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Waiting for What We Want

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I remember the bubbling, hard-to-contain excitement I felt in grade school as the large round clock face inched its way towards the end of the school day. It wasn’t with a sense of relief that I moved towards that bell ringing, because I loved school and learning, but I looked forward to the other things in my life that were also meaningful—horses in the pasture by our driveway, cats and dogs at our home, and acres of woods behind our house where we built forts and made trails. My first way of learning. It’s hard to wait when something is pulling you forward.

I would not be stepping on anyone’s toes in stating that Minnesotans are anxiously waiting for Spring. She has shown up on the calendar, in the snow melt, and maybe in some moderating temperatures, but we have seen snow, freezing high temps, and barren ground. At least with waiting for Spring, kind of like watching the clock at school, we know with certainty that it will come.

On the 21st, one month after the official start of Spring, I walked at Saint John’s Arboretum in the hopes of seeing Spring come bursting forth. I found a scroll of Birch bark—did this hold the secret script of Spring’s timeline?

I found one patch of snow still on a shady stretch of trail. I found the reassuring green of moss covering a sloping bank and the first ‘flowers’ of the season pushing up stalks of spores from the soft bed of moss.

I found some green Fern fronds and a few trails of Wild Strawberries that had maintained their ‘greenness’ under the blanket of Winter snow.

I found a hardy Thistle rosette that had stubbornly thrived under the snow.

And on the prairie, I searched high and low for the early-blooming Pasque flower to no avail, but I did find the green leaves of Prairie Smoke under the old grass litter—a small signal of Spring hope.

But that was it—beyond the tough little Pine seedlings that survive the snow burial of Winter which actually protects them from extreme cold and nibbling rabbits and deer. Gotta love them!

So I waited another week—one 60 degree day and some rain tricked us all into thinking this was it, but the cold returned, the sun hid behind pouty clouds, and we all waited again. Then on Thursday, I noticed a change! Leaf buds were showing and swelling and even opening! Lilacs, Gooseberries, and Elderberries! Oh, my!

Scarlet Cup mushrooms, the first showy color that peeks from the forest floor, are one of only a few mushrooms that can grow when conditions are below freezing. They have been in their chilly element these past weeks.

In a day’s time, some sort of perennial Lily did finally burst forth, growing inches in hours! Now that is truly Spring!

This weekend has been rainy, though still below-average temperatures, and will be the game changer. The grass looks greener overnight, enticing the rabbits and deer to munch on the vernal goodness. And the Crabapples will soon be blooming!

The wait is not over, but the things we want from Spring—warmer temps, leaves, green grass, and flowers—are manifesting as I write. It’s hard to wait for what we want. We live in such an instantaneous self-gratifying world (thanks technology), and it has trained us to be impatient when things don’t go our way. But waiting for and anticipating something that is exciting for us can be a gift in and of itself. I remember wanting my own horse but having to wait for years before I had earned enough money from cleaning out stalls at our neighbor’s horse farm. I remember wanting to be married to Chris, to see him every day but waiting in different states until our wedding day. The conditions have to be right—for Spring, for buying things, for getting married. And sometimes, we don’t get what we want—the conditions are never just right, our will or desire is not enough to overcome the odds, another person is unwilling or unable, or things are so beyond our control that we cannot get what we want or even need. But the things that pull us forward are limitless—the Spirit of the Universe never sleeps. Spring will arrive, then Summer, Fall, and Winter. It may not be on our time schedule of wants, but it will happen. That’s reassuring. Waiting also gets us out of our own heads and our thinking that we are the Kings and Queens of the world. We are not. We have things to learn—patience may be one of them. And sometimes, oftentimes, the outcome—whether a flowering Spring, a wonderful horse, or a beautiful marriage—is definitely worth the wait.

Portraits of Hope

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Hope is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops at all- —Emily Dickinson

I usually love Earth Day. We all have so much to be thankful for living on this good, green earth. Sharing the beauty and goodness of the flora and fauna that surrounds us and sustains us is a great pleasure of mine. But I’m not feeling much hope this year—when the western half of the United States is in a continuing drought, short on moisture and water, and battling wildfires at all times of the year. Such loss and destruction. When the evil of an unprovoked war is tearing apart a country and killing thousands and thousands of innocent people. Extreme loss and destruction. When ‘mysterious’ illnesses and causes are wreaking havoc on our bee and insect populations, and more recently, on people’s health. Who is benefiting from such harm? It is overwhelming. It makes my small contributions to science, goodness, and beauty seem fruitless.

I gathered words and pictures from magazines at the New Year to make a 2022 vision board, and on it I placed a picture of a pure white feather with Emily Dickinson’s first line from her famous poem: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” I feel like I need it more now than even in January when I was hoping the pandemic would finally abate.

And then, things with feathers kept showing up for me this week—when I was looking out the window while eating breakfast at home and during a short, quiet walk at Saint John’s Arboretum. The corner of the house roof was a ‘cooing perch’ for a male Mourning Dove—his throat would puff out, stretching the ruff of feathers, and the calm, lonely coo escaped from his body without opening his bill, without any words. Most surprising was the patch of pastel iridescent feathers that were displayed when his throat was ballooned with air—a handsome fellow with a peaceful song.

Cardinals are so expressive with their crest of red feathers. Carotenoids from fruit and insects are responsible for the red pigment. Often during Winter or after molting, their back feathers turn a gray color until the richness of Spring when they change to brilliant crimson.

The ice was gone from the lakes at Saint John’s Arboretum, and an immature Loon swam all by himself in the big lake. His head feathers were transitioning to the shiny black of adults, and his eyes were still black instead of red. Pretty feathers of hope.

On one side of the boardwalk through the marsh swam a protective male Canadian Goose. His watchful eye and wary honks let me know that he was not going to go far from his companion.

She was on the other side of the boardwalk, peeking over the rushes. I’m sure their nest was not far away.

A nesting pair of Trumpeter Swans was hiding in the cattail rushes, almost unseen.

Feathers were everywhere. Portraits of hope. My Earth Day sadness is still clinging to me, and I don’t see a pathway to change with all the turmoil, disdain, and division in the world. But if hope is the thing with feathers, my soul has been reminded of that with abundance this week. With each bird I see or feather I find, I will be reminded of hope. With each song or coo I hear, I will remember to have faith. With each pair of loyal companions making a new nest for a new family, I will observe love. Mother Nature’s hope, faith, and love never stops at all.

A Great Wind is Blowing

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Time and the wind never leave anything alone. –Marty Rubin

There was no ignoring the wind. No ‘cooling breeze’ upside could be proclaimed, for the weather wasn’t warm and snow was coming down…sideways. We tried to time our trip to South Dakota for when the morning temp nudged above freezing and before the wind was at its worst, but it picked up speed the farther west we drove as the snow piled up alongside the road in places. And that was just day one of the gusty tempest. Night and day it continued, leaving nothing alone.

If anyone questions the value of trees planted in a ‘windbreak’ or ‘shelter belt’ around a home or for livestock, these were days that proved their worth without a shadow of a doubt. When I walked beyond the trees, the wind literally took my breath away, and I could not speak. By the third day, the bluster had diminished a bit, and we drove around Oakwood Lakes to see the waterfowl. The geese and ducks on the water were like surfers, bobbing up and down on the whitecap waves, giving in to the power of the wind and water.

Some flew against the wind for short stints, perhaps to find a more welcoming environment that didn’t consume so much of their energy.

Others had their feet firmly on the ground with a bank or rocks that helped to block the terrific wind.

There was a menagerie of waterfowl coexisting against the elements and with the elements—the wind their adversary, the water their foundation. It was wonderful to see Canvasback ducks with their beautiful red heads, sloping black bills, and shining white backs. They intermingled with others in a pileup against the shore—their heads tucked down in rest mode with some relief against the wind.

A dark slash of a wind tide in a shallow pasture puddle drew a line across the newly-melted snow and ice.

I was hoping to see some Pelicans, and my Mom noticed some of the big birds as we drove by another section of the lake. We walked along a grass road, the cold wind hitting us in the face and wobbling our cameras with every attempt to capture the peculiar and lovely birds. A bank of snow and a tangle of tumbleweeds gave the pair a bit of respite from the wind, even as they bounced around on the waves.

When I got too close, they took off to put more distance between us. Their black-tipped wings, mostly hidden in their swimming position, were in stark contrast to the alabaster white of the rest of their feathers. Their orange bills and dark orange feet completed their dazzling ensemble (the whole of what they are).

A pair of Great Blue Herons flew into a cove and farther up the shore stood another solitary fellow, his long legs and neck braced against the wind, his feathers flattened and fluttering.

The wind doesn’t leave the leafless Oak tree alone either—it will prune any dead or dying branches with a snap of its power. But the strong, hard wood of the Oak tree and the deep, expansive roots offer the best resilience to the bullying, beating wind.

Time and the wind never leave us alone, even as we wish for it to do so. How can we be halfway through the fourth month of the ‘new’ year already? Who else has ‘lost’ time to the pandemic years? Time and the wind itself aren’t the culprits—it is what they do to us and how we handle them. Too little time? Too much wind? I think all of us have experienced both. So how do we navigate the power of time and the wind? I think both require us to maintain a strong foundation, whether that be faith, intention, self-awareness, gratefulness, or physical protection (or likely all of them and more.) Catherine the Great proclaimed, “A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.” In my experience, it gives you both. It can be hurtful, harmful, harrowing, and take your breath away, and it can spark imagination, ideas, and new directions. We can’t outrun or outfly the bullying wind or the restless time, but we can accept its power, brace ourselves with resilience, and surf the ups and downs in our own lovely, dazzling ensembles.

Flying Solo

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I’m flying solo for awhile, and it’s a new experience for me. I acknowledge the many women in the world who do so on a daily basis whether from desire, need, circumstance, or the roll of the dice. And by flying solo, I actually mean hiking solo—I still have my partner around for the rest of my life. But Chris is out-of-hiking-commission for a couple months until he gets a new hip. The wear and tear of decades of physical labor is now calling the shots and winning the pain war.

I am an intrepid partnered hiker—I don’t worry about getting lost or about bothersome insects or about getting too tired or hurt. The natural world is my home, so to speak. It feeds my soul. But something happens to me when I need to do it alone. My irrational fear takes over—that something-bad-is-going-to-happen fear that has plagued me for most of my life. It rises up from my belly and takes control of my breathing and heartrate, and it hijacks my mind. The good news is I have been working on ‘overriding’ that very ingrained behavior for more than a decade now—I see it for what it is, take back control of my breathing, and talk back to the fear voice. So…all of that happened before I even got out the door to hike at Saint John’s Arboretum this week.

Chris is a patient hiking partner—he stops and waits when I see something interesting to photograph, he comes back to look at really unusual things, and he points out artistic perspectives that I miss. The kids tease me, wondering how many hours per mile we’re doing when we hike together! At any rate, literally, it didn’t matter when I was by myself. But I missed having Chris with me to share the sights, signs, and sounds of Spring—and I ended up telling myself that I would be sharing those sights and signs with you readers of North Star Nature—like you were with me. The stirring calls of Canadian geese greeted me at the trailhead—the return of the geese and Trumpeter Swans is a sure sign of Spring, a satisfying sound to hear.

I was thrilled to see the dried remains of last year’s Compass Plants—it takes many years to get these prairie perennials established. Their twelve-foot high stems are matched by tap roots that burrow down to fifteen feet in the ground. It takes a strong foundation for such tall plants!

The distinct, deeply cut basal leaves of the Compass Plant are its namesake—during the growing season the leaves stand up vertically and orient themselves with their flat surfaces towards the east and west to avoid the intense heat of the peak sunlight.

The upper stem of the Compass Plant produces several sunflower-like flowers. The shaving-brush-like seed pod holds the seeds that are favored by many species of birds. In fact, the whole plant is an ecological home to over eighty different species of insects that live on or in the plant!

Old things, Fall and Winter things, still dominate the landscape at this time of year—cattails that have gone to seed, nests that held eggs and young birds, ice-covered lakes, golden Ironwood leaves, and snow-covered trails in shady places.

But the melting snow reveals some encouraging signs that are truly only impressive when compared to the last four months of frozen landscape. Each small sign of green and growing reminds us of what is to come and whets our desire for the new season.

The melting snow also reveals some unusual finds. Bones are an important food and nutrient source for animals during Winter. All the flesh and most of the cartilage had been chewed off this bone, along with the marrow that could be reached from each of the ends.

One of the trunks of a double Maple tree was inexplicably broken about fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. My guess is a sap ‘explosion’ occurred on a freezing night during these warm days/cold nights that are imperative for the flow of sap (and thus for the collection of sap for maple syrup.)

A Crow lost a handful of feathers in some kind of recent scuffle—the feather was too pristine to have made it through a snow-covered Winter.

Bright yellow-orange is a hike-stopping color at this time of year! Perhaps this is Yellow Brain Fungus—it’s growing on decaying wood with plenty of moisture from the melting snow.

Thanks to my friend Gail who sent a post about snow fleas, I noticed these little jumping critters! Snow fleas aren’t really fleas but are able to jump several inches like fleas. They are actually tiny arthropods called springtails. (And they don’t bite.)

As a Winter color-deprived observer, I liked the colors of these rocks on the trail! Celebrating the simple pleasures of the season!

On this first day of April as I wandered alone through the prairie, wetlands, and forest of Saint John’s Arboretum, the seasonal change was palpable. The ice was melting, water was flowing in spots, waterfowl were pairing up, sap was flowing, and green things were growing. No fooling, Spring is here.

Growth—whether greening of the flora, developing of the fauna, or the expansion of our inner knowledge, resources, and strength—has its seasons. Sometimes we willingly and proactively choose to expand our comfort zone, and other times Life’s circumstances do the choosing for us. Flying solo is a choice many make intentionally, and just as often, that ‘choice’ befalls people who had no desire, will, or capacity to go it alone. But death happens, divorce and separation happen, war unfortunately happens, and all sorts of other disruptions. As unfamiliar as it is for me to hike alone without my partner of forty years, it is a small thing compared to what many other people are going through. And yet, it stretches me. It forces me to confront my irrational fears while at the same time acknowledging that solo hiking for a woman has its very relevant dangers (as does walking alone in many urban settings.) It’s at times like these that it’s helpful to burrow down deep into the foundation of our Selves—the taproot of our being—to find the strengths and skills we possess that show us the way. Old things always fade away to new green and growing things—we are no exception. I am celebrating and sharing with you the simple, colorful pleasures of the new season.

Potential Flow

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I can feel my grief starting to soften. I think it comes from practice after years of enduring and moving through grief I thought I could not bear. Grief can be ice hard and immovable. It can build up in your heart, layer upon layer, as you realize all you have lost. When grief resides within you, it doesn’t leave much room for anything else. Time, tears, energy, and grace can begin to soften it.

It’s a fickle time of year. Last weekend’s warmth melted the majority of our snow, but cooler temps on Tuesday brought more snow and substantial wind chills. Thursday was a Spring-is-here day with warm sun, temps in the high 40’s, and those wonderful, wispy Spring clouds. I walked, or rather, slogged through slush at Mississippi River County Park. It takes longer to melt ice from the rivers and even longer from most of the lakes once the snow has disappeared. The River that was a road in the heart of Winter was now impassable by any means. It contained all states of aqua—ice, snow, slush, water, and vapor rising in the heat of the sun. It had all softened and some had melted, and in a few places, water was actually flowing.

The trail was snowy and slushy in most places with mud and standing water in others. It was slippery and sloshy walking, but man, did it feel good to be out there! The unveiled moss was the only hint of the lush green that was to come.

At the boat ramp, water pooled over ice along the bank, and dirty, gravely snow and sludgy water melted and trickled. Everything was still constrained, but the potential for flow could be felt and seen.

Across the River, Red-twigged Dogwood fired up the bank with color, and an immature Bald Eagle perched on a high branch.

The River observer saw me before I saw him. He was two or three years old, not solid brown like a juvenile yearling, but not yet ‘balded’ with white head feathers and a white tail. His beak was still brown, but the yellowing of it had started at his cheeks. I wondered if he was in some stage of molting since his wing feathers looked sparse and his mottled chest disheveled. He sat in a wreath of swelling leaf buds—another sign of the impending Spring.

A flurry of hoarse honks drew my attention farther down the River to a line-up of Canadian Geese on an ice edge. Most were sleeping with their heads tucked along their backs; some had one foot drawn up to their bodies—a supreme yoga balancing act.

Perhaps it is their tree pose of balance, calm, and strength—feeling rooted while dreaming of flying in the sky.

An unexpected death can knock a person off balance—as can an unexpected natural disaster, diagnosis, or war. The impact on our bodies and minds can be devastating, particularly for those who have experienced trauma in other forms or at other times. We have a natural, innate system to protect us at the time—fight, flight, or freeze—which way depends on our experiences, circumstances, and personalities. Grief tends to be the ‘aftershock’ of the traumatic or unexpected event and is often immobilizing, like a river of ice. It freezes our ability to function in an open-hearted way. It takes an extraordinary amount of energy just to process grief, so it’s no wonder the ‘normal’ things in life get neglected. But ice and grief can soften. It can get messy in the half and half stage. But pretty soon, there is a loosening, and there is movement over and under the hard places. Finally, the frozen grief is melted and integrated into the flow of our lives—not forgotten, but transformed to a new state. It helps to be an observer of our own selves and the process. It helps to remember what fires us up, warms us, opens us. And it helps to practice coming back to balance and calm in whatever way works, be it yoga, meditation, or qigong. We find our equilibrium again—like a tree—steadily rooted and reaching high into the sky.

Happy Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodbye grey sky, hello blue…”*

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

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

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

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

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

*Happy Days lyrics written by Norman Gimbel and Charles Fox

At the Corner of Deer and Fox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a busy place out there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Like the Wolf Flower

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

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

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

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

Garter snake
Ashe Juniper driftwood by the Pedernales River

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

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

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

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

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

On the Rocks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X marks the spot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labor of Love

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

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

…until we got back in January…

Deer tracks and where they pawed through the snow

…until now.

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

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

Bamboo

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

Cyperus or Umbrella plant

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

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

Yellow Gingko leaves and brown Bald Cypress fronds

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