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Threading the Needle

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This spring I participated in a Lenten book study at our church on conflict. The book was ‘Redeeming Conflict’ by Ann M. Garrido. As a conflict-averse person, it felt a little like stepping into the flame (okay, make that the fire). It was not at all comfortable or familiar to me, (but isn’t that what the Lenten season is supposed to be?) As a middle-child peacekeeper, I would much rather everybody just all get along, and then we wouldn’t even need this book or have these difficult conversations! The premise of the book is similar in that people may think there isn’t conflict in churches—that everybody all gets along in Christian love—but the author and the pastor who led our class knowingly pointed that out as a fallacy. Both also argued that conflict could be a ‘good thing!’ (Anybody else feeling uncomfortable?)

As a scientist, the subject of conflict was never on my list of classes. I readily believed that science is science is life—there are ideas (hypotheses), methods, protocols, experiments, data, results, and always those tentative conclusions with ‘further study is needed.’ There could be disagreement on the integrity of the hypothesis or the methodology, but it just meant that things needed to be honed and adjusted. And that there would always be more experiments! (I would like to acknowledge my naivete on conflict-free science with due respect to those of you who know that I am wrong about that.) As uncomfortable as the book topic was, it was also fascinating to me! I was stepping into a new universe of awareness. One of my favorite parts of the book was the idea that we tend to conflate the problem with the person we are having the problem with—the problem then becomes the other person or the other side, as in politics. Blame is a cheap and easy way to inflict pain and not take care of the issue. But we can step out of that by identifying the problem (which is often the hard part) and standing side by side with the person in unity to solve the problem. (I have shared this fascinating concept with a dozen people…and now all of you…in my enthusiasm that this should change the world!) But how do we thread that needle?

Last Sunday Chris and I went up to Crow Wing State Park by Brainerd. Most of the parks by major rivers in the state are still dealing with flooding, and when we checked the website, it said the south trails and the Red River Oxcart trail were impassable. We hadn’t been on the north trails for quite a while, so we set out to do that. We parked at the campground that had recently opened and headed north. The needle-like, green-as-can-be Sedge grass was blooming, as were the Bloodroots with their protective capes of curled leaves. Both are perennial pioneers of Spring.

After following the ridge for a ways, we began to descend the hill towards the Mississippi River….and found that our trail had ended in the floodwaters. This was a problem even the bridge couldn’t resolve.

We backtracked, then took a trail by the River that led to the boat launch. Another Spring pioneer, Prairie Buttercup, shone its little ray of sunshine in the brown leaf litter.

The River was full (of course, out of its banks), but the current had slowed from the fury of the tumultuous ice and snow melt. The puffy white clouds and the dark tree shadows were reflected on the water.

And then we got to the boat launch and parking lot. Both were full of water.

We backtracked again. We talked about how the River looked fairly calm, and suddenly Chris said, “Let’s walk out on that log.”

My first reaction was “You can do that” and then I looked more closely at the fallen tree the rushing water had unmoored.

At the base of the tree was a Garter snake stretched out in a patch of sunlight. The wind was cool from the northwest, so we were all enjoying the sun!

We tried another trail from the campground that connected to the Paul Bunyan State Bike Trail. We successfully navigated a low spot that had wetlands on either side. The Spring Peepers were singing loud and strong—it sounded like a million of them! But I could not spot a single one of the singers as I zoomed and scanned the marsh.

We hiked on the bike trail up on the ridge for a little while but knew we wouldn’t be able to loop around on the trail by the River, so once again we turned around. The valley below held the flood waters that spanned a half a mile or so from the bridge we couldn’t cross.

We took a trail that ran parallel to the flood waters to see how far we could go. Willow blossoms were perches for Red-winged Blackbirds, and trees that literally could not stand another flooding tipped and fell into the water.

Then in the brush of Willows, Red-twigged Dogwoods, and old, exploded Cattails, I saw the ‘eye of the needle’ embodied in a fallen log and its reflection. Anyone who has threaded lots of needles would recognize that shape.

The valley was vast when viewed from the reflections of the flood waters—it was another natural place that accepted the extra Spring water from the Mississippi River. I wondered how many places along the 2,340 miles of the Mighty Mississippi have been the overflow areas for all these millennia.

We hiked up the ridge cross-country to the campground when the trail became covered with water.

We drove to the south trails parking lot to see what the River was doing there. It is where the Crow Wing River meets the Mississippi River as they merge around the island of Crow Wing.

This convergence of high water from two rivers takes over the lowlands on the peninsula that is circled by the Red River Oxcart Trail. The trails were blocked in two directions, not far from the old townsite.

But the waters had receded from their highest mark, leaving behind a mat of debris.

So we headed for higher ground again, above the old townsite, above the flood waters, into a peaceful, sun-dappled pine forest. It seemed like a good place to stop and rest and breathe in the wonderful pine smell.

Threading the needle, besides the literal meaning, is defined as skillfully navigating between conflicting forces or interests; to find harmony or strike a balance; to find a path through opposing views. In football and other sports, it means throwing or hitting a ball through a narrow gap, all of which take an abundant amount of practice and dedication. On our hike, we were trying to find a path through the woods but were stymied in almost every direction by Mother Nature’s floodwaters. Even the bridge of connection had been washed away. Sometimes the power differential determines the path (and therein lies much of ‘the problem’). Conflict is the same way, despite my desire for fairness and mutual cooperation in identifying and solving a problem. Redeeming conflict may not work with those who have no desire for redemption. In facing the flood, we backtracked and tried again and again. We took the high ground to find peace for ourselves. We were happy with our day regardless of the setbacks. Redemption is the act of making something better or more acceptable. We can all do conflict better when we know better and dedicate ourselves to harmony. We can be perennial pioneers pushing towards a better life with our protective capes, sunny faces, and the ever powerful grace and mercy of God.

The Motion of Balance

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Balance. It’s one of those things we are constantly striving for in all aspects of our lives, whether we are aware of it or not. Our physiology is perfectly attuned to balance or homeostasis, always adjusting on the cellular and systemic level to bring our bodies ‘back in balance.’ We know the physical act of balancing (like standing on one foot) is good for our brains, muscle strength, coordination, and stability, and is linked to a longer life. Most of us aspire to a more optimal work–life balance, active–sleep balance, and doing for others–doing for ourselves balance. Our lives are really a great balancing act!

In Minnesota this year (and most), the seasonal scales are tipped towards Winter. We’ve had snow on the ground for over five months. To be fair, late Autumn and early Spring are also the owners of below freezing temps and snowflakes, though most just call that Winter. Where there is balance, there is also a continuum. Two weeks ago, we hiked at Sibley State Park on a trail we hadn’t been on before. We began on the short Pondview Trail, circling a shallow lake, wetland, and clearing. In the middle of the pond was a fresh mound of wetland vegetation with a Canada Goose standing on one leg on top of it. His neck was twisted over his back, and his bill was tucked under his wing. He stood that way for longer than we hiked around the pond, and I marveled at his balance. Herons, shorebirds, ducks, geese, gulls, and even some hawks stand on one leg at times. It is thought to be for thermoregulation—to prevent the loss of body heat from the unfeathered legs. Yet that doesn’t explain why flamingos, who live in warm climates, are often posed on one leg, but scientists speculate they can conserve energy with that stance.

Other waterfowl were more energized by the sunlight and warmer temps—a pair of Wood ducks swam along the reeds, then flew away from the intruding hikers. A pair of Mallards cared little for who was circling their pond as they were busy feeding in a constant bob of bottoms up.

As we left the wetland area, we began to see the primary trees that inhabited this woodland—tall, stately Cedars and spreading Oaks, along with scatters of Aspens on the sunny fringes. We walked in honor of Arbor Day that would be celebrated later that week. We walked as tree-lovers, tree-planters, tree-caretakers. Chris is nearing fifty years of working with trees as his career!

As we walked farther into the forest, snow still covered the trail in places. Turkey tracks looked like arrows pointing us in the opposite direction in which they walked. Coming and going. Back and forth. The motion of balance.

We passed by an old Cedar with branches flowing down to the ground. On such an old tree, the lower branches often die back with lack of sunlight. Its sturdy trunk with flared roots as large as legs and its drooping branches created a shelter of sorts that I’m sure was used by some critters during the long, snowy Winter.

We spotted an old rock foundation in the woods and followed a well-marked! deer trail to an old homestead, complete with the rocky remains of a cellar. The forest was reclaiming what once ‘belonged’ to man.

Much later down the trail, we saw where an old Oak had literally claimed an enamel vestige of the homestead.

The trail was a wonderful combination of sunny Oak stands and shadowy, snowy Cedar stands. It is a bit unusual to see such large Cedars as a significant portion of a forest. Unusual and wonderful.

Two bright spots on the hike were a yellow, lichen-covered stick and a Snowy Egret perched in the dried reeds of the wetland.

And towards the end of the trail was a moss-marked tree that resolutely confirmed our tree-loving hike!

Walking among the trees, those great, grounded, balanced beings, is an act of balance, a balancing act(ion). There is motion in balance—one way, then the other. We usually know when we or thee are too far to one side—when things are out-of-whack. It takes considerable energy to maintain such an unnatural stance, and the cost to the organism or system is great. A balancing act can be a move (how about ‘tree pose’ or ‘flamingo pose’?), a behavior (like a hike in the forest), service (to people or our Earth), work (oh-so-many kinds), or pretend (our imaginative, fun side). It takes time and energy to ‘right’ ourselves, but once a more natural balance is achieved, life is easier again. We are ‘in the flow’ of life. The motion of our balance is measured and easy, like a tree swaying in the breeze.

A Good Flood

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We’ve all experienced a flood of emotions—whether anger at an injustice, sadness with the loss of a loved one, shame when something triggers our feelings of unworthiness, or love with the first look at our newborn. This flood of feelings can be overwhelming, sudden and surprising, and many times bringing tears to our eyes. Often the flood is a messy collection of emotions that are not easily teased apart and compartmentalized—it could be anger-sadness-shame-love all rolled into one tsunami. We flail around in the overwhelm, sometimes apologizing for our tears, often wanting to retreat or hide from the defenselessness of our vulnerability, and feeling the need to quickly erect the wall of protection that normally hides those feelings from the rest of the world.

It’s a messy time of year in Minnesota for hiking. There are still ridges of old, packed snow on trails in the trees that are softened and slippery. Other places are muddy with snowmelt and rain and snow again. There are big puddles in places where even ‘waterproof’ boots are challenged. In spite of all of that, we ventured to Mississippi River County Park on Monday. The first thing Chris noticed, even before we got out of the car, was an Eagle circling the area above us. When we got out, we saw two, then three of the graceful gliders! That’s a good start to a hike!

As we crested the hill that plunges down towards the River, we immediately saw we would not be hiking our usual route—the whole woods below us was flooded!

The riverside trail was the River now. The banks were overwhelmed, overtaken by the high and mighty waters that had gathered from the snow and ice that had quickly dissipated to liquid form in the previous unseasonably warm week. No slowing down the melt; no slowing down the water.

We walked back up the hill, along the bluff ridge, to the blocked-off road that goes to the boat launch. The road had been built up enough to be dry, though there was evidence the water had surged over it sometime before we were there. The woods seemed unrecognizable in the swamp of water. A twisty tree looked like a sea serpent rising from the swale.

The leaf litter and debris that floated to the top of the floodwater shone in the evening sun and looked like snow that still clung to the higher ground.

A little chipmunk scurried around the base of a big Cottonwood tree. He seemed to be more worried about staying on high ground than about us walking by him. I wondered how many little critters had been displaced with the flood waters.

On either side of the road was water—debris-shining, reflecting, still, rippling, engulfing, submerging.

A green-moss-log-gator loomed from the swamp water.

The boat launch was filled to the parking lot, the usual ‘banks’ covered, the new banks only defined by how high the ground was at any given spot. The River was making and taking its own boundaries.

We heard the chatter of geese across the River. Some strong, brave souls were swimming upstream against the current. One pair flew upriver close to the water. Perhaps this is their ‘spring training.’ But then as we walked on, we noticed some geese rapidly flowing downstream with the swift current, like the ultimate waterpark slide! Was it the same ones who had just navigated against the current? They ‘let go’ of their striving and rode the rapids, turning and twirling like a kid on a saucer sled barreling down a steep, snowy hill. Do you suppose they do this for fun?

One pair rested on a log that had become driftwood in the flood waters.

We were able to walk a short distance along the river trail until the water once again overtook the lower land. A raft of ducks bobbed about on a quieter part of the River.

We headed for higher ground to finish our hike. Bright green moss glowed in the sunlight, brightening the still-gray woods. And despite the snow, it was sending up bloom stalks, shaking off the dormancy of Winter.

We rounded a corner beyond a row of tall Pines. The sun was bright in our eyes. Without sunglasses, I squinted to see what Chris noticed—in the glowing sunlight stood a young deer looking at us. I always marvel at these creature to creature encounters when curiosity of one another binds us together for a moment in time!

The Young One wandered away, not running, not raising her white tail in alarm. We saw her and another larger deer nibbling at things among the Oak trees. They watched us, and we watched them, all of us happy for the melting snow, the unveiling of the fuzzy, green Mullein and shoots of green grass, and for the imminent promise of Spring.

Mississippi River County Park is a stellar example of a ‘good flood.’ Most often when we hear the word ‘flooding,’ it is a crisis of washed out roads and damaged homes. Melting snow and Spring rains bring about an increase in the volume of water flowing down a river—and it needs someplace to go. Lowland around a river—the flood plain—has been the natural place to safely contain excess water. It has adapted to being flooded in the Spring, and the plant life renews itself with nutrients dropped on the soil as the flood waters recede. As humans have drained and developed or farmed lowlands, there is less area to safely contain the excess water. More of it runs off to places that cause damage. The lowland at the park is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do—it’s a good flood!

The same can be said of our flood of emotions. They are our release valves in the messy business of being human. We have adapted to be emotional beings—it keeps us connected to one another, provides us with information about ourselves and others, and helps to keep us safe. When we notice and express our feelings in a healthy way, it helps to avert a crisis that causes heartache and damage. So we just have to let the good floods happen, let the tears and water flow, witness the overwhelm and the adaptability, connect with curiosity, learn, and have fun!

Crossing the Threshold

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There are many times in our lives we encounter a threshold where time seems to slow down with the weightiness of our next step. We become aware of all that has transpired in the past, and depending on the facts and our mindset, it may be tinged with negative feelings or with feelings so positive we are reluctant to leave it behind. And yet, the unknown landscape before us is calling our name in whispers both alluring and compelling. We are standing at the point of no return. No matter how comfortable or beautiful or sad the past has been, there is no going back—we must take that step, cross the threshold, and continue forward.

I am the worst when standing on the threshold. I can barely bring myself to leave the comfort I have grown into and around, so thoroughly enmeshed in the steadiness I have built into my past. I can be looking forward to the next adventure with excitement—whether school or a new place to live—and still I have a knot in my stomach, tears in my eyes, and fingers clenched on the door jamb in a dare to time and loved ones to move me forward. I fail miserably at adaptability.

I usually argue with Mother Nature at this time of year as the warmer temperatures of Spring start to melt Winter’s beautiful snow. I don’t want to see it go. I adore the ‘snow light’ that permeates the house. I love the crisp crunch when walking on the miraculous crystals. The cold feels so good on my face and body. But this last week, I have (mostly) graciously conceded to time (it has been five months with snow on the ground), temperatures (how can it be 78 degrees?), and my loved ones (who can’t wait for warmer days and green grass.) Mother Nature has shoved us through the threshold into Spring!

On Easter Monday Chris and I hiked our last snow hike of the season at Greenleaf Lake State Recreation Area. The tracks on the slushy ice of the lake were vestiges of ice-fishing capades. There is no going back there this season.

Old cattails with bulgy, lightened seedheads were ripe for dispersal of the fluffy seeds. Soon they will fly away to their new homes to make new plants in the cycle and circle of life.

The trail was a combination of sunshiny bare ground and soft, sinky snow where the warm temps had released the solid structure of the frozen molecules.

The Red Oaks and Ironwoods were liberating the old leaves they had carried all Winter, and the beautiful amber color of them was littered along the wooded trail. The beautiful Spring-is-here litter in the dirty snow!

We saw trees in all states—fallen soldiers who now protect a waterway from erosion, a decaying tree that gives a focused vision of the lake, a towering Oak with the power of the sun behind it activating the bud-popping sap, and the bark-stripped, weathered wood of a standing piece of art.

There were trees stuck in the ice, leaning or fallen into the lake but still alive, connected to roots, and getting ready to grow in their unorthodox positions.

Long-fallen trees in the midst of decay sported colorful little shelf mushrooms, along with lichens and moss. There was life among the death.

The spiny caterpillar-like stem of a gooseberry branch will be one of the first to open green buds beside the sharp thorns.

And the vibrant scarlet stems of Red-twigged Dogwoods are setting their pointy-leaved buds on the threshold of Spring.

A holey tree with a halo of golden Ironwood leaves has seen many decades of the past and has fewer years of life before it. It is probably gripping the threshold with roots and branches, too. How does one leave such a beautiful, holy life?

But then I spot a constellation of stars in an old Oak leaf in the dirty snow. Water and sunlight, in just the right way, created a new cosmic entity! There is so much in the world that we don’t see and don’t comprehend. We are like tiny new buds in the timeline of our ancient world.

Mother Nature gave me a reprieve today on my threshold of Spring. We woke up to white and will have six inches by the end of the day. But it will most likely be gone again tomorrow. There’s no going back—Spring is here. There is always life of a new season after the death of an old one. The threshold time is a pause for looking back, for gathering the good that gave our hearts comfort and joy, but also for listening to the siren calls of our souls that entice us onward. What whispers do you hear? What constellation of stars do you see?

The Last Time

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How many times have you wistfully uttered the words, “This is going to be the last time….”? It seems to carry a fair amount of meaning for most of us when we are going to do something we love for the last time or see a dear one for the last time. I remember knowing my third pregnancy would be my last and thinking with great conscious intention I was not going to wish away one minute of it. It helps us savor the time and armors us with resilience, e.g., when morning sickness strikes day after day. I also know there can be great gladness, celebration, even a ‘good riddance’ when something happens for the last time when we are ready for it to be over and done.

Last Sunday I wanted to go snowshoeing, thinking it would be our ‘last time’ to do so this year. It has been a great snow year, and Chris and I have had the best snowshoeing Winter ever. And I kind of hate to see it go. Chris, however, has already crossed over into the ‘good riddance’ category for this year’s snow. It cannot melt fast enough for him (even though as I write this we are cleaning up from an April Fool’s Spring snowstorm with another one on deck for Tuesday and Wednesday.) Chris reluctantly agreed to my ‘last time,’ so we drove north a little ways to Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. The parking lot was slushy and muddy and had a large puddle of standing water! (What?!) The trail had been groomed for skiing, but the sun had deteriorated the snow so much that we didn’t heed the rules to ‘stay off the tracks.’

Anything lying on the ground soaked up the warmth of the sun and sank into the ripples of mushy snow.

The wetness of the snow was like a drag on our snowshoes. It was a few degrees above freezing but seemed warmer in the light of the sun. We shoed toward the trio of Poplar trees that surrounds an eagle’s nest, sure that we would see the eagles busy with their egg or chick tending. But no one was home, and for the first time at the park, we didn’t see any eagles anywhere.

With the draggy snow, we decided to cut off a section of the trail by going cross-country. The wet-soaked snow packed with each step, so we didn’t sink in very far, but it still took more effort than going on the groomed trail.

Back into the Oak savanna forest, we saw the trees that had been burned inadvertently by a prairie fire. One standing tree was burnt on the inside, making a home available for some creature. Others were burned all the way down.

We saw lots of woodpeckers flying between the trees, but Rice Lake was still covered with ice, so no waterfowl floated or flew about.

The Willows around the lake were red, but not one fuzzy gray bud was showing yet.

As we circled around the lake towards the Platte River that flowed from it, we realized that it, too, was still frozen with ice. I thought maybe a strip of the River would be ice-free and flowing, then wondered if that was why there were no eagles around yet.

About three-quarters of the way around the looped trail, I started to falter. I would stop and rest, then go on for a short distance, then stop again. I totally ran out of gas after slugging through the wet snow for an hour and a half! Luckily I had packed a snack of pistachios and dried cranberries, so we stopped to re-fuel and get some water. While we were standing there, I saw movement in a tree by the River. There was the flat white face and pointy nose of an Opossum!

As I got closer, he tried to ‘hide’ behind the tree branch, almost like ‘if I don’t see you, you can’t see me.’

Once I circled around the tree, he realized he couldn’t hide. I noticed his frostbit tail and ears. Possums do not hibernate during the Winter, though they do find a den to stay in, so perhaps he made his Winter home in one of the burned-out trees. Their ‘bare’ tail, ears, toes, and nose are susceptible to frost bite. He probably wishes he could go south for the cold, snowy months and is most likely saying ‘good riddance’ to the last of Winter. I threw some nuts and fruit onto the snow at the base of a tree for our Minnesota marsupial.

After my re-fuel, I was ready and able to finish our trek—it’s amazing how quickly food energy can replete our muscles and mitochondria. I hoped the possum would feel better after his snack, too. I was a bit concerned that the eagle’s nest was empty, but maybe our timing was wrong for this particular place. And therein lies the mystery—we never really know the timing of most things. We have trends, averages, predictions, and hopes, but the Universe is large, and we are not in charge. At the same time, we tend to ‘feel better’ thinking we are in charge, and it helps us to ‘make meaning’ of firsts and lasts. Many ‘firsts’ stay in our memories for our lifetimes—the first time we met our partners, the first time we saw our babies, our first job, car, pet, house, etc., etc.. And when we predict our ‘lasts,’ it gives us something we need at that time—gratitude for the people and things we love, resilience to get through a tough time, hope that things will be different and better soon, or hope that we can survive when things are changing against our wishes or norms. Grace gives us these ‘coping mechanisms’ that move us along the trail of time and offers us another ‘first’ when we let go of the ‘last.’

I am celebrating nine years and 476 posts since I began North Star Nature! Thanks for coming along on the trail with me! (Not the last time!)

Our Unique Arithmetic Assignment

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Part of our life learning process is embodied in the statements “I’ve seen this before,” or “I’ve heard this before” or most importantly, “I’ve felt this before.” It goes beyond the situational ‘deja vu’ (literally ‘already seen’) when a person feels like they have experienced something before. This is more concrete, a simple arithmetic of sorts. In the early part of our lives, we do it unconsciously; it is how we learn. ‘I’ve seen this round object before and people say the word ball.’ Fast and furious learning takes place in the next decades with things we’ve seen, heard, and felt. As we grow into middle age and older, we begin to notice patterns in our lives that have become rote. ‘I’ve heard those same words before,’ and we may add ‘too many times.’ We are becoming aware and discerning how those words impact us. And this is when the simple math becomes conscious and truthful—‘I don’t want to hear those words again,’ ‘I’ve seen this scenario before, and I don’t want it to happen again,’ or ‘I am going to change so I don’t have to feel this same way anymore.’ Subtraction. We also have greater awareness of what we want more of in our lives, those sparks of desire that may have been muzzled with responsibilities, time constraints, and unawareness. ‘I’m going to take some classes to feel the thrill of learning again,’ or ‘I’m going to learn the words to that song I love so I can sing it anytime.’ Addition. It is a profound lesson in authenticity when we become aware of our unique arithmetic assignment and incorporate it into our lives.

On Thursday I drove to a place I have seen before. The prairie–wetland–woodland trail at Saint John’s Arboretum is familiar to me. I don’t really remember how many times I’ve hiked it, which is of no consequence to any further time I am there, for each and every time there are new things to see along with the familiar friends that bring me joy. This was the first time I had been there with so much snow, the first time I had snowshoed the trail. It was a crisp 23 degrees. We had had rain two nights before, so the deep snow had an icy, pockmarked crust. The metal on the snowshoes s-c-r-i-t-c-h-e-d against the snow with each tread. My noisy steps alerted the waterfowl in the open creek, and I heard them before I saw them. It’s a great, wonderful sound I’ve heard many times before—the heralding honking of Canadian geese, the throaty warning of Trumpeter swans, and the more indistinct chattering of Mallard ducks.

There was another sound I had heard many times before—the rattling trill of a Sandhill Crane. He stood on the frozen embankment of the flowing creek, looking like an unhappy camper, wondering why his return flight to Minnesota had landed him in the frozen tundra. He ruffled his feathers and called out in irritation.

I was the intruder everyone was talking about—the geese voiced their faux alarm, but not one flew away. The Trumpeter swans were more sensitive and took to flight along with their vocal dismay.

Mr. Sandhill Crane kept up his rattley chatter as he surveyed me walking closer and all of his waterfowl friends below him in the creek.

Then he slowly ambled away from the creek into the stalks of cattails, pretending to find a morsel of food to peck at but moving on with disappointment.

I left the wetland and shoed through drifts and a broken, uneven path to the forest. With a deep sigh of contentment, I knew I had felt this way before, and it was good.

The dark-trunked Maple trees threw shadows on the deep snow, but I knew they were warming up for Spring. With daytime temps reaching above the freezing mark, the sap was beginning to stir in their roots. The below–freezing temps at night settle it back down, and that temperature gradient becomes the ‘pump’ that gets the sap flowing, ready for the harvesting for Maple syrup. I also imagined the Spring Ephemeral wildflowers under the soil, under the snow, that would be blooming before the trees could even unfurl their leaves. Old friends that are always a joy to see.

Circling around to the other snow-covered boardwalk that spans the wetland, I heard the waterfowl chatter again, along with some nearby Crane talk.

This time, there were three red-headed cranes in the cattails! It looked like a mated pair and their colt from last year. The offspring may migrate back to their usual spot with the parents, but once the nesting begins, he will be ‘chased away’ to begin his solitary life for two to six more years before he finds his lifetime mate.

Addition and Subtraction. The way of Nature. The way of Winter into Spring. The way we learn and discern. Most everything I saw, heard, and felt on my Thursday snowshoe hike was familiar to me, and I welcomed it into my life once again with a resounding “Yes!” At the same time, new details of deep snow, new birds, and Spring clouds made my experience ‘something more.’ We have to be careful not to fall through the ice of expecting our surroundings to change because of our displeasure. Mr. Sandhill Crane had some unfortunate seasonal timing in his migration and nesting schedule, but he will have to ‘wait it out’ while the sun and tilt of the Earth do their work. We want to be conscious and truthful about our own lives, our own words and actions. It is the responsibility and privilege that Life bestows upon us. Good luck with your assignment!

Begin Spring

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Tomorrow is the first day of Spring. Ready or not, here it comes! It seems like we are nowhere close to Spring this weekend as we continue to ‘clean up’ after yet another snowstorm. The roads are icy, the temps are unseasonably cold, the wind chill is downright Decemberish, and there is a lot of snow on the ground in the middle of the yard!

But just like so many things in life, Spring is a process that has a beginning, a middle, and an end—just like a story. So tomorrow we begin Spring. The groundhog did the countdown, and we, as excited children, waited in anticipation for the moment Spring would find us. So what does beginning Spring look like in central Minnesota? There is a change in the position of the rising and setting of the moon and sun—the moon on a monthly basis yet always in a celestial dance with the yearly movement of the sun. The sun is rising and setting ‘nearly’ east and west in its trek toward the Summer Solstice when long hours of daylight in the North of the Northern Hemisphere will shorten our nights.

There are days of melting and days of snowing—a ping pong game of subtraction and addition. But with the beginning of Spring, snow subtraction begins to pull ahead for the win.

Even with a new blanket of a windblown five inches of snow, the sun, from its higher position in the sky, is a steady source of warming power. Even with below freezing temperatures, the sunshine is softening the snow, compacting it with more moisture, and melting it along the edges.

The beginning of Spring, despite the snow, has us looking forward to warmer days when gardens can be planted and canoes can be retrieved from the drifts and winter slumber to glide once again on the ice-free lakes and rivers.

It doesn’t look like Spring, but whether we are ready or not, it has found us!

The beginning of Spring is more subtle than our weary minds and bodies would like it to be. But nonetheless, it arrives. It carries with it the promise and hope for the middle of Spring when the snow is gone, the grass is green, flowers are growing and blooming, and birds and animals are nesting and creating. Then the story of the seasons and us comes to the end of the chapter of Spring and to the beginning of Summer, and so on and so on. It is a sweet dance, like a flowing river, with a rhythm and cadence sung by Mother Nature— ♪ “Here I come.” ♪

Knee-deep in Snow and Peace

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I have always been intrigued with people who say they don’t take any stock in people’s praise of their work….if they did, it would follow they would also take to heart the criticisms. Just think about the ramifications if that is expanded to praise and criticism of who we are as a person. This opens up so much about who we are and how we operate in the world. At one level, it sounds like a lofty, enlightened realm-of-being, when one is so grounded in who they are and what they do that it truly doesn’t matter what others think. They do their good work regardless. On the other hand, there are callous, uncaring people who do what they want to do for their own purposes, who couldn’t care less about what others think or the very real consequences their actions may have on other’s lives. It’s kind of a mind-boggling philosophical humanity question, but I bet most of us have struggled with the themes of praise and criticism at some time in our lives and how it relates to our work and to our being.

I have inadvertently been a people pleaser most of my life—I didn’t consciously choose such a role, but I actively wanted people around me to be pleased—with themselves, with the circumstances, with me, with everything. I doled out praise thinking everyone wanted and needed to be affirmed. (Not sure that’s really in the past tense.) Exhausting work, as it turns out. Thankfully most of us age out of that to a great extent as we choose whether our ‘limited’ energy goes to others or to our own well-being. My challenge has been how to do that and still be a force of goodness to the people around me and for the world. I know I’m not alone in that rigorous challenge.

As overwhelming and existential as these questions are, I have slowly realized (and was recently reminded by my friend Mark) that the inner quality that needs to be cultivated is peace. It’s not about giving and receiving praise. When I was younger, I really had no idea what ‘peace’ even meant, let alone how to manifest it in my own life. I take that back—I did want to be a peacekeeper in my people-pleasing role. I did desire external peace—no conflict, no chaos, no discord, no disturbances. No kidding. My job is easier now that I can work on bringing internal peace to myself. A big part of that is accepting and respecting all the former iterations of myself with all the flaws and foolishness that I embodied. Another part is actually experiencing peaceful places. I love the stripped-down winter woods that lays bare the essentials—blue skies, brilliant white snow, and textured gray-brown wood of the trees.

The clear sky and sunshine illuminated another essential—our shadows. To come to peace, we must know and accept our shadow side. Easier said than done.

For peace, we have to allow decay and death to happen—to old ideas, to old ways, to old things and people who have lived their lives with valiant strength and their God-given goodness.

For peace, we must come to terms with the people in our lives—those in the past and those who surround us now. That may be an uphill climb.

Peace is living into who we have become with age and experience. The travails of life may swirl around us, but they don’t overwhelm us as much as they did when we were younger. Humbly accept the power of you.

Peace is climbing the hills, letting the shadows slide down behind us.

Peace is letting the sunshine soothe and warm us like a humming lullaby.

Peace is turning a corner when others choose a different path.

Peace is having faith in the seasons of life.

Peace is glimmering silence for thought and introspection.

Peace is being curious, moving forward through fear, and letting your creativity imagine finding an enormous praying mantis in a snowy forest.

Peace is standing knee-deep in snow along with the wild things that are just as curious about us.

Peace be with you all.

Celebrating Love

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What makes a celebration? Balloons, presents, and cake? A Christmas tree, church, and candlelight? A dinner for two? Fireworks and picnics? A crowded parade with hundreds of thousands of people all dressed in red? So many different ways to mark or honor a special event, person, or team! A little over two weeks ago we had two celebrations within two days of one another. Both were in Kansas City. One was planned, the other hoped for but unknown until the last minutes of a game. On Super Bowl Sunday, we knew we would be in Kansas City at the end of the week for Chris’ sister Mary’s Celebration of Life. We didn’t know at the time that we would be there in a few days to celebrate the winners of the Super Bowl—the Kansas City Chiefs! There were three life-long Chiefs fanatics who wanted to be among the throngs of other red-clad fans to see and celebrate their favorite football team. So on Valentine’s Day, we picked up two of our kids, and the following day, Chris and the kids added their cheering voices and red attire to the Chiefs’ celebration!

Two days later, before Mary’s celebration, we hiked at Minor Park in Kansas City where the old Santa Fe trail crossed the Blue River. We followed a trail beside Little Blue Creek that feeds into the bigger Blue. It had been below freezing the night before, which brought a dusting of snow to the area.

But the day was clear and chilly with bright sunshine that reflected off the water of the creek—a crystal circle of light, itself so bright it was hard to look at without squinting.

It was strange to be without snow while in Missouri after months of white-covered ground back home. But the cold night had created a temporary ice wonderland in Little Blue Creek as the water flowed over and gurgled around the rocks—like diamonds in the dark sky.

The bright blue sky highlighted the American Sycamore trees with their light gray, mottled bark and abundance of seed balls hanging like mod 60’s earrings from the branches. It’s always good to see them again, these sturdy, long-lived giants, since they don’t live in our part of Minnesota.

The rock is different here also—mostly sedimentary limestone and shale. It forms rock walls and outcroppings that can be moved and formed by water. A series of waterfalls or cascades dotted the little creek, including the block fall (wider than it is tall) that created a plunge pool at the bottom. The cold night had induced the formation of ice stalagmites, icicles, and delicate, lacy sheets of ice—shiny ribbons and sculptures celebrating the fleeting days of Winter.

The sun lit up the ice and the old, golden leaves of a young Sycamore. It melted the snowy frosting from the evergreen moss. It shone its light and warmth on the face of an enormous Oak tree that looked to me like a ‘singing tree’ with its open mouth and outspread arms.

At the end of our hike, we crossed the Old Red Bridge, the third installment of the famous red bridge that originally spanned the Blue River. This one was built in 1932, christened by Judge Harry S. Truman, and is now a pedestrian bridge celebrating Love. Over 5,000 locks have been connected to the bridge by couples symbolizing their everlasting love.

That evening, we walked into the large gathering room at the group home where Mary had lived for almost forty years. The tables were decorated with purple tablecloths, potted flowers, pictures of Mary (many with Santa), and purple and pink balloons. All of her friends, co-workers, and caregivers were there to celebrate the life and love of Mary Brake. There was a table of pictures of our family celebrations and of festivities with her friends and housemates. A DJ played background music. There was a slideshow of the full and varied life she had lived. Some of her friends shared their feelings—“I miss her,” “I worked with her; she was my friend,” “I loved her,” and a sweet comment by a young man who worked with her, “She’s alive in heaven.” We shared her favorite meal—tacos, chips, and Dr. Pepper, and for dessert—waffles, ice cream, and sprinkles. And then the DJ turned up the dance music, and people of every ability hit the dance floor. Mary would have been one of the first ones out there. We danced to the Macarena, Cotton Eye Joe, YMCA, and All I Want for Christmas is You! It was the perfect celebration of our dear Mary. For a person who didn’t say very many words, Mary had captured the hearts of a multitude of people. She was something special, and she blessed us all with her life. We will miss her dearly, but she remains a bright, shining diamond in the dark sky.

Bent in Suffering

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“We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.” –Winston Churchill

We cannot escape suffering in our lifetimes. We will all have to endure pain, distress, or hardship in some form. Many of us can get a couple decades under our belts before we know the harsh reality of suffering; others are well aware of it as children. Watching the news this week has once again made me acutely aware of suffering around the world. The earthquakes in Turkey and Syria have caused such extreme physical destruction and pain, and therefore emotional and mental suffering, for hundreds of thousands of people. Like the Russian war on Ukraine did a year ago and continues to inflict. Like the Covid-19 pandemic did in the last three years across the globe. Like the drought is in East Africa. It seems like suffering itself is becoming a pandemic.

Last Sunday was an absolutely beautiful day! The sky was that startlingly pure blue color that lifts spirits into freedom and possibility. The air was clean and clear, nourishing my lungs with each intake. The temperature was a delightful twenty-three degrees, and the sun was bright and warm. We snowshoed at Northland Arboretum in Brainerd that has 7.5 miles of immaculately groomed trails for classic and skating cross-country skiing and over two miles of trails for snowshoeing.

The heavy, wet snow we had had earlier in the season still blanketed large areas of brush and brambles like elaborate snow forts. The small creek was covered with slushy ice after our extreme cold spell the week before.

As we shoed into the area of the Jack Pine Savanna, I noticed some young Pines were completely bent over from the heavy snow that had originally fallen almost two months prior—and then added upon. The weight of the snow had bent their young trunks, not broken them.

Most of the trees had ‘shaken off’ the snow that had hung on them previously, with the help of the sun and wind. Some still carried large ‘snowballs’ on their strong-enough branches.

And yet, size, age, and identity were not the determining factors of who was damaged compared to who ‘shook it off’ and stood strong. Some of the old ones broke. Some of the Oak trees bent.

Not only were most of the bent trees heavy with snow, they were also stuck in the snow where they touched the ground. And once the snow had crushed them down in the unnatural bend, the accumulating snow just added more weight, more distress, more strain, and less chance of a return to ‘normal.’ I wondered how many would be able to ‘spring back’ to where they were before.

The day was beautiful, the snowshoeing was great, and all along the trail, there were trees in distress—so many of them.

In the moment, I observed the large number of trees that were bent and stuck in the snow and made a mental note to return next summer to see if and how they were able to recover. But it wasn’t until a little later that I realized that I was like the struggling trees. When I had Lyme disease in the 90’s, I felt bent in pain and stuck in uncertainty, as doctors were still doubtful that Lyme existed in Missouri so weren’t fluent in helping me. Much suffering. When I subsequently endured depression, I weathered much distress while stuck in sorrow. Recurring Lyme, deaths, losses, people not believing me, believing in me, or helping me all added to my burden, piled on the snow that was already holding me down. And those were not even the worst of my anguished distresses. Those are still too painful to mention. I was frozen in place, looking out at the world around me from my unnatural position, wondering why I was one of those pinned down while all around me stood beings who seemed unaffected by the storms. Like the trees, was it my position or status, was it my environment, did I have a genetic proclivity, was it a previous disease or wound that allowed such suffering or was I just weak? “Bad is never good until worse happens” is a Danish proverb that infused my family culture with our phrase ‘it could be worse.’ Endure, don’t complain, don’t ask for help, suffer, bear the pain and hardship. So I did and continue to do so, but truth be told, I’m not even good enough at that, or I wouldn’t be writing this.

If we are to draw from the heart of suffering, as Churchill says, in order to find and express inspiration and survival, somehow I think I have done that. Nature has been my inspiration for all my life, and it gives me great joy to share that beauty and wisdom with all of you. Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, “…every struggle is a dance….” The dance includes comfort along with the distress, pleasure along with the pain, peace along with the anguish, delight along with the misery. If I cannot ‘shake off’ the suffering, at least I can reach out and cultivate those qualities that oppose it. So I look up to that pure blue sky to lift my spirit into freedom and possibility. May those of you in suffering do the same.