Denise Brake, Author at NorthStarNature

Lombardy Poplars and the Lombardi Trophy

February 9, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Battles are won in the hearts of men. –Vince Lombardi

When we looked at our new place, the first thing I noticed was all the trees surrounding the open yard. The second thing I noticed was the tall, slender Lombardy Poplars spaced evenly against a backdrop of evergreens. I wondered why someone had chosen to plant them. Of course I was seeing them at their worst—dry, faded brown leaves clung to the weedy branches of the columnar trees. They do not have the beautiful Winter silhouette of Oaks, Maples, or practically any other deciduous tree. In fact, they are on the ugly side. I know why people plant them—they are fast growing (up to six feet/ year), so they make a screen or windbreak in the shortest possible time. Lombardy Poplars are native to Northern Italy—one can imagine them looking stylish alongside a villa in the rolling countryside. In central Minnesota, alongside the Pines and Spruces, they look out-of-place. They also have a terrible resume—they are short-lived, often only 15 years, they are susceptible to pests and diseases, they have shallow, spreading roots, and they are messy. The weak wood breaks easily, the male tree produces abundant pollen, the female tree produces cottony seeds that blow around, and they send out suckers that are hard to get rid of. So every morning when I eat my breakfast, I look out the window at the specimens of my prejudice. Their elegant name and origin don’t rescue them from my dislike.

Last weekend we hit the road to Kansas City. The Kansas City Chiefs were in the Super Bowl for the first time in fifty years! The excitement and anticipation exploded throughout the City and region. Two super fans in our family were anxious to be among the ‘sea of red.’ We left in the frosty morning. It had snowed an inch or two overnight, and the trees and fence lines were outlined with that delicate layer of new snow.

Iowa had less snow, but at a certain point, the sky and land blended into one, and the farm places looked like floating islands in the frosty, foggy air.

We made it to Missouri as dusk was beginning to envelop the countryside.

The next morning, in Kansas City, it was shocking to see the sun and green grass!

The Chiefs played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I in 1967, but lost to the Packers and their coach Vince Lombardi. In Super Bowl IV, the Chiefs beat the Vikings and brought home the championship trophy. It wasn’t until the following year, in 1970, when the trophy was named the Vince Lombardi Trophy in honor of the coach who had won the first two Super Bowls and who had recently died from cancer. There were many years in the following decades when the Chiefs fought their way into the playoffs, but the championship game eluded them—until this year! With the great coach Andy Reid and the incredible talent of the young Patrick Mahomes, the Chiefs won the Super Bowl in an amazing comeback in the last minutes of the game. Kansas City Chiefs fans were ecstatic! Fifty years of waiting.

So what does the Lombardy Poplar tree and the Lombardi Trophy have to do with one another? Only the similarity of their names—and the fact that both have been on my mind these last weeks. The Lombardy Poplars don’t belong to us—we are not the decision-makers on their place in the world. I co-exist along with them, messy or not, ugly or not, worthy-in-my-mind or not. It’s humbling. Coach Reid and young Mahomes didn’t win the Super Bowl for themselves—they both have big hearts and a keen sense of history—they won it for the team, for the Hunt family, for all the other players in the previous fifty years, and for the dedicated fans who cheer them on every Sunday. It’s humbling and incredibly powerful. Hail to the Chiefs and to those with big, humble hearts!

When the Past Processes You

January 26, 2020 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

Last week I wrote about processing the Old things, the past things that I have stored in boxes for years—difficult for me to do, but necessary and freeing in its own way. But it was nothing compared to what happened when the Old things of the past processed me. Moving has always been a double-edged sword for me—on the one hand, I anticipate the excitement of a new place to discover and explore. A starting over, in a way. On the other hand, I could hardly bear to leave the old place. Each house, each place was a sanctuary for me—it was a place of safety (although that was challenged a number of times for various reasons), a place of comfort, a place I loved. So even when I was all-in on the move, it was hard. The boxing-up process was the most difficult—until the final, final, final time of walking out the door. There have been people in my life who have pushed me at those times—Chris of course, my Mom, a couple good friends, my daughter Emily this time—who box up the remaining things despite my protests and urge me out the door. Even as I desperately cling to the door jambs.

On the surface, I try to reason with myself, going between the pros and cons. With each pro-moving point, I rebut with “But how can I leave these…sunsets…

…these sunrises out my beautiful screened-in porch…

…my animal friends?

All of those surface rebuts are valid and tender and real, and they also reveal a glimpse into the essence of why this is so very hard for me. This time, this move, this boxing time was different. It was ugly and raw and wildly animalistic. I couldn’t bear to pack up my things, especially the special things, and I wouldn’t let anyone else touch them. Emily came to help me, and I resisted every move she made. I came un-done if she or Chris packed up anything without my permission. I instantly flew into a whirlwind of rage and panic: I yelled, I cried old, difficult tears, I stomped my feet, I wailed like a wounded animal. It was scaring the heck out of all of us. There had been weeks, maybe months—it was all such a blur—of tears that flowed from some artesian well of the Universe, for no one person could possibly produce so many tears, could they? And it all came to a head when my dear daughter was here to help. Every day had multiple episodes of this unreasonable behavior, and once I had control of the situation again, I was able to calm down and resume our work. And then the tantrum would happen again. Finally, after I don’t know how many exhausting days of this, we took a lunch break, and as I sat very still at the table, the tears quietly streamed down my face, still. Emily—God bless her patience and maturity—asked me what was going on. In that moment, I finally knew. I managed to finally speak the words, “I feel exactly like I did when I was in first grade, when we moved away from South Dakota.” The Past had been processing me. I talked about how difficult our life had been in the year and a half before the move, how I didn’t want to leave the farm, how I couldn’t bear to leave my animal friends—the cows, chickens, kittens, dogs, and the big, black horse, how I didn’t want to leave my grandparents, how I loved the sandbox and the weeping willow tree. I talked about how out-of-my-control it all felt, and how the boxes swallowed up all of the familiar, safe, loved things and took them into a truck to a new, unfamiliar place. And with that realization and that space and time from my loving daughter and husband, and with those words, the panic began to abate. There were a few more episodes in the next couple of days, but the fury of them had passed—and then they were gone. I was an adult once again. The process of moving moved on.

Recalibrating From the Old to the New

January 19, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Out with the old, in with the new. It’s literally true when it comes to time—2019 ended and was out of here at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. The new year had arrived. Some people live their lives with that mantra in a myriad of ways—old clothes out, new clothes in; old furniture out, new furniture in; old relationships out, new relationships in. But what happens when the old things don’t go out before the new things come in—or more importantly, what happens when a person moves on to the new thing without processing the old? An easy example is the mail—the new mail comes in to that place on the cupboard or table. Organized people process the mail—junk goes in the trash can or recycling, bills go on the desk, magazines go on the coffee table where they will be seen and read, etc. Not-so-organized people soon get a pile where things get buried at the bottom, bills can get lost until past the due date, and magazines don’t get read.

I know about piles. (I’m organized about certain things and not-so about others.) I know about getting rid of the old (and keeping it), and I’m not that enticed with the newest, shiniest ‘new’ thing. Time (and maybe mail) is the only consistent flow of old and new in my life. But when the old year ended, we did something big—we moved from our old home. When the new year began, the new decade began, we were living in a new place. We didn’t time it that way, but it happened that way. The pull of ideas started long ago—those questions: what would it be like if…, I wonder if that would work…, how would it feel if we did this…? Questions can be ignored, especially if they make a person uncomfortable. But Life can get more insistent. So I started to de-clutter—we needed to do it anyway, I reasoned. I read Marie Kondo’s book—does it bring me joy? Don’t forget to thank the things that had served me well. Ugh. I wasn’t very good at it. I was nostalgic about so many things—about all the art projects the kids and I had done together when they and their curious, creative, beautiful minds had brought me so much joy during my stay-at-home years, about the papers and projects and awards they earned during their school years as they grew into these amazing people, and about all the work I had done in grad school—boxes and boxes of research articles I had read, papers I had written, and data I had gathered. The Old was staring me in the face after being tucked away in boxes since our last move. Paralyzing.

There is a ton of research out there about why our brains and bodies react as they do. Being ‘paralyzed’ comes from the ‘freeze’ aspect of ‘fight, flight, or freeze’ in the trauma response—we all (including most animals) tend to react primarily by one of those aspects when something seems overwhelming to us. But what to do with that…. I was fortunate to have some important people around me who could help me look at the big, paralyzing Old stuff in a different way. But it wasn’t easy. I balked. I cried. I resisted. I rationalized. With time and grace, understanding and encouragement from those around me, I was able to look at the Old stuff, determine what it represented to me, accept that those qualities and memories existed even without the stuff, and let it go. As the move materialized, I ran out of time to process it all, and I was determined to do more of that work once we moved.

There was another aspect of the move that needed processing—leaving all the beautiful trees and perennials that we had planted. I had the urge to take pictures of each specific one, bragging about how big it had grown, how beautiful its branches were…and I even started to do so…

Each one had a story and a timeline and a beautiful quality and an imperfection—and we loved them—and there were hundreds of them that we had planted after all the work of removing the horrible Buckthorn. With Chris’ expertise and love of growing trees and perennials, with his hard and dedicated work with the Buckthorn puller, and with my patience and tenacity for pulling weeds, we had created an oasis among the Oaks. Did I mention how much we loved them? Yet under the arc of time, that flow of old to new, year after year, we were reminded that we had done this before. We had cleared and planted and weeded and pruned and created four beautiful places in three different states in our life together. It’s what we do, it’s a big part of who we are. I also realized that I have told the stories and shared the photos of our amazing plant family over the last six years with this blog. You have shared in our love of this great, green Earth.

A friend of mine has a book that I read cover to cover when I was in the midst of confronting the Old —Ten Poems to Say Goodbye by Roger Housden. Housden wrote about poet Jack Gilbert and his love for Santorini, Greece—“Santorini as Gilbert knew it entered not only his eyes but his sinews, his very cells, like anything we have loved. It is alive in him still, not just in memory, but in his being…” Chris and I carry our Old places—the trees and plants, the houses, the people we have loved—in our cells and sinews, in our very being.

Snowed Under

December 15, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I cannot count the number of times I have felt snowed under in the last months—even while the grass was still green, even when the leaves danced with color. The weather has now caught up with me. Since our big ten inch Thanksgiving weekend snow, it has been piling up—four or five inches here, a couple inches there. It looks and feels (with below zero temps) like the heart of Winter, even though it’s been less than three weeks since we’ve seen the brown ground. We are already snowed under.

The snow piled up on the branches of an old Cedar tree by the garden, pinning them to the ground. Being snowed under feels heavy.

The heaviness can infringe on others nearby; in Summer, the Cedar branches protect the Ninebark from direct sun, but with the heavy snow, the Cedar crashed down onto its slender branches.

The young Cedar fared no better; its whole structure is bent over with the weight of the snow.

Being snowed under feels lonely. Even though the death of a loved one affects many people, each person has to struggle with the grief in their own heart, in their own time. What’s visible to the eye does not even begin to represent what’s below the surface.

Being snowed under trips a person up—the path ahead is no longer clear, obstacles are hidden, footing is insecure, and it’s easy to stumble and fall.

Even the deer, who generally follow the same paths in Summer, seem to be disoriented with the heavy snow cover.

Being snowed under makes things seem blurry, like our previous clear sight has been lost, like we’re not exactly sure what we’re looking at, and even where to set our sights.

Then comes an intervention—it can come from a time of silence, a prayer, a call from a friend, a loving hug, or a walk in the invigorating cold air—and we get a reprieve from the heaviness.

We gather our courage and our strength—even when it doesn’t feel like we have any—and start digging. We are reminded or we remember that we’re good at shoveling, that we’ve done this before, that this too shall pass….

Just like this squirrel who remembered or sensed that he had buried an acorn in that exact spot where he dug through the deep snow and under the brown grass to get to his treasure.

There have been many times in my life when I have felt snowed under—caring for three young children while dealing with Lyme disease, the loss of loved ones and dreams, and the humbling, radical, difficult job of facing myself and my life and coming to terms with it (though a never-ending job.) I am good at shoveling, though. It’s heavy work, no doubt. It’s lonely work, for sure. I stumble and fall all the time. God knows I often do not see or think clearly. But at the heart of the winter of my soul is Love. It intervenes when I need it. It takes away the heaviness. It gives me courage and strength when I feel overwhelmed. It brings people into my life that will listen, lift me up, show me another perspective, and even help me shovel. Love is the treasure.

A Whisper of an Idea

December 1, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It kind of starts with a whisper of an idea that floats through our consciousness but doesn’t stay for long. These thoughts come and go, we rationalize—nothing serious. But the idea makes its way into our mind again… and again. It begins to p-u-l-l us forward. We find ourselves wanting ‘that thing’ that someone else may have, or we blurt out “I wish I had that!” or “I want to do that!” Eventually the idea takes up residence in our head. Now, there may be some clear-headed, mentally and emotionally competent people who recognize the invitation and smoothly and rationally execute the plan to ‘get that thing.’ I am not one of those people.

In fact, once the idea takes up residence in my head, I start doing all I can do to evict it. “It’s too late…,” “I’m pretty sure flowers don’t bloom in the snow…,” “That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard…,” “How in the world would that work?,” “That does not make sense to me…,” ” I don’t think I can do that….” Doubt, fear—make that Fear with a capital F, procrastination, denial, and ‘good sense’ take over, and it seems like the little whisper of an idea doesn’t stand a chance against the Goliath of my backtalk.

But let me tell you about the little flower that blooms in the snow. Ten days ago, I walked through the woods when it was still the season between the seasons, and I stopped in delight when I noticed the Witch hazel shrub was full of tiny yellow flower buds that were beginning to open. I knew this was the time, but I had forgotten!

The leaves were still holding on, and the tiny buds and flowers were easily overlooked.

But look at how exquisite these tiny flowers are! The genus name for Witch hazel is ‘Hamamelis’, which means ‘together with fruit.’ The flower blooms at the same time as the fruit from the previous year is maturing. How unusual.

Farther along the path, the brilliant berries of the Winterberry shrub, a deciduous Holly, could not be missed.

Then the whisper of an idea, who seems to be defeated by my Goliath backtalk, calls in the power of the source from whom the idea has come. If the p-u-l-l isn’t going to work, we’re going to need some Push! The Push usually comes in the form of (seemingly) random events or occurrences that cause pain. In other words, buckle up, we are about to navigate a rough road, because pain is the ultimate motivator.

Ten days after ‘finding’ the Witch hazel flowers, ten or more inches of snow have landed on the spidery blooms.

Although the brown leaves remain, the snow makes the flowers more ‘see-able.’ (Hmm, maybe this idea has some merit…)

These flowers are tough—covered in crystalline snow and ice and weathering cold winds, yet still retain their delicate shape and Spring-like color. The Witch hazel flowers are like the ideas that call us forward, the God-thoughts that help us become a better, more complete version of ourselves.

Not only does the whisper idea have to deal with my Goliath backtalk, but once the painful Push comes into play, it also has to reckon with my Scandinavian stoicism. Stoicism has many strengths and can literally get a person through a difficult period, but it also tends to plant our feet from moving forward and to steel our minds to a different way of thinking.

The bright Winterberry, not to be missed, is like our daily lives. It is seen, lived, acknowledged, dealt with, conscious, and present.

Another common name for Witch hazel is ‘Winterbloom.’ I think our whisper ideas are supposed to bloom in our lives; in fact, I think they are just as ‘programmed’ as the winter blooming of the Witch hazel—meant to be. But these ideas are hard to see, often forgotten, dismissed by Goliath thought patterns, and overlooked by our bright and present daily lives. Maybe that’s why we need Winter—so we can see them better, so we can allow them to p-u-l-l us forward, so the discomfort can Push us through the stoicism (and fear) to transformation. We can be maturing fruits and blooming flowers at the same time. It’s been almost a year of some serious Pushing and even longer that the whisper ideas have been p-u-l-l-i-n-g me forward. I remember now! Flowers do bloom in the snow!

This Season Between Seasons

November 24, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I received two gifts this week. They were not placed in a box and wrapped with pretty paper and bows. I doubt the givers even realized their value—one was placed in a text message and wrapped with humble caring, the other a short phone call swathed in humor. Now, I realize that such gifts could have easily slipped away without notice, but not only did I notice, I took them to heart.

Our hike last weekend at Sibley State Park offered us gifts in the form of Nature’s art. Moss was the medium of the day, the stand-out color in the gray woods. A designer-inspired garb wrapped a large Oak with velvet softness and with an accent of flaky, brown grapevine.

A wooly green fleece covered the feet of an elder in warmth and color.

Barnacle-like lichens completely covered a branch in interesting form and texture.

The character and patina of a decaying log offered a rich history of a living, transpiring being that will return once again to the soil it sprang from.

Young, supple stems of Sumac stood up through the amber grasses and sagey perennials on the outskirts of the gray woods.

A stripe of snow accented the lime green moss that seemed to be flourishing in the late November landscape.

And speaking of landscapes….

The muddy, frozen slough water made the perfect cast for an Oak leaf—exquisite design captured…until the sun’s rays or warm-enough temperatures melt it away.

Frosty fungi—another new growth lighting up the somber groundscape.

Medullary or pith rays run perpendicular to the growth rings and are prominent in hardwood trees. They create a radiating pattern from the heart of the stem (the pith) to the bark and carry nutrients in this lateral direction. They are what create the intricate and amazing patterns of quartersawn wood.

Gray ice, white snow, forest green cedars, and muted gold grasses offer a gesture of grace in this season between seasons…,

…along with a message for those who notice, who can read the lines, who take things to heart.

Nature offers us gifts each and every day—do we notice? In this season between seasons—no longer Fall and not yet Winter—it is easy to believe in the grayness, the ‘dying’ of old vibrancy, and the things that have fallen away. But still there is warmth and new growth that is contrary to the outside illustration. It is all a part of our rich history. The gifts of words wrapped in caring and humor were given from the hearts of two people that radiated out to me. Instead of seeing the decay of Fall and loss, I was able to turn my head slightly and see different things. The gifts were gestures of grace—I noticed them, I received them, and I took them to heart.

Seeing the Forest and the Trees

November 17, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

During the week, our walks are usually contained by the constraining circle of the high school track as the after-school kids yell and run off some steam at the playground across the street. We walk to talk (or not), to relax, to energize, and at this time of year, to beat the fading light of day. Yesterday, we took to the woods, bursting out of the constraints and noise of the track.

We drove to Sibley State Park to hike Mt. Tom trail and to immerse ourselves in the forest. For months we have ‘been in the trees,’ so to speak, not knowing where we were or where we were going, no map to show us the way. We were living face to face with a distressful reality that held us by the chin and forced us to look into its eyes. With every ounce of my being, I have wanted to turn away.

But I looked, and I saw our stuck-ness and wondered how in the world we ended up in this position.

I saw splitting of some of our good, strong ties that should not have been severed.

I saw growth and invasion, like the bully Buckthorn. How do you fight it? How do you stop it from taking over?

I saw the charred remains of a randomly zapped member of the community, and wondered how we could have lost a brother.

More stuck-ness, more fracture, more protections falling away.

Now what?

We climbed to the top of Mt. Tom, one of the highest points within a 50-mile radius. I began to see the trees as a group, a large gray group made up of all those individual trees.

At the top of the lookout, I could see the whole forest, in all directions. The Red Oaks still held their rusty-orange canopy of leaves. The tall Cedars anchored the gray woods with their evergreen branches. The sturdy Oaks, Maples, and Basswoods, even without their leaves, made a foundation of strength and goodness. And the Birch trees, with their snowy white bark, lit up the grayness.

We returned to the exquisite quiet of the forest. We heard rustling of dried leaves and creaking of wood against wood in the treetops, like a forest lullaby. The bareness of the trees and the carpet of leaves allowed us to see the lay of the land, to see beyond any one tree that captured our attention.

I saw different things in different ways—a home of sticks high in a tree…

…a tipped-over, moss-covered Cedar that for some reason reminded me of Christmas…

…a fallen tree that had been ‘caught’ by its close friend, halting the free fall and scraping slide…

…a beautiful Cedar tree enveloped and held by the reaching branches of the Oaks…

…and a magical, mystical highway of moss that shone on the branches of some ancient Oak trees.

It’s inevitable that we get lost and stuck in the trees at times. It is the nature of Life. The forest and the trees, the big picture and the day-to-day challenges, the long view and the just-get-through-the-day are the dichotomies we meet, look in the face, and live with at any given time in our lives. Sometimes we have to bare it down, pare it down, in order to ‘see’ what we need to see. Even when we want to look away. Even when we desperately want it to be different. It is a both/and world, not an either/or. We can’t ignore the burned, fallen, dying, split, bullying aspects of our life anymore than we can the comforts, joys, goodness, and beauty. They all work together in our magical, mystical, shining lives—we the trees of the forest.

Untying the Knots

November 10, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

Remember when you learned to tie your shoes? Or when your children did? How long it took to learn all the loops and over and unders and pulling it tight and even? How it took concentration and practice and patience and determination? A plethora of life lessons in the learning of a simple task.

We planned an after-work hike this week. Our destination was the mesmerizing pine forest that has a way of lifting our spirits into the treetops and grounding our feet into the carpet of pungent pine needles. I was surprised to see snow on the ground when we got there, though I shouldn’t have been—the temperatures had stayed below freezing all week since the scattered snowfall.

As we neared the bridge, I noticed a beaver dam—straight and expertly pieced together with the chewed-off logs and sticks. Wouldn’t it seem like quite the impossible task for a little beaver to be standing with stick in mouth surveying the river before him? (The lodge is on the edge of the bank in the upper left corner of the photo.)

As much as we wanted to ‘get away’ from the stresses plaguing us, we still needed to figure some things out, so resolutely began our discussion as we walked. It quickly fell apart as Chris brought up a hot button issue prefaced with “You’re not going to like this, but…” I should say, I fell apart—my hackles raised in defense, I stopped in my tracks—like I couldn’t think and talk and walk at the same time. That wound that had scabbed over and re-opened time and time again. My voice raised in pitch and volume and intensity. (As much as I try to be reasonable about this, at this time in my life I don’t have the bandwidth to be very reasonable.) We tried to talk about it a little more, but my stomach and chest were tightening. I stopped again and said, “I came here to untie the knots in my insides, not to make more.”

So we walked on in silence, and the trees began to loosen my tightness. I thought about knots, these knots in my stomach, how I work every day to ease them—and yet here they are again.

And when we got to the Pines, I realized I was surrounded by knots. Every branch of every tree becomes a knot in the wood.

With the self-pruning Red Pines, the knots are more obvious as the lower branches fall off and the darkened scar or knot is left behind.

We walked on a trail that we hadn’t been on before, and we found a small, three-sided log shelter. I sat on the log bench with my back against the back wall of logs and looked out at the forest. An orange glow of Oak leaves shone through the branch-bare trunks of the near Pines.

I studied the structure around me—the knotty log walls, the knotty ceiling planks, the less-knotty heartwood timbers. I guess we’re all made of knots.

Without growth, we wouldn’t have the branches and wouldn’t have the knots.

The sun was getting low in the sky as we walked the snowy, leaf-strewn trails back towards the car, and the woods got darker.

The moon was shining over Warner Lake in the dark blue sky over the dark blue water with relief and reflections of black silhouetted trees and branches. I breathed a sigh of untying

We begin our lives by learning to tie the knots—we grow and develop, sending out branches of discovery. We tie the knots of relationships—family, friendships, and marriage. We tie the knots of learning by piecing together facts and making connections. Looking back now, that part seems easy.

Have you ever stood in a lumber yard selecting boards for a project? I was taught to choose the boards with the least knots. The knots are hard to nail through and often weaken the wood. As the tree grows and gets older, there is more heartwood with less knots. As we grow and get older, we learn the loops of life, we practice the overs and unders, and we begin to untie some of the knots that no longer serve us, especially those that form in our insides as we stand before a seemingly impossible task or unwanted situation. We’re all made of knots—hard, curled places that often make us feel weak—like my old wounds that make me unreasonable at times. But I’m thankful for the trees, the forest, and the Pines that help untie the knots inside me, and I’m thankful that I’m building heartwood.

This Side of Winter

November 3, 2019 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

We had been there before—on the other side of Winter—when the wish for Spring was ardent and within our reach. But at that time, the thick cover of snow and warmer, stronger sun had ‘iced’ the trails, and we could not even walk down the steep slopes to the banks of the grand Mississippi River. This time we walked through dry, crispy leaves, down the steep slope, right to the edge of the water. The sky was cloudy, the wind brisk, the temperature hovering around freezing. On this side of Winter, we were filled with more reluctance, almost a resentment that Autumn had not played nice and eased us into the fray of Winter.

A couple of days of strong wind had bared the brilliant golden Maples and Birch trees. Ash and Linden leaves were long gone, but the Oak trees still clenched their rusty orange and red leaves in a last hurrah. The Mississippi River County Park had a bluff full of Oaks, Pines, and Cedars, and at their feet was a chock-full River.

We had the opportunity to be in the neighborhood of the River for a week, so we visited the park three different days. The first day of exploration with the camera had my attention focused outward to what the Park had to offer on that chilly day.

The second day, we explored the bluff trails.

The third day, I had a heated and heavy heart, and I went down to the River without a word to my walking partner, and I barreled through the trails hoping to discharge some of that heaviness. Halfway mindful of the early setting sun, I turned around after getting part-way down a loop trail and studied the map to see which way would get us back to the car. Since the River was so high, large parts of the peninsula and trail were covered with water. We went cross-country through the trees and brush to get around the water-logged spots, and I had a glimpse of pleasure in that endeavor.

I have to remember that this side of Winter feels different than the other side of Winter, no matter what lay at your feet. One of the gifts of age is knowing you have been there before—‘there’ being a tough time, a difficult experience, or a crushing blow to your heart—and knowing you will get through it to a better place. But this side of Winter is a daunting place—you have to get out the gear, bundle up, put your head down, and use your determination to take the next step and then the next one. The River and Life flows on, learning and wisdom grow like a sturdy Oak, the starry crown guides our actions, even when the trail is obscured and we have to blaze our own trail. And at any given time, on any given day, we can pray, “Good Lord, show me the way.”

*from ‘Down in the River to Pray’, a traditional African-American spiritual

Whose Home is This? Who Lives Here?

October 27, 2019 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” –Maya Angelou

I’ve always had a thing about the houses I’ve lived in. No matter their size, age, shape, or beauty (or lack thereof), I have always fallen in love with them. There was the farmhouse when I was a preschooler with a red hand-pump that was the source of our water at the kitchen sink, the huge metal register over the coal furnace, and the outhouse on the other side of the driveway. There was the hotel-like square-block-of-a-house with six bedrooms upstairs (with no heat) that we rented my senior year in high school. There was the Civil-War-era house Chris and I rented in Missouri when we were first married that only had a fuel oil stove in one room of the huge house, had ancient floral wallpaper, and a kitchen large enough and spare enough that it could have housed us and all our four-legged friends. They were all my home for a certain, wonderful, impressionable period of my life.

When I arrived at my Mom’s place last month (one of those homes on my list of homes), I looked out over the pasture and wondered out loud, “Whose home is this? Cows or geese?” The Canadian Geese were scattered from the lake like marbles tossed from a hand. They ranged across the pasture, grazing at blades of grass and tasty seeds, then settled down to rest in the sun like miniature cows.

At this time of year, they were much more interested in pasture than the lake, but would wade into the water for a drink or a bite to eat in the shore mud…

or for a quick swim with their companion ducks.

The cows grazed their ‘summer pasture’ home, making the rounds from hilltop to hilltop.

Nights and early mornings they were bedded down in the grass, chewing their cud, resting and digesting.

The bull maintained his large presence with the herd by belching out low bellows and by watching over and schooling the young calves.

Each species had their routine and their preferred places, but just as often I would see the two groups together—grazing together, resting together, at home together. My Mom said occasionally she had noticed a scuffle between a protective cow and a pugnacious goose, but for the most part, they lived in harmony.

Whose home is this? The cows and calves have returned from their rented summer home to their ‘winter pasture’ closer to their caretakers. Some of the geese stay for most of the year and enjoy abundant food, water, and protection for raising their families and living a good goose life, but still usually fly south to a new home for the coldest winter months. Who remains? The gophers, coyotes, fox, opossums, the myriad of amphibians and insects in various stages of development, and many other species. The pasture is home to many.

I would amend Maya Angelou’s quote by taking out the word human—“I long, as does every being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” The creatures around us desire a safe place to live with food, water, shelter, and protection—wherever they find themselves. And most often, they do so with one another in the web of Nature’s life. They are at home together. Another thing we can learn from Mother Nature. As humans though, with our big brains, we are challenged and compelled even, to go beyond the finding of a home with its shelter, safety, and sustenance. “It’s not about finding a home so much as finding yourself,” says actor Jason Behr. Finding yourself. Finding ourselves. See what I mean about a challenge?

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