Denise Brake, Author at NorthStarNature

Prairie Tough and Beautiful

July 12, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I was sitting in my circle of trees the other evening. The sun was low in the sky, not to be seen through all the layers of Pine trees. But I noticed that the tip-top of the tallest Aspen tree caught the twilight rays of the sun with a shining amber color. A slight breeze quivered the leaves in a soft song as the light faded away. So much of Nature is quiet and unassuming. She does her work without fanfare and most often without notice.

One of the places of Mother Nature that often goes unnoticed is the prairie. Travelers erroneously say ‘there’s nothing there’ or ‘it’s boring.’ I am a lover of prairies and will refute such talk. There is so much there! I am fortunate, not only to be surrounded by trees, but also to have a patch of prairie in the front yard. The soil is sandy and quickly dries, and whoever lives in my little prairie has to be tough. Quiet, unassuming grasses and wildflowers grow and thrive in the open, sunny spot.

One June-blooming wildflower that does garner some attention with its bright yellow-orange clusters of flowers is Hoary Puccoon. The roots were used by Native Americans to make a red dye.

A common prairie flower, one of the early bloomers, is Prairie Smoke. The bell-shaped flowers hang down, but after pollination, the stems straighten up, and the seed heads of feathery plumes form.

Pollinators are another quiet, most often unseen part of Nature that work hard and do important work. In essence, they provide the movement of male parts of the flower (pollen) to the female parts (stigma)—they help the process of fertilization so the fruits and seeds can develop. Pollinators include birds, bats, butterflies, moths, flies, beetles, and most importantly bees.

Another June-blooming wildflower in our little prairie is Shell Leaf Penstemon. Its large lavender flowers whorl around a single stalk above the opposite, clasping leaves that hold rainwater like a small shell.

The flower tubes are large enough for bumblebees to crawl inside to perform their pollinator duties.

No prairie is complete without the tough, fragrant presence of Yarrow. The leaves are fern-like, as described by its species name, millefolium, meaning ‘thousand leaves.’ The flowers are flat-topped clusters of many tiny flowers, all ‘working’ together as one.

Evening Primroses do as their name says—bloom in the evenings! The stalk of flowers bloom from the bottom up, a few flowers at a time. They open in the evenings and wilt by noon of the next day. Sphinx moths pollinate them during the night, but I also see a small bee on one of the flowers.

Daisy Fleabane is another self-described name. It was used by pioneers in their beds to keep away fleas. The radiant daisy-like flowers (actually asters) bloom from Spring to Fall on leafless flower stems.

Once grown as a hay crop, this escaped plant now grows ‘wild.’ White Sweet Clover, along with its sister Yellow Sweet Clover, is a major source of nectar for the Honeybee to make honey. The genus name, Melilotus, is Greek for ‘honey.’ Can you see the bee?

A member of the Mustard family, Hoary Alyssum is an inconspicuous white-blooming wildflower common on the prairie. It pairs well with Hairy False Goldenaster—both are covered in downy white hairs (thus their names.)

June and July on my little prairie with grasses, wildflowers, silver sages, and pollinators! It is a diverse, ever-changing ecosystem full of tough, unique, and beautiful plants.

Prairie plants and their busy pollinators, in their quiet and unassuming way, remind me of all the front-line workers of this pandemic we are living through. The nurses, EMTs, police and fire workers, housekeepers, RTs, caretakers, doctors, funeral workers, grocery store workers, and all the other workers who risk their lives in order to take care of our needs. They do their work without fanfare and so often go unnoticed and under-appreciated. They are tough—they wear their masks all day long to keep the rest of us as safe as possible. Their work is hard, and it’s important. A thousand thanks to the tough, unique, and beautiful people on the front lines of this pandemic. You are the shining stars.

Our 20/20 Vision

July 5, 2020 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

Anyone who needs glasses knows that a lens or two can make all the difference in the world. With contact lenses, a person can ‘look’ like they have 20/20 vision, even as the tiny lenses float on the cornea in front of each eye’s intrinsic lens. Then there are camera and binocular lenses, microscope and telescope lenses, and lenses in a lighthouse, each performing a specific function in order for us to see more clearly. Anything with a curved surface that is transparent—even a drop of water—can be a lens that focuses light.

Thursday evening I took my camera from the cooled inside of our house to the warm, humid patio to snap a picture of the nearly-full moon. The muggy, warm air fogged the lenses of my glasses and of the camera. I swiped away the moisture with my shirttail. The moon is intriguing, even in its cyclic sameness—a lunar body close to Earth that reflects the light of the far-away Sun. Even without a change in the camera apparatus, the color of the moon can look different from photo to photo—from a greenish tinge…

…to a rose tinge…

…to gray.

As I zoomed out for another shot, I noticed a faint circle of color around the moon. The colors changed and got brighter.

I realized that the rainbow colors around the moon were only seen through the camera lens—the humid air was condensing on the lens once again and fragmenting the moon light into its spectrum of colors!

Talk about intriguing! I was mesmerized with the colorful rainbow light around the beautiful nearly-full moon.

I was so distracted by the concentric circles of color that I ignored the mosquitoes landing on my skin.

Even though I knew the phenomenon was the result of the hot, humid weather, I believed in the vision of my rainbow moon.

I mean, look at these photographs, look through the camera, how can you not believe?! (The only thing better would be a unicorn flying by.)

What kind of lens do we look at the world and our lives through? Is something condensing on our lenses when we look at other people? I lived with rose-colored glasses for a good part of my life—it was a coping mechanism I unconsciously employed in an attempt to make me feel safe, to make it look like there were no bad things or bad people in the world. In contrast, there are many people wearing dark-colored glasses who see a certain kind of people as bad, who feel like bad things are happening all around them. Neither vision is the truth, but it is our truth that we see through our lenses. Our fogged up lenses distract us from the very real experiences and happenings of life—whether it’s rainbows, unicorns, monuments, or masks. The energy is fragmented, scattered to peripheral issues that pull us away from the painful reality right in front of us. It is a coping mechanism. We all want to feel safe. Deflect and deny. In truth, the painful reality we are most afraid of is not what is in front of us but what is inside of us.

We all have lenses through which we observe the world. Many are helpful and meaningful to our life’s work, to helping others, and to our relationships. But oftentimes we have a foggy lens—what we see isn’t reality. We need to clear that lens with a clean cotton shirttail. Focus the light on our hearts. Ask yourself, “What do I see in me?” Then the rainbows (as beautiful as they are) and the fear can fall away, and we can see the moon as it is. We can see individual people as they are (just like me in many ways.) We can see harmful situations and a way to make them better. We can want for others what we want for ourselves. It can make all the difference in the world.

We’re Just Like Birds

June 28, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

After last week’s post about flying dreams, I realized I had an accumulation of photos of the ‘real flyers’—the ones who inspire us to take off, fly high, and soar on the wind—in our dreams and metaphorically in our lives. They go where we cannot go without the aid of a ‘big silver bird.’ They seem to have a freedom and a reach that us ‘grounded’ creatures can only wistfully watch and long for—oh, to be as free and majestic as the Eagle!

And yet, as I looked at the photos, I realized that maybe birds are more like us than we realize (or we like them?) They like to hang out with their family and friends, and life is good on the water.

Some of them/us are loners—we don’t have mates or children or even many friends. We know how to be alone and how to be relatively okay with it. Inner life can take a higher priority than outer life.

Birds have curiosity, like most of us. What do I see? What do I hear? What does that mean for me and others?

They also can be startled, intimidated, territorial, fearful, protective, bullying, and loud. Sound familiar?

Birds spend a huge portion of their time and energy doing the work of providing food for themselves and their families. It takes concentration and patience, know-how and skill, and very often we and they are rewarded for our efforts. But not always…it also takes tenacity and resilience to keep trying when the opportunity slips away.

Housing is a big issue—is this going to be a good place to raise our family? Look it over, try it on, envision our future, determine the safety, can we afford it? Let’s make a nest. Let’s raise a family.

It takes an enormous amount of time, energy, fortitude, worms and bugs (and their for-human counterparts), sleeplessness (and sleep), learning, humbleness, mistakes, forgiveness, patience, and love to raise that family from infancy to independence. The birds have a compacted time frame in which to do so, yet they do it time and time again in each yearly cycle of their life span. They raise their children to fly. They teach them how to find their own food, to stay safe, to expand their knowledge. They teach them to be curious and wary, adventurous and prudent. They protect them the best they can.

They try to ward off those who would take advantage of their young ones with a fierce look and a strong beak.

They are observant and alert.

They model behavior, good and bad, with and without intent and consciousness.

They are proud of their fledglings.

And they love them.

Birds don’t spend most of their time in unfettered freedom, soaring the skies for fun and pleasure. They spend their time doing the day-to-day things that we do—working for food, shelter, and a place to raise young ones, and they use their innate tool of being able to fly in doing so. Maybe we aren’t so different from birds. Perhaps our freedom and reach extend along the ground we humbly inhabit instead of the heavens—to our families and friends, to the ones in solitude, and to the children in our lives. Maybe we are like the eagles—majestic and free.

Flying Dreams

June 21, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Love it seems, made flying dreams, so hearts could soar. Heaven sent, these wings were meant to prove once more, that love is the key. Love is the key. —‘Flying Dreams’ written by Jerrald Goldsmith and Paul Williams

I have had flying dreams my whole life. Many times I am in a room with tall ceilings, and I can just leap into the air and fly to the ceiling, then push off the wall with my feet to change direction. Perhaps it is more like weightlessness, like floating, like an astronaut in space. Other times I am flying outside, skirting high-line wires and trees, steering Peter Pan-like with my arms, and looking to my side to see birds flying with me. Whether inside or out, my flying dreams bring an immense sense of freedom and an indescribable feeling of joy.

In spite of the ease of flying in my dreams, in ‘awake’ life, flying isn’t always easy, especially the getting-off-the-ground part—or in the case of a dragonfly, the getting-out-of-the-water-climbing-up-any-available-vegetation-to-dry-out-wings part.

A little over three weeks ago, my friend and I went to Saint John’s Arboretum to try to find the hawk’s nest I had discovered before the leaves were on the trees—but this time we were unable to see it in the camouflage of leaves. We did find some beautiful ferns, spring wildflowers, a tannin-stained Trumpeter Swan, and….

…lots and lots of dragonflies! Most of them were not flying however—they were clinging to the shrubs and trees that lined a small lake. They were ‘tenerals’ or newly emerged from the aquatic larval stage. Dragonflies begin their life cycle in the water where an adult will lay eggs on a plant in the water or in the water itself.

The larval or nymph stage can be one to four years of growing and molting under the water. Water temperature and length of growing season determines maturation of the nymph. Emergence usually happens in the early morning when the nymph crawls out of the water up a stem of a plant. Some crawl several yards to a vertical plant to begin the final shedding of the larval skin to become the adult dragonfly.

During this transformation time, the dragonflies are vulnerable to predators, mainly birds. Even rainfall at this time can damage their soft body tissue. Up to a 90% mortality has been observed in one emerging population. Their legs are the first to harden so they can hook their claws into a plant or tree. Their wings are colorless, like shiny saran wrap.

Eyes of the ‘tenerals’ are reddish-brown above and gray below. Both the wings and eyes will develop more color as they mature.

The newly-emerged dragonflies did fly from their drying posts when we walked by, but their flight was weak, and they only flew a short ways to other shrubs.

Along the edge of the lake on the shrubs and trees, when we looked closely, were thousands and thousands of dragonflies climbing and sunning and drying. When we walked by, a swirling frenzy of flying circled our heads until they once again settled on the branches. Practice flights to ready them for their short adult life of only weeks. Once they are ready, the fairy-like flyers are graceful and powerful. They can hover in the air and fly in all six directions as they capture mosquitoes and flies for their food.

Flying dreams represent having our own personal power, a new perspective, spiritual connection, and freedom—freedom of expression and possibilities, and hope. Dragonflies represent transformation, adaptability, joy, wisdom, and illumination. Flying dreams release us from our perceived limitations; we break free from those things that tether us to earth, that hold us down. I love how our dreaming minds can give us a sense of freedom, power, and joy—a flight map for ‘awake’ life. The dragonflies have a vulnerable time—when their new, soft bodies are susceptible to weather and predators. They need time to settle into their bodies, to ‘harden’ their vulnerabilities, and to feel and know the intrinsic power of their wings. We all go through vulnerable times in our lives. What is most helpful to you during those times? Some are culturally vulnerable, when the walk to freedom is long and difficult, when history tethers them down with invisible ties, and when breaking free of those ties is thwarted at most every turn. We all need flying dreams. We all deserve flying dreams, and we deserve powerful, grace-full people to model, mentor, and mediate a flight map to freedom, power, and joy. Love is the key.

Rubbing Elbows with Trees

June 14, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

The first time I mowed the grass at our new place was a little over three weeks ago. It takes awhile to get to know the lawn—how to mow in the most efficient way, where there may be roots sticking up that may impact the blades, which parts are weedy versus lush and long. I like mowing. It may be monotonous in a way, but it feels more like meditation to me—my body moves in habitual ways, the sun warms me, the breeze slides over my skin, and my mind can go wherever it needs to go. And then when I’m all finished, ‘the lawn looks good mowed,’ as Chris or I will say.

This place has many more evergreen trees to mow around than we’ve ever had, and it was not long before I realized that I was literally rubbing elbows with trees. As soon as that thought entered my mind, I affirmed that I was happy to rub elbows with trees! At this time of year, the new growth is soft and brightly-colored. The Green Spruces have opulent lime green extensions reaching out at various heights.

The distinguished Colorado Blue Spruces have light blue-green branches of tender new growth, like melt-in-your-mouth mints of candy confection.

Each time I mowed close to the trees, the lavish fragrance of a fresh-cut Christmas tree filled my nostrils.

A quad of Red Cedar trees grows close together, like school girls on the school yard with their arms linked, elbow to elbow—wealthy in friendship.

The prominent new growth of Spruces, Firs, and Pines is called ‘candles,’ which are most ‘candle-like’ on Pines. This once-a-year growth adds an abundance of new needles that unfold and harden off by early summer.

I love how the candles all point to the beautiful blue sky.

Rubbing elbows with eminent Oaks happens when they are young adolescents, when the branches are thin and pliable. The new, tender leaves are at the right height for grazing deer to munch on. If it happens early enough in the season, the tree will put out a new shoot of growth to ‘fill in’ where the deer removed the foliage.

Jack Pines are medium-sized conifers that often have crooked trunks and drooping lower branches. The pollen cones are rusty flowers that release a thick yellow pollen in late Spring, like gold drifting from the sky.

The small, hardy trees are well-adapted to fire. Their cones are ‘serotinous’—sealed with resin that requires high heat to open and liberate the seeds, most often with fire, but high air temperatures can open cones on low branches. One tree can be flush with many old, sealed cones with seeds that remain viable for years.

‘Rubbing elbows’ means to associate or socialize with someone—usually someone who is rich, famous, or special in a similar way. The President, who is most certainly all of the above, recently tweeted about some former cabinet members, “They all want to come back for a piece of the limelight.”

I prefer a piece of the sunlight that shines on us all, the wealth of blue sky for anyone who looks up, the abundance of beautiful trees affluent in life-giving oxygen. I want to rub elbows with creations that affirm life and liberty for all other creations of all sizes and colors. I want to link arms with living beings that are compelled to grow and change and whose trajectory is towards the light. Sometimes new growth and change come from the heat and passion and destruction of the old order, the ‘serotinous,’ unopened systems that protect the status quo. Public attention is widening. Illumination is happening. The new seeds are waiting.

Listen to the Pain, Find the Peace

May 31, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

I know what distress is. I have experienced the long-standing fear of being killed. It feels like constantly carrying a boulder on your back; it weighs down your body and your soul and muddles your thinking. Every step of ‘normal’ life is hard, amplified by the weight of that boulder.

It has been a distressing week in Minnesota. How can it be that it was just Monday when George Floyd was killed? Time does weird things when extreme pain and sorrow run the show. A shocking event breaks down the fabric of normal life—like a terrifying trauma did when I was little, like the coronavirus pandemic did just a few months ago, like the death of George Floyd did on Monday as it ripped apart the ‘new normal’ we had constructed from the pandemic. The only thing worse than carrying one boulder on your back is carrying many.

Strangely, after the initial shock of it, I felt like this was exactly what should be happening at this time—not his horrific death, but the uprising of pain and grief that has been building for so many years and for so many reasons. Enough is enough. People want to live. We want to love. We want to work. We want to feed our families. We want dignity and respect. We want some fun and some peace. That’s not too much to ask. So what’s getting in the way of that? Listen with your eyes. Listen with your ears. Listen with your heart. Put yourself in someone else’s pain.

It’s exhausting, I know. Then find some peace, however that looks and feels for each of us. Three weeks ago at Mississippi River County Park, when the flooded peninsula burst into flowers, I saw a pair of Canadian Geese in a slough of the River. They were peacefully swimming and diving for food. Canadian Geese usually mate for life. These two had the look of a long-bonded pair, comfortable in their presence with one another.

Peace be with you all.

A River of Trees

May 24, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

It’s a topsy-turvy world right now—too much confusion and disorder—not only around the corona virus pandemic, which is overwhelming, to be sure, but in so many other ways. Some safely-isolated people wonder what all the fuss is about, while those on the ‘front lines,’ amid the illness and death, wonder how some people can be so cavalier. Certain states and populations are suffering with great numbers of death and job losses, while others are living their lives without much disruption at all. The political fighting is like a bad divorce—both sides think they’re right and blame the other for all the things gone wrong. Nobody wins.

In the midst of the chaos, as states were beginning to find their way to ‘opening,’ we quietly kept a heart-promise made when Chris’ brother died late last summer. We followed the Great River that flows near our house down to Cassville, Wisconsin, the tiny river town where Chris’ folks grew up and where the boys spent their summer vacations. A homecoming of sorts. We spent part of the day high above the Mississippi River at Nelson Dewey State Park. The park’s 756 acres were once part of Nelson Dewey’s large 2,000 acre agricultural estate. As a young man (age 35), he was elected as Wisconsin’s first governor when the state formed in 1848. But long before him, it was home to Native Americans. Two village sites and three groups of burial mounds have been found in the park. Holy ground.

Looking out over the Mississippi from the bluffs, I remarked it was like a river of trees. Long sandbar islands of trees with their newly sprouted leaves made for a topsy-turvy river. It was difficult to tell where the main channel flowed in the maze of water and trees.

We hiked along the bluff trail among Oak and Hickory trees. Wild Geraniums bloomed with their delicate lavender flowers.

We saw a surprise that may turn your stomach upside down—a very large Black Rat Snake! Chris had been thinking about snakes since this area has Timber Rattlesnakes (one of which he has the skin of from when he was a boy), and it was a perfect day for ‘sunning’ on the southwest-facing bluff. I wasn’t even thinking about snakes and was delighted to see such a beauty!

A restored prairie area along the bluff still had the fall remains of amber grasses and wildflower seedheads…

…though one prairie hilltop pushed aside the old for a new Spring sweep of Bird’s Foot Violets.

What’s in a name? Among the Bird’s Foot Violets were bright Hoary Puccoons.

From the hilltop prairie we veered away from the River…

and followed the old stone wall that had been built in the 1860’s around the Stonefield farm that Dewey planned and moved his family to in 1868.

Limestone outcroppings looked out over the deep valley of forest and River. Tough, windswept Cedar trees grew on the points…

and exquisite flowers clung to the rock edges and burst into bloom from a bed of stone.

An old Cedar, overlooking the River, looked like a Bonsai tree—it had been trimmed and pruned, bent and stunted, by the wind and weather over the decades. The stories it could tell.

A tree we don’t see in the wild as far north as we live, was in full bloom—the gorgeous Redbud tree. Spring is synonymous with Redbud trees for Chris—another homecoming of sorts for his tree-loving soul.

Going to Cassville for the weekend was a reminder that the topsy-turvy time we find ourselves in is nothing new or special. The history of the place tells the stories. Governor Dewey and his family lived on a spectacular farm overlooking the Great Mississippi River. But disaster struck in 1873 when their house burned down and later that year a nationwide financial panic affected his investments, and he lost Stonefield in 1878 to foreclosure. He also lost his marriage during those years. On a more personal note, when we looked at the graves of Chris’ Mom and Dad, we realized they were toddlers when the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic interrupted the lives of Americans and the world. Their families had weathered the pandemic with small children and much more primitive ways of living. The Veterans Memorial reminded us of all the men and women who had fought in wars over the centuries, many losing their lives by doing so. Chris’ Dad’s name carved in the black granite is a lasting memory of the sacrifices he and others endured to protect the world from the evils of fascism. And mostly we were reminded, as we close in on the incredible milestone of 100,000 deaths from Covid-19, that every death is personal and ripples out in waves to a myriad of people who were touched by that one, special person. Grief is as deep and wide and long as the Mississippi River. If I were to wish upon a shooting star, I would wish for each of us in this upside-down world to be a tree in this river of grief—to have strong roots embedded in holy ground, to have strong branches to hold the pain of others as it bends and stunts their lives, and to have a new growth of leaves that hold hope and renewal as a way forward. To be a homecoming of sorts.

Path of Redemption

May 17, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

This is a story about devastation and beauty, inspired and patient change, art and surprises, and redemption. On Mother’s Day weekend, we skipped our usual morning routine in order to ‘beat the crowd’ at a nearby park—the park that was flooded by the Mississippi River just a month ago. We were curious as to whether the trails were open, if the water had receded, if things were ‘back to normal.’ We walked down the steep trail towards the River, but before we even got to the bottom land, a beautiful sight met us at the path—uniquely-shaped Dutchman’s Breeches wildflowers. The delicate white flowers covered the hillside as far as we could see!

The River was morning quiet, like softly rippled glass, back in the low restraints of its banks. The trees on the other side blushed with pinkish-red and Spring lime green and saw their reflections in the Mighty Mississippi. A few boats quietly trolled the morning water for the anticipated fishing opener weekend. Occasionally, a goose harshly honked a greeting that split the quiet air like a foghorn.

We walked through the woods that had morphed from flood waters to greenery. A small path led us back to the River, to a canoe camp with fire circle, picnic tables, and an outhouse without the house.

A messy tangle of Wild Grape vines that for years have been winding their way in and among a couple of trees, stood out on the leafless bank. It would be near impossible to make this happen, yet here it was. It looked like a piece of art, a sculpture of time and growth.

We backtracked to the main path. The exquisite beauty of a Nodding Trillium—large white curling petals, snowy white pistil, and purplish-pink-lined stamens surrounded by delicate green sepals and large, veined leaves—rose with certainty from the ground, from the ground that had been covered with water and debris just weeks ago.

The abundance of greenery and white flowers continued with large swaths of Wood Anemones interspersed with sedge grass.

Wild Blue Phlox and Wild Violets, in their delicate blue colors, were welcomed outliers in the sea of white blossoms.

Where the last of the flood waters had remained, the ground was still barren and gray, a stark reminder of the devastation of the flooding.

The flood water had washed away the soil around the rhizomes and roots of the Wild Ginger plants, showcasing the ground-level flowers that are usually hidden from view.

And despite the deluge of water, the flood plain was blooming! Growing and blooming in abundance! White Trout Lilies (don’t you love their name?) covered the woodland ground, fields of them among the trees. Ferns grew up like meerkats amid the Trout Lilies, their fiddleheads unfurling in orchestrated movement.

There were millions of spotted leaves and demure pink buds that mature and open to white, then curl back their petals as the sun moves across the sky, exposing the bright yellow stamens of the single-flowering plant. With nightfall, they close once again.

A flower-lined path of redemption wound through the woods where the gray torrent of devastation had taken up residence just weeks before. What if we had given up on this path? What if the gray water from our last visit had kept us away? We would have missed the incredible beauty of this morning, these flowers, these unfurling ferns and leaves.

As we walked the flower-flooded River peninsula, we slowly realized that this land we were walking on was built for this—the flooding was just a natural part of the seasonal evolution. In fact, perhaps the devastation of the flooding was exactly what the plants needed to thrive! We think of flooding as being devastating because we often place things in the wrong place—we build houses where they don’t belong, want fields where Mother Nature has had wetlands and floodplains for millennia (for a reason). Devastation, messiness, and pain precede the growth and flowering. The coronavirus pandemic is making a mess of our collective lives right now. We need to leave behind the idea of ‘back to normal.’ Redemption is the act of making something better. What have we placed in the wrong place? How do we rise from the debris with certainty and blossom into exquisite beauty?

No One is Exempt

May 3, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

There is a collective suffering in the world right now. We can’t ignore it like we have conveniently done in the past—when the suffering didn’t affect us or threaten us or kill us or shut down our businesses or make us lose our jobs or change the way we lived our lives. But now…now all of those things are possible or happening. No one is exempt. Some are better off than others, but no one is exempt.

Suffering is personal, even as we do this together as a world. It hurts our bodies, our spirits, our resolve, our bank accounts, our hearts. In the throes of our personal suffering, we slip into survival mode—we become less social, more focused on ourselves. We may lash out at those around us—the very ones we love and adore who are standing up in the shaky boat with us. Or we may project our pain and suffering onto ‘them,’ the ‘others’—the ones making the ‘rules’ to try to keep us from dying, the media who are informing us, our neighbors who aren’t following the ‘rules,’ the ones who think, act, look, or believe differently than we do. ‘They’ are to blame for the pain.

Personal suffering feels like living all alone in a hermit hut in the wilderness—and the roof leaks when it rains—and the cold wind blows in through the cracks—and there’s barely room to lay down—and the food is scarce—and there are creatures lurking about outside and inside the tiny hut….

…and looking out, the world looks bleak and bare.

Chris and I hiked at Saint John’s Arboretum last weekend. We were not very far into our walk before I saw a sight that made my heart so happy—a cluster of Pasque flowers! Lavender sepals with delicate stripes, bright yellow stamens, soft, fuzzy stems to insulate them from the still-cold nights. Pasque flowers are the first prairie flowers to bloom; they signal the end of Winter, as they can bloom surrounded by snow. They are a sign of Spring and hope. (The word Pasque is derived from the Hebrew word for Passover.) So lovely!

Yellow and red-twigged Willows with yellow-flowering catkins burst into life around the lakes.

Red-winged blackbirds sang their joyous melody from their precarious perches on old Cattail stems.

Another early-blooming grassland plant is Prairie Smoke. I scarcely caught sight of the pinkish-red flower buds in the old and new growth of the prairie grasses.

The waterfowl birds were in the predictable, peaceful process of nest-building, mating, and raising a family. The seasonable cycle, the circle of Life. New life among the remains of last season’s life.

Trees at the Arboretum had just begun to bloom—the pinkish-red cloud of Maple tree blossoms…

…and the delicate yellow blooms on my favorite flexible little tree, Leatherwood!

No matter the length or harshness of Winter, when the warming sun of early Spring hits the bare, leaf-covered ground in the forest, the Spring Ephemerals burst into bloom! They grow, flower, and fade away quickly, but they are an important part of the ecosystem being the first food for pollinators.

Life was coming to life again after a cold, seemingly lifeless Winter. It is the way of Mother Nature. The bleak and bare world was an illusion—the life force was hidden for a while, resting, quiet, gathering nutrients and strength, preparing itself for the growth and renewal of Spring.

Mother Nature brokers in miracles.

An acorn germinating to become an Oak tree

What if no one was to blame for the pain and suffering of this virus? Not China or Trump or Democrats or Republicans or immigrants or Pelosi or that woman governor or fill-in-the-blank. That’s not to say that no one has responsibility or that no one has made mistakes or even that no one hasn’t purposely tried to injure or subject another group of people to hardship. In leadership there is accountability, responsibility, and consequences. Blame is a useless act of projection based on trying to get rid of our own very real pain. Suffering is the illusion of a bleak and bare world. It is the winter of our lives. It is living in a hermit hut and hating every minute of our existence. It is lashing out at those we love and those we oppose. What if pain and suffering are actually harnessing our virtuous qualities to pull us away from the perils in the old life? What if we are resting, a needed rest, in order to burst into new growth? What if right beyond our suffering is a blooming, melodious, life-creating world? Nature is the harbinger of miracles. No one is exempt from the Grace.

The Connection of All Things

April 26, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

“Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” –Martin Luther King, Jr., pastor and activist

“We are not only a part of the world, but we are the world….Everyone is connected to each other just like a single cell in the body is connected with every other cell through a network of nerves and flow of blood.” –Awdhesh Singh, engineer

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe. –John Muir, environmentalist

“Everything in the world is actually connected. That means even if we get separated, we’ll never be alone. –Ohtaka Shinobu, artist

From a young Japanese manga artist to an Indian engineer and leadership specialist to the iconic social justice minister to a nineteenth-century environmentalist, the theme of the connection of all things is the conclusion of their diverse experiences. This connection is pertinent in the physiology of our bodies as we strive to stay healthy while the coronavirus infects people across the world, and it is imperative in our global efforts to fight the destructive effects of climate change. Our bodies. Our environment. Health Day. Earth Day.

I have been rather obsessed lately about the lessons that are hanging like shiny red fruit from an Autumn apple tree—abundant, nourishing, and ours for the picking. Every one of us has unique and profound lessons that are being brought to the surface with our shelter-in-place, work-from-home, social-distancing lifestyle of the time-being. What do I really need? Who are the most important people in my life? What do I really want to do for the rest of my life? How can I be my healthiest self? It matters what we do to our bodies. Smoking, eating too much, drinking, junk food, not exercising—the list is too long. And the list of things that affect our bodies that we do not control is also long and overwhelming—air pollution, water quality, food chemicals, etc.

Lesson # 1: We have great control over what we put in and on our bodies. Start there. Do one small thing each day that makes our bodies better, healthier, happier.

Lesson # 2: Sleep is the great healer. So much of our health comes from getting enough sleep. It is when our body repairs itself, and we are efficient, amazing organisms when it comes to the function of repair—from the repair mechanisms of our DNA to the healing of wounds to the removal of toxins.

Lesson # 3: Movement helps with the first two lessons. Walk, bike, swim, do yoga, garden, run, etc. Fuel your body for movement, then sleep like a baby.

Lesson # 4: Figure out what is getting in the way of obtaining the first three lessons. This is the hard part. But it’s still within our control. Think about it. Write about it. Talk about it. Figure it out.

The same process can be used with our Earth. What is harming it? What will help it? Ironically—or maybe not—the Earth is getting a reprieve during this Covid-19 time. There’s less air pollution, the water is running cleaner and clearer, and there is less seismic activity. All things are connected. What we do to our Earth matters.

Lesson # 1: We have great control over who we put in as our leaders who make the decisions about protecting our health and protecting our Earth. Start there.

Lesson # 2: The health of our Earth comes from Nature. What does healthy soil look like for optimum growth of nutritious food? What does pristine air not have in it? How does Nature provide clean water? Nature is the great healer.

Lesson # 3: Earth Day is a movement that started 50 years ago. Let’s not go backwards. Let’s not lay on the couch and pretend that everything will be okay if we do nothing to change the current trends.

Lesson # 4: What is getting in the way of the first three lessons? This is the hard part. Think about it. Write about it. Talk about it. Vote about it. Figure it out.

So whether you are an artist, a preacher, an engineer, an environmentalist, a farmer, a teacher, a politician, a CEO, a student, or any other, we are all connected. The health of our bodies and the health of our planet are connected, not just in a physical way but also in a spiritual way. How do we overcome the obstacles, roadblocks, and barriers that get in the way of having healthy bodies and a healthy Earth? With Love. When we love something, we take good care of it. Love is the great healer.

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