of our anticipated events with Emily and Shawn was to go on the Luminary Walk at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. Two days before Christmas—a festive event. I gathered my energy. Through the darkness we walked with luminaries lighting our way.

Chris noticed the real star above the lit tree. Darkness and beauty.

On the Luminary Walk, our eyes adjusted to the darkness. Our hearts began to adjust to the shock and sorrow. We saw kids playing on luminous swings, climbing structures, and mazes. We remembered the incredible fun and laughter Jon brought to all our lives. Lights illuminated certain trees that have lived long and endured many storms. Our memories highlighted the travails that Jon endured with strength and wit. We all walk the Luminary Walk through life. We encounter darkness—loss, heartache, hurt, confusion, and rejection—but there are luminaries all around us who can help us see through the heartbreak and darkness to find and feel the beauty once again.