Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
In the Fog
I vividly remember a time in my life some years ago, when I felt confused and uncertain about what I was doing. The once rock-solid thoughts and ideals that had sustained me for decades fell away in a tattered heap, like a neglected old barn. I couldn’t think straight, I felt isolated from the swirl of people around me, and I couldn’t envision a path that would lead me out of that fog.
Central Minnesota has been in a fog for the last week. A warm front trapped our cool, snow-covered ground in an inversion. Icy rain fell a week ago Monday, coating sidewalks and roads in a slippery, bumpy film. By Wednesday, fog was forming above the rivers and wrapping the trees in frost. Friday, the temperature slid above freezing and started melting the snow.
The fog became denser as the water vapor was trapped beneath the thick clouds.
Water droplets formed on everything.
The surprising December thaw was the first in our seven years of living in Minnesota. Our frigid and snowy November seemed to have been inverted with December. The burlapped spruce, prepared for the dry, cold winds of winter, was drenched in fog and moisture. Our carefully planned protection was not needed–at least not yet.
I followed the path from our house to the river overlook.
The fog was thick on the top of our hill, but over the river, it was a curtain of wet whiteness. (Here’s what it looks like on a clear day-sixth picture of the post.)
On the way back home, I passed a slushy puddle filled with oak leaves. It was a meeting of fall and winter. The bare trees were represented by their reflection in the melted snow.
In the same puddle, fox prints were cast in the slushy ice. Proof of her whereabouts. A meeting of human and fox tracks.
I could not see the river–I couldn’t even see the hillside and trees that went down to the river. The fog enveloped them all. It was confusing and surreal. It was like they didn’t exist.
That’s what the fog does in our lives. It slowly crawls over us, fooling us into believing that we know where we’re going. It can be unexpected and unexplained. It can lull us into thinking that what we can’t see doesn’t exist. But even in the thickest fog, the River is there. Even behind the burlap wall of protection, the Spruce is there. Even though I didn’t see the Fox, she was there. Each of us is there. Our path out of the fog happens one step at a time. Slowly we find our way. Then one day, we see our reflection in the place where Past meets Present. And with gladness, we notice that the fog has lifted.
Ducks on Ice
When the chill of winter is settling into your bones, think of this pair of Mallard ducks swimming in the icy water. By comparison, we are all cozy warm! This little pond is just off the Sauk River and within the limits of our small town. Here they are safe from hunters and have shelter and food.
On the other side of the snowy, brush-covered bank is the partially iced over river.
Another group of ducks huddles at the edge of the open water, preening their feathers and stretching their legs, necks, and wings.
They stand precariously close to the open water on the blue-colored thin ice.
Mallards are the most abundant and familiar of all ducks. They live in any kind of wetland habitat. The males or drakes have iridescent green heads, white neck rings, brown breasts, gray flanks, two black tail-curl feathers, and a yellow bill. The females or hens are mottled brown with orange and brown bills. Both have white-bordered blue speculum feathers on their wings.
Mallards are considered ‘dabbling ducks.’ They feed by tipping forward into the water to graze on underwater plants, invertebrates, amphibians, and fish. They almost never dive completely under the water. During migration, they also eat grains and plants in fields.
These long-bodied ducks pair up in the fall, long before spring breeding season. After the breeding season, they shed all their feathers, leaving them flightless for three to four weeks. The female incubates the eggs and cares for the ducklings.
Mallards are the ‘poster duck’ for all wild ducks. Most domestic ducks come from this species. They are abundant late fall migrants, wide-ranging in their habitat. They are adaptable strong fliers and swimmers. And they are beautiful!
May we have the grace to swim through rough, cold waters. When we are walking on thin ice for whatever the reason, may we have the ability to swim or fly to save ourselves if we fall through. May we have protection during our vulnerable, flightless times. And with a patch of blue or a black curl, may we show our beauty to the world.
Three Nights of Seeing the Moon
Can you see the moon tonight
Sugar-white perfection
Radiant beams of purest light
Our hearts’ connection
–Chris Rice
The lyrics to this song go on to reminisce about a lullaby his mama sang. It’s a lullaby that many mamas have sung to their babies; it’s a nursery rhyme simply illustrated and hung over a crib; and it’s the premise of a number of children’s books that have soothed little sleepyheads at bedtime.
I see the moon and the moon sees me,
And the moon sees the one that I long to see.
God bless the moon and God bless me,
And God bless the one that I long to see.
Three nights of Seeing the Moon last week reminded me of this rhyme. Wednesday was a clear, blue-sky day, and when the moon came up (above photo), it was ‘sugar-white perfection’. It sparkled like a piece of sugar crystal candy.
The next day was sunny and clear with wispy clouds, and when I first saw the moon, it was peeking through the white pine tree.
The light clouds slowly rolled over the face of the moon, darkening parts of it in a shadow dance.
The large, dark areas of the moon are called Lunar Maria which are named for water features (Maria meaning Seas; singular is Mare.) These regions do not contain water and are believed to be formed from molten rock. The lunar nomenclature was introduced in 1651 by Riccioli, following Galileo’s first look at the moon through his newly invented telescope in 1609. The Sea of Crisis is not far from the Sea of Tranquility and the Sea of Serenity. Smaller plains are called Lacus or Lakes. There is a Lake of Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring and Lakes of Fear, Hope, Solitude, Hatred, Goodness, Sorrow and Joy. There are Paludes (Marshes) and Sinus (Bays)–Marsh of Decay and Bays of Love, Harmony, Trust and Honor.
Most of the craters on the moon are circular in shape and are caused by impacts from asteroids, meteorites, or comets.
The moon of our planet Earth reflects the light of the Sun. It is intriguing, mysterious, cyclical, and emotional. The cycles of the moon influence tides and is said to effect fishing, planting and growth, sleeping patterns, and behaviors.
A little later that evening, the moon lit up the clouds in concentric circles of color.
Friday’s moon rose with an amber color in a clear sky. It was the day before the full moon.
Unlike Wednesday’s cool sugar-white moon, this one was warm and rich colored, like a golden gem.
Three nights of seeing the moon, and they were all so different in how the Sun’s light was reflected and seen by us. The moon itself was the same. Each crater and mare and lacus were the same. What was getting in the way of the pure light? Clouds, dust particles, shadows, and even the earth itself at times. I like how Riccioli named the large ‘water features’ on the moon after the emotions and conditions of our human hearts and experiences. Because the moon evokes such powerful emotions, I think we share Riccioli’s connection to the moon. The moon we are looking at sees and is seen by the ones we cannot see. We want that connection–the connection of our hearts. In the end, as in the lullaby, we have to call upon the Eternal One to bless us, to bless the moon, and to bless the ones we cannot see–all of us in our sorrow, goodness, fear, hope, and love.
Tracks and Paths
When I was a young child, we lived on a farm in eastern South Dakota. My Dad milked cows along with raising pigs, sheep, and chickens. After their morning milking, the cows were let out to the pasture to graze their way through the day until the next milking. This daily ritual made its mark in the pasture. A network of cow paths crisscrossed the green grass as these creatures of habit made their grazing rounds. We used to walk to the neighbor’s place through the pasture–and the best way to get there was to follow the cow path. Except for the occasional fresh cow pie to skirt around, it was the path of least resistance.
Snow fell the night of Thanksgiving. By morning, the animal activity of the night was evident by the tracks and paths in the fresh snow. Birds visiting the feeders left their marks as they hopped in search of fallen seeds.
Squirrel tracks were everywhere! We seem to have quite a population this winter.
I wonder what made this squirrel take a quick U-turn. Perhaps the appearance of a big black dog?
The most popular place for the squirrels is the backyard bird feeder.
They make their way from the woods to the feeder, and then when alarmed, they run out the back of the mailbox, jump down to the ground, and make a beeline for the maple tree. They have made a squirrel path in the snow!
Another set of tracks that crosses the yard is made by the red fox. She trots with a purpose, going from one end of the yard to the other on her hunting treks.
Her paws are much smaller than our Black Lab’s. I put my footprint beside each track to show the size difference.
Fresh fallen snow highlights the activity that takes place day and night around our home. It’s a vivid indicator of how we coexist with all the creatures around us.
Tracks and paths–we all make them! From the tiny mice to the squirrels to the Holstein cows to college students across campuses, we are creatures of habit that tend to take the path of least resistance. Sometimes our tracks cannot be seen, and we may wonder where we’ve been, if we’ve been seen, and whether our trekking has even made a difference. Other times, our steps are noticed as we beeline or U-turn our way through life. We may make our own path or follow one that is already well-worn. What path are you on today?
Gleanings from November
November began in a quiet, easy way. The ritual of ‘getting ready for winter’ was progressing nicely with one eye on the extended forecast and four hands on rakes and shovels. Our slow-growing Purple Smoke tree was changing from its dark purple-red to brilliant scarlet, the last to change and hold its fall foliage. Most leaves were brown and on the ground by then. The oak and elm leaves carpeted the floor of the woods, skirting this tiny cedar tree with mulch and protection.
By the second weekend, the green lawn was raked free of leaves, and plastic sheeting covered the screened-in porch. The barometer was falling, and the forecast had changed from an inch of snow to nine inches of snow. In one day’s time, we fell into Winter.
Nine inches quickly turned into fourteen, as schools were closed and travel stalled.
Since the storm, a couple of warm (above freezing) days have melted some of the snow, and a few new inches have been added. Whiteness is the new normal, and snow is just part of the picture.
The winter birds are now our showy ‘flowers’–their brilliant colors are beacons of brightness in the white and brown landscape.
November is the month of Thanksgiving. Every day, from morning sunrise to early evening sunset, is a gift to each one of us that contains so much to be thankful for.
November also begins the season of reflection–when we look back at where we have been and choose the path that will move us where we want to go.
The month of November started as Autumn and abruptly changed to Winter. Changes happen whether or not the calendar agrees, whether we are ready or not, and regardless of whether they ‘should’ occur. All the more reason to be thankful for the very simple and often mundane things in our everyday lives. At the same time, we need to be aware of the beacons of brightness that surround us. What puts a smile on our faces? What amazes us? What makes us feel warm and loved? And finally, if we are having trouble seeing the brightness, we can use this hibernation time to reflect on what is shading our eyes, what wall is built up in front of us, or what erroneous thoughts are stuck in our heads. And then, with courage, we choose a path that will get us to a better place.
Thanksgiving Day
It’s Thanksgiving Day! Time to gather together and share a meal!
Time to think about the many blessings in our lives, both past and present.
I’m thankful for all the creatures and features of our beautiful, amazing Earth that make not only my blog possible, but also all our lives and livelihoods. And I’m thankful for all of you who read and share my posts. Happy Thanksgiving to all!
The Community Feeder
When snow covers the ground, the feeders become the community center for the birds in the area. They have feeding times when activity is high–swooping in, grabbing a seed, flying away. The black-capped chickadees flit to a nearby branch to peck open the seed covering and swallow the seed. The noisy blue jay will pick at his seed in the feeder after scaring all the other birds away. Woodpeckers, like the Red-bellied woodpecker, often carry their food away to store in the cracks and crevices of trees and fence posts for a later time. The ‘Zebraback’, with its barred black and white wings and back, has a creamy buff underside that covers the red patch on the lower abdomen. The female (above) has a red nape and patch at the base of the beak, while the male (below) has a red crown and nape.
It was a bitterly cold day when the male visited the feeder. His feathers were all fluffed up, and he looked like he was wearing a fur coat!
Along with seeds from annuals and perennials, the red-bellied woodpecker also eats wood-boring beetles, grasshoppers, spiders, acorns, pine nuts, and fruit. They have a barbed tongue and sticky saliva that makes it easier to catch their prey.
This small Downy woodpecker is another frequent flier to the community feeder. When he flew to the tree, he may have been storing the seed in the crevice of the bark or may have placed it there to hold as he pecked it open.
Another tree-clinging bird is the White-breasted nuthatch. It is often seen creeping headfirst down a tree trunk, enabling it to store food in crevices and to find food that right-side up birds might miss.
But the birds are not the only ones in the community that come to the feeders. The squirrels show off their acrobatic skills by scaling the trees and climbing or jumping to the food source. The new mailbox feeder is becoming the favorite for the little nutkins–it is closer to their oak trees, easier to climb, and has less of a chance that the big black dog will chase them away from it.
Yesterday morning we had more visitors enjoying some black oil sunflower seeds.
There were four in all, and they watched me through the window and got a little nervous about being so close to the house. Their winter coats gave them rounded haunches, thick necks, and jowly faces.
They ate some seeds, then wandered and grazed their way back to the woods
The beautifully feathered birds come to the community feeder in the winter, because it’s all about the food. Each has specialized physiology that enables them to search, find, and eat the food that is best for them. In the snow-covered months of fall and winter, it is hard for the birds and other animals to find sufficient food, so the seed-laden feeders provide an oasis for them. In this week of Thanksgiving and abundant food for most of us, please remember the ones who are having a harder time providing adequate food for their families. Let us all give thanks for our blessings and bless the givers who provide an oasis for those in need.
At the Feeder
It has been a cold, snowy week and a half of Fall-Winter. It’s hard to still call it Fall when we have over a foot of snow on the ground with high temperatures in the teens and lows in the single digits or below. Winter’s march into our lives has not been contained to the northern states–its icy presence has been felt by most of the country. Perhaps Old Man Winter is teaching us a lesson for our hubris of making the holiday season come early. Christmas decorations before Halloween? Black Friday shopping deals in early November? Forget about Thanksgiving? Then Winter it shall be!
While it seems like the snow has been here for more than ten days, it is only the beginning of our long, hard winter. The icy temperatures wash the world in a cool, blue color. Early morning shadows from the rays of the brave sunlight through the trees, create a dazzling quilt of stripes and sparkles. Blue-white is the new green.
Low pressure and moisture-laden clouds overnight paint the trees with frost. The Artist doesn’t hibernate in Winter.
The stars of the snowy, winter season are the birds. Our three feeders bring them close to the house. They provide great color and entertainment as they zip and dive from tree branch to feeder to snowy ground. The cardinals are seldom seen during the green season but are one of the first to arrive when the feeders are full of black oil sunflower seeds. The male is brilliant with his large crest, black face, and scarlet feathers. He knows he looks good!
The female cardinal, as often is the case, has a more subtle, but equally beautiful coloring. They make a handsome pair!
Black-capped chickadees and dark-eyed juncos are two of the most abundant birds to visit the feeders. The black-capped chickadees dart to the feeder, pick up a seed, and quickly fly away. The juncos, with their dark gray topsides and white undersides, spend much of their time on the ground cleaning up the seeds that have fallen. But when the traffic has cleared, they will linger at the source.
Purple finches occasionally visit the feeder, looking more rosy-red than purple. They seem to be calm little birds who are not afraid to really get into their food.
The shrill call of a blue jay demands attention. Actually, almost everything about him demands attention. He’s flashy in his blue suit with crest, black collar and necklace, and white and black spotted wings and tail. The other birds scatter when he swoops to the feeder where he will shovel the snow and seeds around with his large black beak.
These are a few of the common winter birds in our area, but this morning I caught a glimpse of one who usually makes his way south for the winter. This little puffed-up robin doesn’t look too happy to be in Minnesota in this frigid weather. I wonder if the early snowstorm derailed the migration plan. At least he has some luscious looking crab apples to eat!
The below-freezing temperatures and thick blanket of snow came early this year and are probably here for the duration. Mother Nature humbles us and lets us know that we are not in control. Each season has its drawbacks, challenges, and hardships along with its beauty, gifts, and inspirations. The birds are one of our beautiful gifts. Their unique characteristics and personalities remind us that we’re all in this together at the feeder of Life.
The Story of the Early Snowstorm
Snow is a normal thing here in Central Minnesota. Our last spring snowstorm was in April, and now it isn’t even the mid-mark of November and we have nearly 14 inches. Many years the first substantial snowfall comes after Thanksgiving and stays the rest of the winter, blanketing the ground with white well into the spring months.
It’s normal to see snow on the hardy cedar trees scattered throughout our woods. Their branches hold the whiteness in winter-postcard splendor.
It’s expected to see snow on the driveway and sidewalk. It is the site of the winter workout with shovels poised at the house and garage doors. On a snow-stormy day, one can choose many reps with lower weights or less reps with heavy weights. Even wielding the snowblower through the plowed windrow of snow at the end of the driveway provides its own workout.
Cardinals and snow go together. As soon as the snow flies, the cardinals swoop in to the feeders looking picturesque in their scarlet plumage.
And our Black Lab loves the snow, leaping through the belly high fluff and plunging her head in for a mouthful of snow cone delight.
It’s a winter garden of interest when the snow lands and mounds up on spent seed heads of perennials and on the rough branches of the oak trees. Even the lingering leaves of the honeysuckle don’t look out-of-place in the snowscape.
But this is the picture that has been on my mind since I took it on Tuesday. The delicate, still-blue petals of the Monkshood flower, not long past its prime, are filled with snow. This tells the story of the early snowstorm and exemplifies the unexpected.
Minnesotans know snow. We know frigid temperatures, long months of winter, being prepared, snow fun, discomfort and hard work, winter boots and hats, and snow weariness.
The snow-filled Monkshood flower reminds me of our vulnerabilities. The vibrant, late-blooming flower looks fragile in its frozen state. But there is also a haunting loveliness and a porcelain-like strength to it. No matter how prepared or how hard-working we are, there will be times when unexpected things happen. We are all vulnerable in certain ways and sometimes it takes an early snowstorm to see the beauty and strength of our own frailties.
Into the Storm
On Saturday, the extended weather forecast called for cooler temperatures and a chance of snow in southern Minnesota. Okay. We raked more leaves, mowed the lawn one last time, and put the garden hoses away. The snow blower and lawn mower traded places in the garage. Sunday was in the mid-30’s with calm winds, and the sun felt warm as we nailed lathe over plastic sheeting to cover the screened-in porch, the last of our getting-ready-for-winter chores. Oh, and the weather forecast had changed to nine inches of snow for us on Monday! Okay!
Things in life can change quickly. Chris spent a couple of hours at work getting equipment ready for snow removal at the college. I washed windows, cleaned out window wells, put out bird feed, hauled a small pile of brush, and took a few pictures. We were as ready as we could be.
The snow began an hour or so before Chris left for work at 4:00 am. By 6:00 am the schools and colleges in the area were closed for the day. We had seven inches of snow before 10:00 am. The wind is howling, the snow is still falling, and we are in a winter storm warning until noon on Tuesday. The prediction now is 10 to 16 inches–I’m sure we have over a foot already.
I want to show you what a difference less than 24 hours can make.
It is an early storm with a large amount of snow. By November, we are usually prepared for what’s coming–even if we only have one day’s warning. But sometimes in life, we are blindsided by a storm that we are not expecting, and our life can change dramatically in less than 24 hours. How can one be prepared for that? I believe we have to hitch ourselves to God. We need to welcome into our souls the beauty that presents itself to us. We need to offer the seeds of faith, hope, and love, and we need to partake of them. Then we can fly with strength into the storm.
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