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Refresh Your Soul

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How did you welcome in the New Year last month? It was another pandemic year that the collective community of the world was glad to let go of to pursue high hopes for a better 2022. Austin, Texas held its 42nd annual Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day…and we were there! Calling it a Polar Bear Plunge is a misnomer to me, coming from a state where they actually cut holes in the thick ice for people to plunge into truly frigid water! But that’s okay—it’s all relative. Austin’s Polar Bear Plunge is held at Barton Springs Municipal Pool, a natural, spring-fed pool with limestone walls, green grassy banks, and clear, turquoise water. The spring-fed water stays at a very respectable 68 to 70 degrees year round. On this New Year’s Day, the air temperature was in the 70’s (a common summer’s day temp in Minnesota) and hundreds, if not thousands of people were out jumping into the New Year and washing off the old.

After my family swam and played in the tepid waters, we walked along the well-used trail that follows Barton Creek from the pool to Lady Bird Lake. There were people running, walking, strolling, biking, etc. on one side of us, and on the other side, creatures of all sorts were swimming, sunning, resting, and plunging into their new year also. Turtles were everywhere! A group of turtles is called a ‘bale’—we saw many bales of turtles!

All along the Creek and Lady Bird Lake were huge Bald Cypress trees who love to have their feet in the water. The slow-growing, long-lived trees help prevent erosion along the banks during flash floods. The knobby protrusions at the base of the tree are called cypress ‘knees.’ They grow from horizontal roots and are theorized to transport air to the water-laden roots, along with anchoring the tree in its often precarious waterside position.

Aaron, our ever-vigilant snake guy, was the one to notice the big reptile lounging on a fallen tree branch. The Diamondback Watersnake is the largest nonvenomous water snake in North America. They like to lazily dine on fish and amphibians by dipping their heads into the water from their tree branch perches.

On another tree branch overhanging the water was a white Muscovy duck, a unique waterfowl originating in South America. They prefer to spend time in trees and less time swimming, compared to other ducks. They are more sensitive to cold than Mallard-related ducks, and they hiss instead of quack!

As Barton Creek merged into Lady Bird Lake, we saw many kayakers, paddleboarders, and rowers, along with a commotion of American Coots.

Blooming water plants floated on the Lake along with the humans in watercrafts and all sorts of waterfowl. A gorgeous, exquisitely-feathered Wood Duck greeted the New Year in his winter home.

It is a legitimate human tendency to want to wash away an old year, especially ones that were as confounding as the previous two. We want to be done with the virus, the death, the masks, the rules, and the uncertainty. We want life to be ‘normal’ again. Yet, there is something to be said by having a hardship be the experience of everyone. It helps to level the playing field, because truth be told, large numbers of people experience disease, death, unfair rules, and ongoing uncertainty even in their ‘normal’ lives. There are always ideas, habits, and behaviors we need to let go of in our lives, and the New Year is a favored time to do so. We can pursue our high hopes with renewed vigor. Matt Curtis of the Friends of Barton Springs Pool Polar Bear Plunge said, “This is an exciting opportunity to refresh your soul in the waters of Austin.” Refresh your soul. Perhaps that is the anchor we need in our lives in order to navigate the difficult times and to reach for our dreams.

Turn Back Time

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Nothing like the death of a loved one to make a person wish to turn back time. I have strained to remember the details of the last time we saw Chris’ brother, how he was, what he said. There is no doubt the pandemic ‘got in the way’—even without us knowing. We assumed we would see everybody when this dreaded thing was over. There are regrets, if onlys, missed opportunities, mistakes, and omissions—I really don’t know how one gets through the loss of a loved one without those self-flagellating thoughts. I think it’s just part of the process. But since it’s ‘part of the process,’ it too will pass. We can move on from the regrets—I know, easier said than done.

This past weekend we attended a memorial service for Jon down in Kansas City. It was finalizing—exactly one of the purposes of funerals and memorials. It helps our disbelieving minds believe it. The officiant offered prayers and condolences, then suggested we turn back time to remember something about Jon that we admired or respected…and to incorporate that quality or action into our own lives. It was a powerful suggestion.

During our Christmas trip to Austin, Texas we drove south for a day of exploring and hiking at Palmetto State Park. It was like we were turning back time to prehistoric days. No matter where we go, if we pay attention to the geology of the area, we are already in prehistoric days.

Spanish moss hung from the trees. It is an epiphyte, a member of the Bromeliad family that gathers its nutrients and water from the air and rain. It rarely kills the trees it inhabits, and in this part of Texas, it prefers Live Oak and Bald Cypress trees.

The San Marcos River runs through the park. It is not like most rivers I’m used to seeing. In many places it has cut a deep gorge into the landscape with bare banks and muddy, silty water. There is erosion and damage from flash flooding—the banks cannot recover between the aqua assaults.

And what prehistoric mud walker was here ambling to and fro? (The very primitive possum.)

Parts of the park did not look like the typical Texas landscape—it was swampy and tropical. Dwarf Palmetto Palm shrubs lined the edges of the water, and thick, woody Rattan Vines climbed trees and hung like ropes from the canopy. I could easily imagine a dinosaur walking amongst them.

One of the dichotomies of the tropical park was when we saw the swampy palms next to the desert-dwelling cacti like the flat-faced Prickly Pear and the pencil-twigged Cholla cactus. What a strange combination.

We left the swampy area and walked the Mesquite Flats Trail where some native Mesquite trees still held on to their leaves. Drought tolerant and tough, they are considered invasive in ranching country where they displace the grass, especially in overgrazed areas.

A bright green ball of leaves with shiny, pearl-like seeds hung from a bare-branched tree. It’s easy to see Mistletoe in the winter! It is a hemi-parasite that invades a branch in order to use water and nutrients from the tree. It’s Greek name ‘Phoradendron’ means ‘thief of the tree.’ Another dichotomy—Christmas ‘kissing ball’ decoration and real-life tree thief.

Throughout the woods, large invisible webs stretched between trees, and if we looked closely, we saw the colorful, crab-like spiders called Spiny-backed Orbweavers. What cool spiders!

I was surprised how much grass was growing under the trees—not something we generally see in the woods up north. But everywhere was evidence of the power of water when it does flow—deep cuts and masses of exposed roots.

Walking on, we saw mud wasps building homes and an armored Leaf-footed Bug sucking the nutrients from the Palmetto Palm leaves.

We encountered a tiny bit of Spring in December—a patch of Wild Onions with their fragrant scents and simple, white flowers.

My favorite critter of the day was a Green Anole lizard sunning himself on the outside of a bridge railing. His cool, detached demeanor dismissed our noisy admiration and paparazzi picture-taking. He was the closest thing to my turn-back-time-dinosaur in the tropical swamp of Palmetto State Park.

I love finding these unusual, out-of-the-ordinary ecosystems—it reminds me of the mystery and diversity of Mother Nature. Why was this tropical swamp here? One clue was a now-extinct ‘mud boil’ in the park, where hot water deep in the earth bubbled to the surface—it was ‘boiling’ until the 1970’s. The unfathomable ways of Mother Nature mirror the unfathomable ways of life and death of us. There’s no way to explain the birth of our beings and no way to explain our earthly departure (beyond the physiology of it all.) We are left with the unknown, the mystery, the dichotomies, the joys, the regrets, and the process. So we hold on to faith so the loss doesn’t wash us away. We hold on to hope that another season is springing up inside us even in the depth of our winter. And we hold on to the love that was there and always will be, world without end. Amen.

Christmas Butterfly

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It’s called the Hill of Life. It’s an entry point to the Barton Creek Greenbelt in Austin. The Greenbelt is composed of miles of trails, limestone cliffs for climbing, swimming holes (when there’s enough water), and ‘greenery’ that follows Barton Creek as it winds through southwest Austin. The Hill trail descends 300 feet in less than half a mile on a limestone boulder and gravel path surrounded by Ashe Juniper trees. (One of their many common names is Brake Cedar!) The Hill of Life is judiciously called another name—‘The Hill of Death’—by some who use the hill for the challenge of training for running or biking.

It was Christmas Eve afternoon, so there were not many people on the trail. I was experiencing a mild case of season dysphoria after leaving snow and cold in Minnesota and then hiking in temperatures in the high seventies in Austin. I do not associate Christmas with sweating.

Going down was fairly easy—just watching our steps on the rocks. Once we got to the bottom of the cliff, we arrived at the clear, burbling Barton Creek. The water was warm enough for Chris to wade in (what?!) The trees in Texas are a funny combination of those that lose their leaves for ‘winter’ and those that keep them year-round, like the Live Oaks. The large Sycamore trees still had some lime-green to brown leaves clutching their branches, while others had fallen to the ground.

A creek-side tree had grown in a circle—an interesting, intriguing tree to look at, to focus on—but then being able to look through the hole to the creek, to the water, to the pebbles under the clear water.

Emily knew the way to another waterfall through an open prairie meadow punctuated with spikey green Yucca plants.

We could hear the waterfalls before seeing them, then walked to the pool beneath the falls where a ‘buddha’ stump sat calmly in the sparkling water. (I may have been the only one who thought it looked like a buddha.)

We wanted to walk out to the rocks by the falls, and from a distance we saw a bike-rider carrying his bike from the rocks to the bank. When we got to the crossing point, all I saw was a small log lodged between two trees. I turned to the biker and asked how he had walked that tightrope with a bike! He pointed to another log (maybe we should just call them branches) that was lodged in the trees above the ‘walking’ one. ” Hang on to that one,” he said. Ohh-kay, here goes…

Success! When standing on a bridge or on the ice or on a rock in the middle of a stream or river, it gives a person such a different perspective from standing on the bank. I feel like I am part of the river. I look upstream to the water’s ‘past’ where it has flowed around bends, pulled soil from the banks, and swept past sun-logged turtles and other creatures.

Then I look downstream to the water’s ‘future’—where it will flow in some of the same ways as its past. But there is always something new and different in its path.

Standing on the boulders that create the ‘falls’ and watching the water run and fall over the sides, doing what it is meant to do, brings me to the present moment—present, yet ever changing. And then this Northerner, on my long journey away from the cold and snow, sees a Christmas miracle…

…a butterfly perched on the same rock I’m standing on! A Christmas butterfly!

With some Christmas Eve meal preparation to be done, we decided to leave the river of life to climb back up the Hill of Life. It was a different story. I was thirsty, hot, sweating, tired, and in total understanding of the alternative name—and I was just walking! (We did see a handful of people running past us. I wanted to applaud them.)

The Hill of Life and The Hill of Death are the same hill. One and the same. The circular tree and the water beyond it are bound together in the same way. The river’s past and the river’s future are both part of the present water in which we stand. It is actually mind-boggling in its simplicity and its complexity. How we name it or look at it (or through it) or think about it depends on what we experience. Going down the hill, I could affirm the Hill of Life name from a smug point of view. Coming up changed my tune. Even if I was focusing on the life-affirming qualities of walking up that steep hill, I was still out-of-breath and tired. We cannot think away some realities. Some people are always walking up the hill.

I think our challenge is to make sure we walk both ways. We experience the sweaty climb and the downhill breeze. We experience the peacefulness of the still water buddha and the risk of the tightrope over the rushing water. We look closely at the tree and beyond at the river. We carry our past deliberately and lightly and look to the future with hope and excitement and relish our lives in this present moment. Simple and complex—just like a butterfly.

Home (alone) on the Range

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Nobody wants their Christmas shrouded in a pall of sadness…or their birthdays…or any other special day. Expectations about Christmas have been marketed, hyped, idealized, and Hallmark movie-ized. We even do it to ourselves—we remember the child-like wonder of Christmases past or are determined to create it if we did not experience it ourselves. But in real life, in the calendar-is-not-in-charge-of-life life, special days are just like any other—people die, get sick, get hurt, get mad, and feel sad. There were a number of years when the kids were small that I was always sick on Chris’ after-the-holidays birthday. My body just sort of crashed after the flurry; I feel that this year, too.

The loss of a loved one inhabits our bodies—beyond the broken hearts we can most readily acknowledge. We are intricately and mysteriously tied to those we love, in heart, mind, and soul, but also in body. It does us good to remember that and to honor ourselves and our aching bodies in the grieving process.

Grief also does another thing—it clears our calendars for us. Well, if not clear them, it writes its name at the top of every page, of every day. It steers the agenda whether we are aware of it…or not. So all our time we had in Kansas City and in Austin over the holidays, no matter what was on the agenda, Grief was by our side. At our ‘busy’ times, it trailed along behind us, only poking us with an occasional memory. But during quieter times, open times, the loss of Jon (along with many other significant losses that Grief lassos to the present one) took center stage.

Our drive to Texas took us through Kansas and the Flint Hills Prairie. On the Kansas Turnpike there’s not much to look at besides the beautiful blue sky and the beautiful prairie grasses on the rolling hills. Beautiful even in Winter. In that emptiness, I am soothed, and it allows an array of feelings to be laid out like a crazy quilt and examined and felt. Without distractions, our hearts and minds and bodies can do the work of grief more easily, though ‘easy’ is hardly the word to use for the process.

A sign alerted us to a scenic pullover to take in the splendor of the largest remaining intact tallgrass prairie in the world and to see the Bazaar Cattle Pens. We stepped out of the car into a very strong, chilly wind. We saw the herd hunkered down out of the gale—but it wasn’t a cattle herd—it was a Pronghorn Antelope herd!

Pronghorns are the fastest land mammal in North America—living on the open prairie requires running rather than hiding in order to get away from predators. Their excellent eyesight allows them to see things up to four miles away. They are definitely home on this range.

A bridge—the Bazaar Cattle crossing—allowed us to cross the interstate to go right up to the cattle pens used to sort, work, and transport cattle from the ranches.

I loved this old hook latch on the outside of the pen’s weathered board. It didn’t look like it was for anything, but at one time, it held a gate open or shut, or held an integral piece of equipment for the cattle working process. I wonder how old it is…

We did see two inhabitants who were ‘off work’ at the time. They and the Pronghorns have an amazing place to live!

We left Bazaar, left Kansas, drove through Oklahoma into Texas for a night’s rest before our final leg to Austin.

Up to a certain point in my life, grief was dealing with the loss of someone old through death, and as a young person, that was enough. I didn’t really know grief and understand it like I do now until the years prior to my mid-century mark. And then, it knocked me off my horse, crushing the air and energy out of me. Grief also encompasses the death of long-held beliefs and losses of living people and places that were deeply loved, cared for, and cherished. Heart-breaking. Mind-numbing. Soul-crushing. Body-aching. The open prairie, an enormous Cottonwood tree, and a wise woman elder were my canvas and guide on my grief journey. The prairie has few distractions, and you are left with yourself and your pain—just where we need to be. Grief and the pain that goes with it can pile up like tumbleweeds against a fence line and overwhelm us once again. But once a person rides through the prairie of pain, it is much easier to navigate the next death or the next loss with respect and honor. You stay in the saddle and ride on.

Heartbreak and Beauty

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I had joyfully baked cookies all day—the old Christmas cds I used to play while making cookies with the kids blared from the hallway as the heady smells of sugar, butter, and chocolate filled the air. We were anticipating a trip to Kansas City to celebrate with the Brake family before taking the longer drive to Texas. We would leave in four days. Then a phone call. One of Chris’ brothers was in the ICU. It didn’t look good. Tests needed to be done. Unbeknownst to us, he had been ill for over a year, seriously ill—but didn’t want us to worry. If only cookies could heal heartbreak and cancer.

He died the day before we were leaving. We packed and drove with a heaviness that insulted the season of joy around us. Or was it the other way around? It seems like the only thing we could voice was our shock and disbelief. We spent a few days with the Brakes, in sorrow instead of excitement. And yet, seeing them, the remaining two brothers and their dear wives, placed a bandage over our wounds. In essence, it stopped the bleeding. We shared meals around the same tables the Brakes had gathered around for holiday fun for decades. Beautiful memories flooded my brain and heart. Gram and Gramps and the two uncles were still there with us.

We drove to Austin, Texas to see Emily and Shawn. The long trip was tiring. A dullness of unprocessed feelings kept us quiet, and sitting for so long in sorrow stiffened our muscles. Nothing like death to make a person feel old. We spent the night in Denton before braving the constant construction on I-35. One of our anticipated events with Emily and Shawn was to go on the Luminary Walk at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. Two days before Christmas—a festive event. I gathered my energy. Through the darkness we walked with luminaries lighting our way.

Chris noticed the real star above the lit tree. Darkness and beauty.

On the Luminary Walk, our eyes adjusted to the darkness. Our hearts began to adjust to the shock and sorrow. We saw kids playing on luminous swings, climbing structures, and mazes. We remembered the incredible fun and laughter Jon brought to all our lives. Lights illuminated certain trees that have lived long and endured many storms. Our memories highlighted the travails that Jon endured with strength and wit. We all walk the Luminary Walk through life. We encounter darkness—loss, heartache, hurt, confusion, and rejection—but there are luminaries all around us who can help us see through the heartbreak and darkness to find and feel the beauty once again.

Chasing Winter

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I was getting a little impatient. Was it because of the left-over drought? Was it climate change? Roll of the dice? We had had so very little snow along with warm temps up to December. It was out of the ordinary. So we went chasing Winter. We booked a camper cabin up north at Bear Head Lake State Park west of Ely for the following weekend. I had watched the weather radar sweeping across the ‘arrowhead,’ so I figured they had snow on the ground. The Ely forecast for the weekend changed every day—some snow, no snow, a foot of snow?!

On our departure day, we awoke to a dusting of snow with fog hanging low to the ground. With temperatures heading north of freezing for the day here at home, we headed north in search of Winter. Bear Head Lake State Park encompasses over four thousand acres, and only a small portion of that is available by road or even trail. As we drove farther into the park, the road became snow-covered, and deer sauntered by us.

There was an envelope taped to the door of the Park Office with ‘Welcome, Brakes’ written on the front of it and a key and ‘list of rules’ tucked inside it. The ranger drove by as we were looking at the map, and she warned us of the snow forecast for Sunday, saying she would refund our second night if we wanted to leave before the storm….

We unpacked our things in the cozy little log cabin named White Pine, then walked the short distance (thank goodness) to the outhouse. It was 2:30 in the afternoon, but the sun was so low in the sky that the shadows stretched out like it was sundown. It is the time of year in the north when the sun rises, peaks, and sets in the south, a strange anomaly for our circadian brains. We began our hike in the empty campground and followed Beach Trail to Bear Head Lake.

Wild Blueberry shrubs (red leaves) and Ferns (brown leaves)

The lake was still low from Summer’s drought; we walked out on the ice for a ways, but with the snow cover, we had no idea how thick the ice was at any given place.

The park boasts an ‘up North, Boundary Waters feel,’ and even though we had not experienced the Boundary Waters in the Winter, the solitude of our December camping amongst the Pines and lakes felt like we were in the wilderness. The old growth Pine trees had been too small for logging in the late 1800s and now stood like giants along the beach and Norberg Lake trail. And just like all the past centuries, young seedlings continued to grow to become future giants for future generations to stand under in amazement.

Tiny, tree-like, evergreen Club Mosses of different kinds pushed up through the snow, a testament to the life that flows through Winter.

The beach area of the park was spectacular! A small portion of Bear Head Lake was visible, and an invitation to explore ‘beyond the bend’ was compelling. It was a place to love and appreciate, a place that puts our own (small) lives in realistic perspective to the amazing world of Mother Nature.

Nestled in the trees was a beautiful trail center constructed with large open beams. It was warm and available for restrooms and rest. A large wood-burning stove, tables and chairs, puzzles and games, and a small kitchen area invited us to stay for awhile, but we were aware that the sun was low in the sky and we still needed to hike back to our cabin.

The rest of the hike back was in the twilight of dusk through the giant Pines. It was so peaceful, like we were walking through a different era.

Back at the cabin, Chris brushed the snow from the picnic table to heat up our soup on the Coleman stove. Emily and I walked down a short trail to the North Bay of Bear Head Lake to see the final rays of light over the Pine horizon. Our day of chasing Winter had culminated in the rich gift of a quiet, peaceful, and solitary hike in the wilds of Northern Minnesota.

Our first after-dark trek to the outhouse was under a dark sky full of bright stars. In our light-soaked lifestyle, we forget how dark the dark can be and how brilliant the multitude of stars. The temperature was falling into the teens for the night with a stiff breeze. Later Emily and I walked around the campground circles, our headlamps beaming onto the reflective snow. By that time, the stars were gone—clouds had moved in on the stiff breeze, and we were reminded of the storm forecast.

Chasing Winter had brought us to this warm, cozy cabin in the Northwoods. We had only seen the ranger and one other vehicle—the huge park virtually belonged to us and the critters. Why do we ‘chase’ things? Chasing dreams, chasing butterflies or fireflies, chasing boys, chasing rainbows, chasing wealth. What fuels those desires? Chasing implies the process of going after something—it does not in one way or the other indicate whether we attain the desired. So perhaps the pursuit is the raison d’etre—the reason for our existence.

By late morning on Saturday, we had to decide whether to weather the storm—the forecast calling for seven to thirteen inches of snow on Sunday—or to leave early. The tables had turned—Winter was chasing us. We thought of the Winter wonderland that would sparkle outside our cabin door, of when the roads would get plowed, of whether we would have to spend an additional night. We had enough food and water….but in the end, we decided to cut our Northwoods visit short.

In the last week, here at home, it has snowed three times—the ground is delightfully light with snow, the trees decorated and frosted in Winter apparel. Is it Nature’s rhythm—the chaser and the chased? We chase after those things we desire, but perhaps our desires are also pursuing us.

Winter Nesting

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It’s a thing, you know—nesting. It usually refers to when a woman is beautifully curved and round in late pregnancy—when she has a natural instinct or urge to prepare her home for the impending arrival of the baby. It may manifest as cleaning, arranging, organizing, or buying furniture and clothes. It is a way to practically and mentally prepare for the birth of a child. It helps a woman feel in control of her environment, to prepare a place that feels safe and secure for her and her baby. Most animals do a similar ritual of preparation for their offspring by building nests or dens in protected places. This flurry of activity is usually done in Spring….but let’s think about nesting in another way….

We returned to Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. I was hoping to see a lake full of waterfowl preparing for their long migration. The Platte River was beginning to ice over, the River and ice formations curving between and around the banks of golden slough and prairie grasses.

Under the ice and under the mud in the River are turtles and frogs hunkered down and protected from the cold Winter weather. Safe and secure.

Old logs and thick, coarse slough grasses provide cover and a place to make a cozy, cold-weather nest for small mammals and birds.

High in the branches of a deciduous tree, bare of leaves, was a pouch-like nest of an Oriole. It is a structural phenomenon! The female begins her nest-building with support strands placed around branches—this industrious weaver found some purple twine that worked well for her hanging nest. She gathers long, strong fibers from plants like swamp milkweed for the outer bowl, then uses her beak almost like an awl to thrust and pull the grasses and fibers to finish the weaving process. The nest is lined with soft fluff from Cottonwood trees in order to cradle up to seven eggs. The process takes resources, patience, finesse, and one to two weeks of time.

We saw no waterfowl—no ducks, geese, or swans. Where were they? Had they already flown south? It had been so warm, and I hadn’t seen large flocks flying overhead. What we did see were eagles—three or four of them flew over Platte River and Rice Lake, following us on our trail, it seemed.

A hole formed from a burned out part of a tree, with leaves and fluffy Cattail seeds, could make a warm, protected nest for some little creature.

The Eagle’s nest is another engineering wonder, a dark structure of sticks highlighted by the white Poplar bark branches that hold it.

‘Nesting’ comes from the ritual of nest-building in preparation for the raising of offspring. I propose that nesting happens at other times of the year also. Preparation for Winter produces similar activity—finding and making ‘nests’ to protect creatures from the harsh elements of cold and snow. It is done for safety and protection. As humans, we do Autumn rituals to protect our plants, our equipment, and our animals from cold and snow. We gather wood if we have wood-burning fireplaces, we cover tree roots with mulch and perennials with leaves, we may put straw bales around barns or sheds, and disconnect mower batteries. We may move furniture away from drafty windows, get out the afghans and slippers, buy hot chocolate and herbal tea, and light candles. We gather and decorate for Thanksgiving and Christmas and prepare warm food and baked goods. We are practically and mentally preparing for Winter, for cold temperatures, and for darkness. It is cozy; it is hygge; it is safety and security. May the light shine down on our nests in this season of darkness.

Flour and Ice Water (+ Butter = Pie)

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What do the largest flour mill on the banks of the Mississippi River, Grasshopper Chapel in Cold Spring, MN, and a state forest have in common? John Pillsbury. Pillsbury was co-founder, along with his nephew Charles, of the Pillsbury Company, which boasted the largest flour mill in the world in the early 1900’s. John Pillsbury was also the 8th governor of Minnesota (1876-1882). After years of a devastating grasshopper plague that destroyed hundreds of thousands of acres of wheat, oats, barley, and corn, Governor Pillsbury called for a day of prayer on April 26, 1877 to help end the plague. A subsequent sleet and snow storm killed many of the grasshopper eggs, which brought an end to the plague in the coming months. The little chapel in Cold Spring that was close to our previous home, was built in honor of the ‘miracle’ and nicknamed Grasshopper Chapel. Then in 1900, Minnesota’s first state forest was established when Governor Pillsbury donated 1,000 acres to the state. It is known as Pillsbury State Forest, has over 25,000 acres now, was the first state tree nursery, has managed timber harvesting, reforestation, and recreational development. It has 27 miles of trails for horseback riding, hiking, biking, and snowmobiling.

Last weekend Chris and I traveled up the west side of the Mississippi River to Pillsbury State Forest. The snow that we had had at home was mostly melted, but as we got closer to Pillsbury, there was more snow on the ground. We bundled up for a small hike around the Rock Lake campground. The Lake was ‘building’ ice but still had areas of open water.

Trumpeter Swans were lying on the ice, their heads and necks folded into their feathers to protect their sleeping bodies from the chilly wind.

Autumn meets Winter when the beautiful rusty-brown Oak leaves floating on the water get captured by the forming ice.

The campground is small, first come, first served, and has 18 campsites along the shore of Rock Lake under a stand of Pines.

The forest ground is large and interspersed with private land. We drove from the campground to a day-use area for canoeing and horseback riding. We were slowed to a stop by Wild Turkeys crossing the road. They had a gathering place on the sunny south side of some big round bales, and a few were crossing the road to the farm place on the other side. They seemed quite confident of their place in this forest.

We traveled by road to another trail called Section 27 Road and ski trail. The trail was an old logging road that cut into the forest. We wondered if the whole area had been Pines at one time. Now it was mostly Aspen, Birch, and some older Oaks. The ‘ski’ trail continued when the logging road came to an end, and it became apparent that the trail had not been maintained for quite a few years. Fallen logs crossed the trail, making skiing pretty much impossible unless there was feet of snow.

At this time of year, the sun stays low in the southern sky on its dawn-to-dusk trajectory, so there are always shadows that stretch out from the trees and from the smallest weeds. The Oak leaves make a pretty pattern on the snow, and the tracks of all the animals can be ‘read’ by passersby.

John Pillsbury made a huge impact on Minnesota with his businesses, his philanthropy to the state and to the University of Minnesota, and his political career. The state forest that bears his name offers a great place for recreation, especially the many miles of horseback riding trails. This transition time as we slip from late Fall into Winter brings a change that is difficult for some people. The very short days, the often cloudy skies, and the cold temperatures create a ‘hibernating’ quality that is accompanied by low energy and sometimes depression. I combat that with actually getting out into the cold—when one is dressed appropriately, it can be invigorating and calming at the same time—something that Nature is good at! It’s a time to pray for the end of the pandemic, to ‘build’ on our relationships, to be kind to ourselves, and to make plans for next Spring and Summer. It’s also a good time to sit by a southern-facing window, soak up some warm sun, and eat a yummy Pillsbury baked good. Enjoy!

Flirting with Winter and Warriors

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I wanted to embody the archetype of the Warrior. In June, I attended a retreat/workshop hosted by friends of mine and created and facilitated by Dr. Chelsea Wakefield. By examining feminine archetypes, we were learning to live a life of self-awareness, peace, and connection. I was very familiar with the Mother archetype but didn’t think I was warrior-like in any way. All weekend, I yearned to become more of a Warrior. My idea of what it meant to be a Warrior was formed by the cultural/masculine idea—bold, strong, invincible, forceful—which was the opposite of how I felt.

I had passed by the small tree hundreds of times without recognizing it. It was camouflaged in the woods with other deciduous and evergreen trees. But as everyone else lost their leaves, the brilliance of the little tree caught my attention, and I excitedly examined its branches to confirm my notion. “It is a Wahoo!” I exclaimed to Chris. Eastern Wahoos are captivating trees to me—they are small, unique, ethereal, beautiful, and tough. Dakota Indians gave them the name Wahoo which literally means ‘arrow wood.’ The ‘warrior spirit’ of Euonymus atropurpureus was believed to keep enemies out when planted around encampments.

The corky, winged branches identify the Wahoo as belonging to the Genus Euonymus, the same Genus as the invasive shrub species ‘alatus’ commonly called Burning Bush.

Chris has been growing Wahoo seedlings for a number of years now. Their Fall color is spectacular along with the showy, heart-shaped seedpods that burst open to display red seeds. The leaves fade to yellowish-pinkish-white.

On my Fall-flirting-with-Winter walk, Crabapples hung from the bare branches gathering snow, and a yellow Maple leaf tried to remain sunny.

A green-as-Summer Fern leaf and the prickly stems and lime green leaves of a Gooseberry shrub wore their snow coats with courage.

Wild Ginger leaves, one of the first to show in early Spring, had laid down to hug the Earth in late Fall. Then snow blanketed them.

On our walks, Chris and I had been eyeing a Jimsonweed plant growing in the ditch, wondering where it came from, thinking we should ‘get rid of it.’ It is an unusual plant with pretty, trumpet-shaped flowers and burr-like seedpods. It is a member of the Nightshade family, has been used to treat various ailments in traditional medicine, and the plant is highly poisonous. Good and bad all in one.

How many times have we walked past the ‘warrior spirit’ without recognizing it? How many times have we gotten the meaning of what it means to be a Warrior wrong? The beautiful Wahoo was a literal boundary and defender of Native encampments. Do not underestimate the power of the ‘warrior spirit.’ My idea of a Warrior was modified after the retreat weekend. At the closing, I had come to realize that I was much more of a Warrior than I realized! As a child, I had navigated a family tragedy before there were grief counselors; I had birthed and raised three children (which takes a good dose of Warrior along with the nurturing Mother); I had been a graduate student (as a mother of three) in departments that were predominantly male; and I have walked the woods all my life, then learned to make a website and write a blog. I am bold and strong in my own way! Each of us has the Warrior in us, but there is danger when it is wielded without wisdom and training. It is good and bad all in one. Useful and poisonous. That is true of all the archetypes, and therein lies our work. The most important work is recognizing what is happening within ourselves. We need to have courage, and we need to learn when to lay down our weapons. Another common name for the ‘warrior spirit’ Wahoo tree is ‘hearts bursting with love.’ That’s a good way to be a Warrior.

Distilling Down to Brown

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If we were to distill down life into one color, what would it be? I mean literally distill down every cell of every being. No matter what color we and the trees are to begin with, I think all living beings become brown.

Brown is my second favorite color. Of course my favorite color is azure blue of a clear sky day along with most other blue hues. But brown is a close second. Most people wonder how ‘brown’ of all colors could be a favorite, and I don’t really know—it just is. It feels natural and warm and comfortable. Brown is the color of the Earth—perhaps that’s why it feels so grounding and good. It’s also the star color of late Autumn.

Apparently in color mixing terms, brown is a combination of red, yellow, and black and is described in categories of reddish-brown, yellowish-brown, or gray-brown. But there are more descriptive names for shades of brown: smokey topaz, burnt umber, russet, desert sand, chestnut, and taupe. (My favorite descriptive brown—taupe represents the average color of fur of the French mole—who knew?!)

Autumn is the transition time between the vibrant productivity of Summer and the slow-moving dormancy of Winter. Those of us who have journeyed into the Autumn of our lives know that we have already lived longer than we will yet live. Our vibrant productivity has waned, and we can embrace the brown-ness of our lives. (I mean that in a good way.) There is something stabilizing in that realization and acceptance.

There is a richness in brown-ness, a richness in having the high productivity years of child-rearing and striving and accumulating behind us. We are no longer moving at the speed of multiple school activities. Striving has morphed into a steady maintenance and kindness for self. And we tend to want to pare down on possessions, to lighten our load. Our growth and vigor have produced rich, brown seeds.

In Autumn, we can look at ourselves and appreciate the many varied colors of our being. We are so much more than we thought! Age has a way of revealing those gifts.

So we can discern Sumac brown…

from Ash seed brown…

from Pine needle and Pine cone browns…

from Pine bark brown…

from multi-stemmed Caragana brown…

from Oak and Poplar leaf brown…

from Hazelnut brown.

Autumn is the time of life when extraneous activities, possessions, and thoughts are distilled down, pared down, settled down. The most important aspects of life are extracted. It allows a person to see more clearly, for there is a long history of hindsight. The experiences of Spring and Summer have borne fruit and seeds in order for the cycle of life to continue. It’s not the end, however; never fear—distilling produces the ‘good stuff!’ Things become more pure, whole, and stable. Settle into the brown-ness. Settle into the warmth and richness. Settle into the goodness.