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Room to Grow Into Our Best Selves

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After a cold, snowy Winter, all I want is some warm sunshine, green leaves, and colorful flowers. Winter in the North hones our patience. Winter after the calendar proclaims Spring tries our patience, which is all a part of the honing process, I guess. We “can’t always get what (we) want,” as Mick Jagger sings.

Twelve days ago we did have a sunny, relatively warm day! Chris and I decided to hike down at the Mississippi River’s edge, because we hadn’t been there (seen it) since ice-out. We followed the trail down the hill—to a beautiful blue… River-flooded trail. I guess we won’t be going that way….

We turned around, walked back up the hill, and went a different way. I spotted what looked like a Penstemon growing its greenish-purple leaves through the brown leaf litter. There will be Spring flowers in this spot in the weeks to come!

But on the other side of the road was a gray swamp with a green swamp-log, like a huge alligator laying-in-wait in the water, in the shadows and reflections, in the Winter debris.

A real water creature hopped up onto the road to warm itself in the sunshine.

The boat landing road did get us down to the River. This was where we had walked across the ice just six weeks before. (Walking Across the Mississippi River)

Even though we weren’t where we wanted to be—on the trail, in the weather, in the Spring—we were in a much different place than we were just six weeks ago. Sometimes we forget how far we’ve come when it looks like we have a long way yet to go.

A lone Red Cedar tree, well-watered by the near-by River and unencumbered by any other tree in its proximity, had grown into a specimen tree. All the characteristics, all the best qualities of the Cedar were showcased in this tree. It had had room and nourishment to grow into its best self.

The trail from the boat ramp along the River was squishy, yet passable. By an old Oak stump, puff-ball fungi grew from the decaying roots. When I stepped on one, it disintegrated into near-nothingness. Poof!

Colorful Red-twigged Dogwoods grew on the bank of the River—Winter and early Spring are their times to shine.

Brave cool season plants who can tolerate the fluctuating temperatures of early Spring have started to pop up in the woods. The beginning of the season of miracles.

When the trail left the riverside, we hoped to find our way to another part of the Park. The trail was muddy, with low spots in the woods filled with water. But once again we were stopped by the flood waters when we encountered a bridge in troubled waters. We turned around and re-traced our steps all the way back to the boat dock road—the only way out.

A Poplar leaf had imprinted in the mud of the road.

Spring is slow to show its pretty face this year. There has not been much change in the twelve days since we walked that trail. The temperatures have been cold at night and marginal during the day. We’ve had a day or two of rejoicingly warm weather, but we’ve also had snow. The grass is a tinge greener, and there are some swollen tree buds. We continue to hone our patience. And we continue to hone our patience with Covid-19, as trying as that is. It looks like we have a long ways to go—and we may—but look at how far we’ve come in our knowledge of the virus and the navigation of the road ahead. Sometimes we have to backtrack or take a different way. We also have an opportunity to be like the Red Cedar tree—unencumbered, socially isolated, and able to grow into our best selves. We can tromp through the mud, be respectful of the flood waters (which will recede), and we can shine even when all around us seems bleak. Sometimes it takes the mud in order to see the Love.

Without a Map or an App

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In this stay-at-home/ social distancing/ unprecedented time of the Covid-19 pandemic, we find ourselves without a map or an app. How do we do this? Which way is the best way to go? Where do we end up if we follow this path? The unknown is unnerving. Even as the hope of Spring is pulling us out of the dark, bleak Winter, there is still bleakness all around—death, sickness, chaos, partisanship, job loss, fear, hunger, and more. We haven’t done this before! What are we supposed to do?!

Twelve days ago Chris and I drove west to Birch Lakes State Forest. We had been there once before, a number of years ago. The gate was closed at the entrance, as the unplowed, sandy road was still snowy in places and soggy in the rest. We parked by the sign, the only ones—the only human ones, that is—to inhabit the forest for the afternoon. Before we were even out of the car, we saw an eagle circling above our heads. They are so impressive and free—watching them fly takes me out of my earthly worries into the clear blue strata above.

The pond across the road was still ice-covered, the snowmobile tracks still visible, the trees in the forest still unadorned. As much as we want our beautiful, full-blown Spring, this is our Spring reality.

Before we left the car side, we heard a high-spirited screeching in the sky. Two hawks were singing and swooping in a joyful sky dance! The mated pair flew apart, then close together (one carrying a stick in its beak) with grace and energy for the Spring ritual of mating, nesting, and raising a family.

It was only when we saw a path and entered the forest that I remembered we didn’t have a map of the trails. No worries—even though we hadn’t hiked in this area before, I knew Birch Lake was at the end of the road, and we would find our way.

With the exception of a few Fir and Spruce trees, the landscape was brown and gray—until we walked a little farther and looked a little closer. I saw a bright red dollop in the brown leaves—one of the earliest, showiest fungi—the Scarlet Elf Cup.

Vibrant green Sedge grass looked unscathed by five months of being buried under snow.

Fungi was the star of the show in the brown woods, in color, texture, and form with expressive names like Turkey Tail, Oyster, and Artist’s Conk.

Lush green moss covered areas of trees, logs, and ground in impressive mini-scapes.

From the hardwood, deciduous forest we entered a quiet, moss-covered Spruce forest. The sun streaked through in an other-worldly way.

A number of times the trail diverged in the woods—which way to go? Where will it lead? I would choose one. The hills were steep in places, and the north faces still had quite a bit of snow. One lower area had a population of Leatherwood trees—short, almost shrub-like trees with pliable, yet strong branches. They bloom in early Spring with tiny yellow flowers before getting any leaves, but we were still a little too early to see them.

We found evidence of the non-human occupants of the forest—a clump of deer hair in a patch of snow mold and a deer rub where the bucks rub their antlers against a young tree.

The landscape looked bleak after the snow melt, but small signs of the hope of Spring could be found—the moss was flowering!

The ice was melting!

The water was flowing!

The geese were flying!

With no map, we navigated our way through the forest and ended up at Birch Lake. We walked back to the car in the soggy sand road marked occasionally by fresh deer tracks.

When we left the State Forest, we circled around Birch Lake by car, and we saw a huge, dark eagle’s nest in the distant trees. Our hike had begun and ended with an eagle—one high in the sky with his bird’s eye view and eagle eyes looking for food and the other sitting high in a tree with her nest of eggs or young ones.

The unknown doesn’t need to be unnerving—it can be an adventure. How do we do this? One day at a time with patience, faith, and love. Which way is the best way to go? Follow the signs (six feet apart) and maintain that inside sense of direction. Where do we end up if we follow this path? Expertise, knowledge, science, and history of past hard times will guide our path in this new time with the novel virus. What does a bird’s eye view show us about how we were living in the past, how we are living now, and how we want to choose to live in the future? This is our Spring reality—not how we’d like it to be, certainly not beautiful, definitely bleak in many ways, but there are small signs of hope everywhere when we look closely. No worries, dear people of our Earth, the process and the path will unfold. We will find our way.

The Tallest Shining Example

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The Tale of Three Trees—A Folktale

Once upon a time, three little trees stood in a forest high on a mountain, dreaming of what they would be when they were grown. The first little tree looked up at the stars twinkling like diamonds in the night sky. “I want to hold treasure,” it said. “I want to be filled with gold and decorated with jewels. I will be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!” The second little tree looked down the mountainside at the ocean far below. “I want to be a strong sailing ship,” it said. “I want to travel mighty waters and carry powerful kings. I will be the strongest ship in the world!” The third little tree said, “I don’t want to leave this mountaintop at all. I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me their eyes will raise up to heaven, and they will think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world!”

Years passed, and the trees grew. And then one day, three woodcutters climbed the mountain. One woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, “This tree is beautiful! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the first tree fell. “Now I shall be made into a beautiful treasure chest,” thought the first tree. “I shall hold marvelous treasures!” Another woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, “This tree is strong! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the second tree fell. “Now I shall sail mighty waters,” thought the second tree. “I shall be made into a strong ship fit for powerful kings!” The third tree felt its heart sink as the last woodcutter approached. It stood straight and tall and pointed bravely towards heaven. But the last woodcutter never even looked up. “Any kind of tree will do for me,” he muttered. With a dozen swoops of his axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter took it to a carpenter’s shop. But the carpenter was not thinking about treasure chests. Instead, he cut and carved the tree into a simple feedbox. The once-beautiful tree was not filled with gold or decorated with jewels. It was covered with dust, and filled with hay for hungry farm animals. The second tree rejoiced when the wookcutter took it to a shipyard. But the shipbuilder was not thinking about mighty sailing ships. Instead, he hammered and sawed the tree into a simple fishing boat. The once-strong tree was too weak to sail the ocean. It was taken to a little lake, where every day it carried loads of dead, smelly fish. The third tree was confused when the woodcutter took it to a lumberyard, where it was cut into strong beams and then left alone. “What happened?” the once-tall tree wondered. “All I ever wanted to do was stay on the mountaintop, grow tall, and make people think of God.”

Years passed, and the three trees nearly forgot their dreams. But then one still and silent night, golden starlight poured over the first tree, as a young woman placed a newborn baby into the feedbox. “I wish I could make a cradle for him,” her husband whispered. The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the clean and shining wood. “This manger is beautiful,” she said. And suddenly the first tree knew it was holding the greatest treasure in the world. And then one humid and cloudy day, a tired traveller and his friends crowded into the small fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree sailed quietly out into the lake. But a thundering storm arose, and the second tree shuddered, knowing that it did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through the fierce wind and rain. The tired traveler awoke. He stood up, stretched out his hand, and said with a strong voice, “Peace, be still.” The storm stopped as quickly as it had began. And suddenly the second tree knew it was carrying the King of heaven and earth.

And then one terrible Friday morning, the third tree was startled as its beams were yanked from the old lumberyard. It flinched as it was was carried through an angry, jeering, spitting crowd. It shuddered when soldiers nailed a man’s hands and feet to her. It groaned as the man cried out in agony and died. It felt ugly and harsh and cruel. But at dawn the next Sunday, on the first Easter morning, the earth trembled with joy beneath the third tree, and it knew that God’s love had changed everything. It had made the first little tree a beautiful treasure chest. It had made the second little tree a strong sailing ship. And every time people looked upon the third little tree, they would think of God. That was even better than being the tallest tree in the world.

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I wasn’t thinking about Easter when Chris and I started our hike two weeks ago at Fritz Loven Park. The dark, bubbling Stoney Brook was picturesque within the snowy banks. The Pine trees rose high into the clear, blue sky. It was a beautiful brisk day, more like Winter than the newly-announced Spring. I was zooming in on some ice over the creek that sparkled like a thousand diamonds in the sunshine (no justice for sparkles in this photo).

A few steps beyond the ice, I pointed and exclaimed, “Look at that cross!”

The sticks and broken ice/snow chunks had fallen–mashed–piled–converged–lined up so that a wooden cross was outlined against the white snow in the dark water. To the left of the cross was an ice cave, like a tomb, I thought. Interesting.

There were fallen logs all over the park, but there was one by the creek with its bark stripped off, ragged, and hanging in shreds—like the flesh ripped off someone’s back in a whipping, I shuddered.

The Passion continued to instill itself in our hike. A towering, lone Pine tree, pointing bravely towards heaven, was crossed by a still-live Birch tree. I have no idea how they got into this position, but the striking thing to me was the s-c-r-a-p-i-n-g of one live tree against the other—as the Birch fell or as the wind still blew it to and fro. Wounded.

As we circled the park towards Upper Gull Lake, three large trees growing in a cluster reminded me of the picture book I read to the kids when they were little—The Tale of Three Trees. Surrounding the three trees were a host of golden-leaved Ironwood trees—like a shimmering aura in the sunlight.

Steps away from the three trees lay a pine knot cross, not uncovered by the melted snow, by somehow placed on top of it. Deer tracks and wood debris were around the cross but still didn’t tell the whole story. Pine knot crosses form when a pine branch rots away—the knots are where branches formed on a larger branch or trunk, where the wood is more dense and hard, and thus last to rot. When I worked at a church camp in the Black Hills, we would find them to give to special people in our lives. I haven’t seen such a perfect one in forty-three years….

Towards the end of the trail, I spotted an old, gray, weathered stump that had been there for a while. Most of the bark had peeled off, leaving the smooth gray wood. A chunk of the gray wood had fallen away revealing a puzzlework of rusty-brown-golden-amber art. Even after death, this tree was showcasing Nature’s beauty.

I confess I am in heaven on earth every time I’m out in Nature. There is so much to see, to wonder, to ponder, and to appreciate, and at the same time, it calms my nervous system, grounds my anxieties, and tunes me towards the power that is greater than all of us. But our Lenten hike two weeks ago lassoed my attention towards the cross and what that means for each of us. The folktale of The Three Trees has lessons, too. These dreams we have to be the most beautiful holder of treasure, the strongest ship in the ocean, and the tallest, shining example of God—and how years pass, and we wonder what happened. Yet, as the years pass, we grow—we learn and change, struggle and transform, and often end up becoming something entirely different in exactly the right way. The Power is greater than all of us: it’s the diamonds in ice, the healing for wounds, the angels of light, the art after death. Behold the treasures of our hearts and lives, the strength of our resolve as we navigate our trails, and the tallest, most shining example of God-in-us that we can be. Behold!

Lovable Hermits

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Have you ever asked yourself to see a situation from a wider perspective? Easy question to ask, but difficult, so very difficult, to actually do. I’m reading The Book of Joy—Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu with Douglas Abrams. Abrams writes, “The Dalai Lama used the terms wider perspective and larger perspective. They involve stepping back, within our own mind, to look at the bigger picture and to move beyond our limited self-awareness and our limited self-interest. Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors….When we confront a challenge, we often react to the situation with fear and anger. The stress can make it hard for us to step back and see other perspectives and other solutions….We (can) see that in the most seemingly limiting circumstance we have choice and freedom, even if that freedom is ultimately the attitude we will take.” Fear and stress, anger and limiting circumstances sound very familiar to all of us, all of a sudden, in this changing world.

I’ve always appreciated a ‘big picture’ approach, but only on the basis of a multitude of information from many small observations and facts (science). The big picture requires us to look beyond what we see (and believe). Our hike at Fritz Loven Park last weekend was an unfolding of that process. The trail circled the bottom of a tree-covered, almost snow-bare hill. Warm, crunchy leaves and bright sunshine belied the deep snow and cold temps of the hours ahead.

As we walked along the flatlands by the fast-flowing Stoney Brook, I noticed that most of the trees were young compared to a small number of very large ones. I wondered if this area had flooded. One distinct and eye-catching tree was a large Cottonwood, who would thrive having wet feet, so to speak.

But as we walked up toward a ridge, I then wondered if there had been a fire at one time. Often the tallest, strongest trees can survive a fire that consumes the smaller ones.

It wasn’t until the trail crossed a wide swath of nothingness (and stumps) that I realized the area had been logged. Logging was the predominant industry in northern Minnesota starting in the late 1800’s. Virgin timber was cut in this area around Gull Lake, and a railroad was built in order to transport logs. And in the summer of 1894, Fred Oscar Loven was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Though tourism is now a major industry in the Northwoods region, logging continues. Large wooded areas will reside beside a clean-cut swath or a shaggy area of young saplings or brush that had previously been logged.

Even through the deep snow, we could see evidence of the destruction of a forest and the life and vibrancy that remained. Dried ferns and wild flowers were visible beacons of the coming Spring when Nature effortlessly performs her miracles of new life.

Our trail through the park had been groomed numerous times throughout the winter for cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. It was packed down and relatively easy to walk on—not too rough and not too icy. The snow pack beyond the trail was also hard enough to walk on, and I asked Chris to use his walking stick to measure the depth of the snow.

It will be a little while until all of it melts…

The trail of Fritz (Fred) Loven’s life is sparse on details (that I could find), but one mention came up from the Pro Football Reference. He played guard one season with the Minneapolis Red Jackets in 1929 at the age of 35. Pro football before the NFL. We do know that Fritz’s trail three years later led him to 80 acres of land west of Nisswa that was his home for 43 years. He lived in a cabin with no electricity, running water, gas, or telephone. The ‘lovable hermit’ (may we all be lovable hermits during this time) didn’t have a car but traveled by foot, snowshoes, or boat.

His greatest contribution, in my opinion, besides his wish for his land to become a park, was that he normally planted 400 trees each year! Most people underestimate or take for granted the true value of a tree. Fritz Loven was a bower billionaire—he lived and worked under the shade of the existing trees and eventually, of the ones he planted—and we are the beneficiaries of his generosity and vision.

Like most ‘big pictures’ of any given situation, the larger perspective of Fritz Loven and his park is complicated. Signage on our hike told us that we were crossing private property at some points, though we didn’t know exactly where that was. Was the logging on the park land or on private property? Did the city need funding from the logging in order to maintain the park? It was sad to see incredible giant Pines and Oaks beside the clear-cut areas. How many trees that Fritz planted were cut down for timber? Who is replanting? Along with the logging, there was also damage from storms, these extreme weather events that are becoming common-place due to climate change. ‘Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors.‘ What are the facts? What are the observations? How do we look beyond what we see at any given moment and more importantly, beyond what we believe?

Fritz Loven was the guardian of the beautiful little trout stream, the keeper of the forest, and protector of the trees. He had faith that the trees would grow, the fish would reproduce, and that his vision and work would be a place for people to enjoy decades and decades after he was gone. With the fear and stress of our present coronavirus situation, how do we step back from our limited self-awareness and our limiting self-interest to see the larger perspective? Within our own minds, how do we tamp down the fear in order to see the factors that converged to get us into this situation and the solutions to get us out? We are the guardians of our own bodies and minds, and collectively, we are the guardians of our earth. Faith is how we look beyond what we see. Openness is how we look beyond what we believe. Love is how we show up for ourselves, one another, and for our sustaining Mother Earth. May we be lovable hermits at this time and have all three.

Hunkering Down

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I love when a cool, old word all of a sudden becomes apropos (another cool word meaning ‘suitable in a particular situation or at a particular time.’) I’ve been saying it, my friends have been saying it, and the newscasters and experts have been saying it—hunker down. ‘Hunker’ is a good word to say out-loud (almost always said with the word ‘down’); it has grit and meaning and motion. The word/phrase emerged in the 18th century in the Scots language referring to ‘squatting down on the balls of one’s feet, keeping low to the ground, but still ready to move if necessary.’ Over the centuries and in this situation and time we find ourselves in, it also means ‘to be prepared to stay in a particular place or situation for as long as necessary, usually in order to achieve something or for protection.’ Yep—here we are hunkering down.

At this particular time, hunkering down for Chris and I includes what has always been a part of our lives—going out in Nature, and this weekend was no exception. We drove north again, even a little farther than we did last weekend. We contemplated the different parks in the Brainerd region and saw one called Fritz Loven Park, west of Nisswa. It was the name—great to say and intriguing as to why it was so named—that was the deciding factor for our Saturday destination. The park is named after Fritz Loven who settled on the 80 acres of land in 1932. He was known as ‘the lovable hermit’ of Upper Gull Lake. Social distancing was his norm for decades. I will tell you more about him in my next post; for now, just know it was his wish that after his death, his land would go to the town of Lake Shore. It will be forever protected by the Minnesota Land Trust.

The first surprise and delight when we emerged from our vehicle was the sound of running water—literally a babbling brook aptly named Stoney Brook. The dark water coursed between the banks still deep in snow.

As we hiked, another striking observance was the number of huge fallen trees in the park—some broken off, others uprooted. A summer storm in 2015 and another in May of 2016 that carried with them devastating extreme winds, had toppled trees and power lines. The evidence starkly remains.

In the midst of the past destruction and the as-of-yet-ongoing Winter (despite the calendar’s announcement of the arrival of Spring), we saw great beauty. Mother Nature creates amazing art at any particular place and time of year—and at this time and place, it was intricate ice art. The brook was lined with it, and I hunkered down (first definition) at the edge of the water with camera in hand.

We are living in the vast gray area where things don’t fit into neat ‘us and them’ categories and when trying to incite that division falls flatly with a resounding thud to our humanity and decency. The picture is bigger now. We are all team players, like we should have been all along. It’s always been about life and death—if not physically, then spiritually, emotionally, and socially. We are losing people—the fallen—for reasons we will never understand and for reasons we should have been more prepared for. And in the midst of the fear, confusion, collapse, sickness, and death is an upsurgence of art and creativity and caring. Music, visual arts, poetry, stories, and heroism are being brought to the fore, and it’s making a difference in our isolation. The loss of lives and livelihood is tragic, but it does not have to be without meaning. With such a trauma to our world, there is no going back to the way it used to be—we have an opportunity to go forward to a new way of being with the very things that are most important to us now in this time of quarantine. Hunker down in love, self care, creativity, renewal, and charity for others—we’re all in this together with grit and meaning and motion.

A Picture of Calm and Quiet

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Yesterday Chris and I had a mission: to explore strange new lands, to seek out new sites and old civilizations, and to boldly go where no coronavirus has gone before (us). We headed north to Crow Wing State Park near Brainerd, Minnesota. We actually had been to this park in August of 2014 for a short camp-out and hike. We chose a trail we hadn’t been on before, and of course everything looks different in Winter! The Red River Oxcart Trail follows the Mississippi River as it bends around this peninsula of beautiful forested land.

There was no walking across the Mississippi River like we had done a couple of weeks ago. Ice still covered most of the River, but a couple of ribbons of dark, flowing, open water burgeoned forth towards Spring and St. Paul.

This site is the confluence of the Crow Wing and Mississippi rivers. The Crow Wing River splits before entering the Mississippi, creating an island in the shape of a wing. Early French explorer accounts had translated the name into Crow Wing. This area of land had long been a favored hunting and meeting place for the Dakota and Ojibwe nations, and it became a famous fur trading location.

The snow on the trail had been snowshoed and walked, so the path was packed down and rough. The snow pack to the sides were mostly hard enough for us to walk on, but every once in a while our foot would break through the surface snow and sink in to almost a foot deep.

We walked between the ice-covered River and the forest of towering Pines and ancient Oaks. It was exquisitely beautiful.

We came to a clearing where we learned we were walking on a boardwalk of the old town road. This was the site of the old village of Crow Wing where the fur trading post had developed into the foremost trade, travel, and political center of the region. By the 1860’s, it was hostel and home to over 600 people, with stores, warehouses, saloons, hotels, and churches.

The town of Crow Wing in the 1860’s

Fur trader and developer Clement Beaulieu and his wife Elizabeth built this house on the hill in 1849. The booming town of Crow Wing began its decline in the 1870’s when the railroad crossing was built up-river where the town of Brainerd grew. The Beaulieu house was moved in 1880 and occupied until the 1980’s, when it was donated to the Minnesota DNR, moved back to its original location, and restored to its original design.

We continued along the Red River Oxcart trail and came to the place where the oxcarts would ford the River. At that time, cargo was brought from the north by oxcart, then transferred to wagons for the rest of the trip to St. Paul and vice versa.

Our trail brought us around the peninsula to Chippewa Lookout, then into a Pine forest.

The forest and the River beyond were a picture of calm and quiet. The sun and hiking had warmed us from the original chill at the beginning of the trail. The last two hours had felt like we were explorers in the wilderness…

…so I was surprised when we suddenly saw a stone chapel in a clearing! The Father Pierz Chapel, named after the first Catholic missionary of the area, is now in its third or fourth iteration from the log structure that was his first church.

For our late lunch, we sidled into the snow-enveloped picnic table, careful not to slide on the ice beneath our feet, and munched our veggies, nuts, and fruit. It had been a good day.

For over two hours we had hiked the woods without seeing anyone else. Thoughts of the burgeoning Covid 19 virus and its wake of disruption and destruction evaporated from our minds. There is a whole world beyond disease, the stock market, panic hoarding, and anxiety that waits for us to explore. Nature offers us a calm and quiet place to rest our fears and jitters—seek it out. This, as in any other time, is when a confluence of knowledge (both past and present) and compassion can create an island of security. Go boldly with those virtues. Nourish yourself. Say a prayer. Walk the walk. Mission accomplished.

A Sure Sign

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Have you ever looked back at a season or a year and wondered how you got through it? I’ve had a few of those times in my life. A number of things had happened in this last year, when I felt like I was at the bottom of a dog pile on a football field where heavy body after heavy body slammed down on me and crushed my body and spirit. I was trying to hold on to the ball, but at times I couldn’t even tell where the ball was, whose hand was on it, or if I would breathe again.

I’m not sure my eyes had even opened yet when I heard it—the sound of Spring. As the day was just beginning to show the pale faintness of light, I heard birds chirping. I love waking to that glorious sound after the silent winter. It is a sure sign that Spring is on its way. Even though we had blustery snow showers that first singing day, the next day was sunny and in the forties. The snow melt continued in earnest.

The sun is noticeably stronger and higher in the sky now, and even on days below freezing, it dissolves the snow away from the driveway.

It’s not a pretty time of year as all the dirt and grime crusts on top of the melting snow, but there is that promise of green grass.

As the snow melts, I’m always intrigued to see the evidence of all the little creatures who spend their winter under the snow. They must be happy to see the sun, too!

The circles of warmth around the trees show that it’s time to wake up from the cold hibernation of Winter.

A female Downy Woodpecker flitted from tree to tree. Like me, she may be thinking “I made it through Winter!”

There was even a puddle of water in the birdbath for the birds, as Nature’s ice and snow sculpture melted.

We still have a ways to go…

That was Friday. The weekend has been warm and sunny. The snow banks have pulled farther away from the driveway and trees. The snow has softened and hardened at the same time—softened the frigid, rigid architecture that held the trillions of snow crystals together in a Winter palace and hardened the snow pack by compressing the air pockets and sinking the snow.

Spring is in the air, in the birds, in the snow, and in me. Looking back, I wonder how I made it through, how I got out from under the snow pile of heaviness. Looking back, there were circles of warmth from people who helped me on a certain day at a certain time, and that warmth sustained me for a few more days. One day at a time, one hour at a time, if need be. But I also realize that somehow I did manage to hang on to the ball—like the benevolent hand of God who believes in us all, helped me do so. The Spring will come. The birds will sing again. The grass will turn green. I still have a ways to go, but I see the Sun, I hear the birds, I am waking up, and I can breathe again.

Stars of the Earth

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The other night we walked home from a neighbor’s house in the late-night hour of eleven o’clock. It had been a deliciously fun evening with supper and a competitive card game with our friends. I was tired and ready for bed and could hardly believe Chris was still awake considering how early he rose that morning (and all mornings.) It was cold—around nine degrees—and clear. We walked like cats stalking a mouse on the icy patches—slow and sure-footed, ready for defensive action if our feet were to slip. Besides the few and far-between street lights, there was little light pollution, and the stars were absolutely brilliant! After our footing was more secure, I walked with my eyes to the sky which was a tad bit disorienting in the darkness, but the tired, late-hour time and nose-biting temperature discouraged us from stopping. There is something about a dark sky full of bright stars. Even while walking I noticed how far to the west Orion had slid in the late-Winter sky. The moon was just a sliver of light, a team-player allowing the others to shine. There is a great sense of calm when in the presence and awareness of the Universe.

Are not flowers the stars of the earth? –Clara Lucas Balfour

Winter is long in Minnesota even when it’s a normal year. Snow has covered the ground since before Thanksgiving, a fact that I love, actually. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. But even as much as I love cold and snow, as Winter wanes my mind wanders to Spring….and to flowers. There is something about the green earth full of bright flowers. There is something about having some bright flowers in the house in the midst of Winter and snow! For Valentine’s Day, Chris brought home a pot of mini-Daffodils.

And just as the yellow-gold blossoms had dried to paper-thin permanence, the grocery store displayed buckets of pretty pink Tulips with an eye-catching sale. I wrapped them in plastic and warm air to get them to the car and to the house in the cold.

I’ve been feeling the dichotomy of transitions—the excitement and looking forward to what is to come, right alongside the sadness and looking back at what was left behind. Whichever one is most dominant depends on the day. Nobody gets through a transition of any kind without this present day wrestling of feelings about the future and the past, though some are more aware of it than others. Sometimes it is only with hindsight and insight that we look back at a transition and realize just how difficult it was for us.But the wrestling is good—the work of it gets us to where we need to be. What helps in the meantime? A comfortable and relaxed evening with friends. A walk in the crisp, dark night under a symphony of stars. A bouquet of Earth’s stars that delights our senses and whispers hope and promise of the future. The calm of the Universe—the way it’s supposed to be.

Walking Across the Mississippi River

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On the spectrum of safety, I know I fall on the ‘safety first’ side. The implication of safety first is not only for that person individually but also for all persons who may be impacted by the situation. On the other side of the spectrum is the risk-taker—gamblers, innovators, extreme sports and ‘roll-of-the-dice’ people. Often their risk-taking is centered on themselves—rarely do they consider the consequences of their actions on those around them, particularly those who are most vulnerable.

Our son worked for Will Steger at Steger Wilderness Center one summer in Ely, Minnesota. Steger is an arctic explorer, educator, and author who has witnessed the effects of climate change on the arctic regions. He has dog-sledded to the North Pole, across Greenland, and across Antarctica. He also does yearly solo expeditions in Northern Minnesota and Canada—the last two years have been in the Barren Lands in northern Canada. Did I mention he’s over seventy years old? Clearly a risk-taker in my mind. And yet, I heard him a couple years ago in an interview about his ice-out trip in early spring, when the weather is warming, the ice is melting, and he is navigating that dangerous terrain—he said that he is not a risk-taker. He said that he is in prime physical condition with sharp mental acuity when on these solo expeditions. He is experienced, prepared, educated, and working for a purpose beyond himself, and therefore, he does not take risks—for he clearly understands the consequences.

Yesterday morning Chris and I went to Bend in the River Regional Park. We had been there a year ago in October on a warm, fall day. Yesterday was warm (for late February), sunny, and calm. We walked the trail from the old farmplace along the top of the bluff above the Mississippi River.

The River was covered in ice and snow, but I never once thought about walking out on it because it just seemed too….dangerous. After all, it was a big river—a big river that was flowing freely below the dam a couple miles away.

At one of the overlooks on the bluff, we talked to a guy who was on a solo hike from across the River—wait, what? He had started his hike at the Mississippi River County Park which is on the opposite side of the Mississippi from Bend in the River Park. I had questions! He said the ice was solid and safe, that he lived nearby and many times had snowmobiled down the River in years past but now enjoyed walking it.

After he walked on, I told Chris maybe we should do it! If he made it across the ice just fine, we should be fine, too!

So we left the bluff trail and went down to the River’s edge. I wasn’t comforted by what I saw: ice collars around the trees that had broken away from the rest of the frozen water and streams of running water that were flowing under the ice into the Big River. I began to doubt our decision.

But we tentatively walked on and found the footprints of the solo hiker. We stepped out onto the River.

It was easy walking in the inch or so of snow that covered the ice—the rest of our deep snow must have incorporated into the ice as it formed. We weren’t the only creatures that had crossed the River.

The ice felt solid and safe—we saw no heaves or cracks or thin spots—just a tree stump that interrupted the white expanse between the banks. But it was still kind of freaky knowing we were walking across the Mississippi River.

There was only one place where the sun had melted away the snow cover to reveal the ice below it. I wondered how thick it was…

My safety-first mentality didn’t even entertain the thought of walking across the River, but after we talked to the man who had done it, who had experience with the River and its ice, it became the highlight of our day. We still reassured ourselves about the eighteen below zero night we had earlier in the week and how just last night was five degrees. (Surely we will be okay.) Like Will, we were not treading on thin ice, we weren’t gambling with our lives, we weren’t out on a limb or playing with fire. Will Steger has had amazing, incredible adventures in his life and has educated the rest of us with his knowledge, experience, and purpose. As we walk on into our own adventures, it behooves us to listen to those who have walked before us, to those who know first-hand the struggles, perils, and pathways, and to those who have a vision larger than themselves, including for those who are most vulnerable. Walk on!

A Circle of Trees

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In January, in the darkest, coldest days of Winter, I attended an event at our church entitled ‘Summoning the Light with Song: Community Singing Experience.’ We sat in a circle of chairs at the front of the sanctuary. Our song leader sang a line, and we repeated it; again and again we sang back what she sang. On some songs we sang different words and parts. Others were sung as a round after we learned the basics. It was a simple, pure way of singing, and I was surprised how beautiful it sounded in such a short amount of time and practice.

I’ve been summoning the light in a different way since our move—in a circle of trees in our backyard. Even in the bright light of midday, the sun stretches to peek above the trees as it arcs low in the southern sky. I bundle up and place an old green Army blanket on the freezing metal chair. When the sun is just right, it hits my face, the only circle of exposed skin that even has a chance of converting those golden rays into Vitamin D.

At the center of the circle of trees is a fire circle—the only fire we’ve had so far was on Christmas Day after we moved truckloads of boxes and miscellaneous garage things.

While sunshine is the ultimate ‘cherry on the top’ of my day, the more sustainable and reliable givers are the trees. Most are Pines, some are Spruces, a few are Cedars, with a couple of deciduous trees thrown in. I sit in the circle of trees, sometimes with sunlight, sometimes with snowflakes, and soak in their goodness.

After sitting in the tree circle today, I remembered an old CD we had gotten when the kids were little that was called “A Circle is Cast.” I dug it out and listened to it. It was communal singing from a group named Libana—similar to the songs we had sung at the church event! The title song ‘A Circle is Cast’ repeated and harmonized with the words ‘a circle is cast again and again and again…’ Think about the circles in our lives—our circle of friends and family, the circle of a football huddle deciding what play to run, reading a book to a circle of preschoolers, a meeting of the minds in a circle around a conference table, and playing games in a circle—cards, board games, and Duck, Duck, Goose.

Circles represent stability and safety. Each ‘point’ in the circle has a job or responsibility to the other ‘points’ in the circle.

Sometimes there is a fail in the circle. One of the larger Pines in the circle of trees has died.

It must have been in the last year—there are still dry, brown pine needles and dark cones clinging to the branches. The loss is evident; the dead remains are a poignant reminder of what once was. Mourning for a member of the circle. So there is a wobbling of the once-safe circle—it holds together with the other ‘points,’ but there is a hitch, a limp, a miss because of the loss.

But at the base of the dead tree, there are replacements growing! The old tree had spread its seeds years ago, and the offspring will take their place in the circle.

Like throwing a lasso, we cast a circle again and again in our lives. We desire a stable circle around us—points of light that have our backs, that not only do us no harm, but protect us from harm and breathe life into our wounded selves when the world seems against us. The good thing about a circle is that no one point, no one member has the responsibility for the strength and stability of the whole–-one only has to do their part. The burden is shared. There is a synergy that emerges from the circle—in other words, there is more strength and power from the group as a whole than the added parts of the individuals. That’s science. And that’s spirituality. I sit in my circle of trees—they give me oxygen, essential oils that emanate from the needles and resins, the stability of deep roots, the uplifting songs of wind and birds in their branches, and a life force that is unexplainable and undeniable. I have cast my circle—again.