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Blessings and Crack-ups

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I know a blessing when it presents itself to my life, and I can even spot a few that are in disguise. I know how to count them, accept them, savor them, and be grateful for them. I’ve had a few plaques hanging on my walls over the years proclaiming the goodness of blessings and offering that sentiment to anyone who sees it. I am equally familiar with the crack-ups, the break-downs, the pile-ups, and the mishaps. No Thanksgiving or any other day, for that matter, has one without the other.

Last Sunday’s hike at Mississippi River County Park was chilly and windy. The temps had dropped into the teens the previous few nights, and ice had formed on the River in record time. (We had hiked at the park across the River two days before, and the River was open.) A layer of snow had fallen after the ice formed, and then the wind blew! The wind and current sent the River ice into a crack-up! There is a dam a couple of miles down river from the park where the water becomes still and full. When the water slows down, the ice forms more smoothly. At this stretch, the north winds stirred up the current and the chaos, breaking up the ice that formed overnight. The River was a mash-up of smooth ice, piles of chards, open, flowing water, ice floes, and ‘warm’ spots that had melted and re-froze. Does any of that feel familiar?

We left the River bank and followed the trail ‘inland.’ The trail had already been groomed for skiing, and ski tracks intermingled with the footprints of humans, dogs, and deer.

The bright sunlight filtered through the trees, lighting up the ‘snow arches’ of the bent trees that live incognito during the summer.

The backwater pond, even and shallow, had smooth ice with a layer of snow that revealed the tracks of some brave animals that had already ‘tested’ the ice. I wondered how they knew they could make it across.

The beaver has been busy felling trees. I have yet to see where his lodge is, and I wonder if he is new to the neighborhood. His industriousness is impressive! Chewing down the tree isn’t even the hardest part—‘cutting up’ and dragging the chunks of wood to his building spot is the most labor-intensive.

Living in this world has given me an appreciation for the blessings in my life. It also makes me realize that blessings befall us all—they are not just doled out to a favored few. The hardest part is being grateful, humble, helpful, and beneficial to others with the gifts that come our way. The more difficult learning curve of the decades is appreciating the crack-ups, downfalls, pile-ups, and break-downs. They also befall us all. We cannot eschew them if we want to abide in a more peaceful place. The hard part is not getting tangled up in the chaos and the destruction, though that is easier said than done. But slowing down smooths things out and soothes the pain of the inevitable crack-ups and break-downs. So take it all in and be thankful. Be still. Be full of love—for our beautiful Earth, for ourselves, and for others.

The Snow is not Finished With Us Yet

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When we are young, we are mostly oblivious to the things we carry or the burdens we bear. Not a child gets through childhood without shouldering the responsibilities or the feelings of someone else. It is so universally prevalent that I have come to accept this anomaly as the norm, even as I balk at the idea that that should be so. But to rail against something that ‘should not be’ when it is actually ‘the way of the world’ is plainly unproductive. My idealism gets covered over by realism.

I get a shiver of excitement when I rise in the morning, and as the light slowly wakes the day, I see the brightness of ‘snow light.’ The first substantial snow of the season fell early Monday morning and continued for the next couple of days. It was a slowly accumulating snow, lazy and small-flaked with the stingy, lingering drought. But the moisture–laden snow (thanks to the 30 degree temps) stuck to the trees, transforming the gray November to white. The sky remained cloudy and heavy when I walked the back trail—the snow was not finished with us yet.

As I walked, I noticed how the different plants ‘wore’ the snow. The stiff seedheads of the Yarrow flowers each had elaborate, conical headwear, like a fluffy ermine hat fit for royals.

The short needles of the Jack Pine trees held little cotton balls of snow and looked like they were wearing puffy coats….

but it was a different story for the tall Jack Pine that had died the year before. Brittle branches and old cones stiffly held the snow in long lines. Some things we carry are cozy and comfortable; others should be held at arm’s length or left to die.

A little Eastern Red Cedar tree almost disappeared under the blanket of snow, for its young, supple branches were able to carry the load.

The older Cedars, still sturdy and tough, drooped with the weight of it, but were also able to bear a tremendous load of snow. Some things we carry make us strong.

The Honeysuckles were clothed in an intricate maze of lacy white, each delicate branch outlined with snow. More pretty than heavy. Some things we carry help to make us beautiful.

On the trail, a newly-fallen Jack Pine partially blocked the way. Green and brown needles, old cones, new cones, and dying branches held up a canopy of snow. Some things we carry are ambiguous.

On the other side of the trail, small Sumac trees that had borne their first small flowers and fruits, were bent over from the weight of the seedhead and wore a crystal shawl. Some things we carry were ingrained at a very young age, yet protect us in a delicate way.

I was not the first creature to walk in the fresh snow—the deer had already made tracks down the trail (and through the yard). Their stealth visits are now recorded in snow, along with…

the wild turkeys…

and the squirrels, all of whom dig through the snow and leaf litter to find food. With snow and burdens come accountability.

The Red Oak leaves that cling to the branches for most of the Winter are cloaked in the contrasting snow. Some things we carry become the antithesis of who we want to be.

The burden of snow bent the branches over the trail, blocking the way. There was no way of passing without shaking the snow off the trees onto myself. Some things we carry block our pathway of life, covering us in ways that seem insurmountable. Part of the learning journey is figuring out how to shake it off.

Even the spikey Mullein seedheads sport the snowy attire. Unlikely solutions can present themselves to us when we least expect it.

It was truly a silent Winter wonderland for me and the creatures who had passed through the woods before me.

Each tree, structure, and plant held the snow in its own unique way.

Snow in the North is a way of life. I cannot help but smile when I see snowflakes drifting from the sky. It is still a child-like wonder to me. But there are plenty of distractors, disdainers, railers, and complainers. How do you ‘wear’ the snow? And how is the snow an analogy for the things we carry, the burdens we unwillingly bear? It doesn’t have to be ‘snow in the North’ that ‘shouldn’t be’ according to us—it can be ‘the government,’ ‘the libs,’ ‘MAGAs,’ ‘the church,’ ‘heathens,’ ‘the super wealthy,’ ‘poor people’—all a realistic, present, integral part of ‘the way of the world.’ We all have our own ‘scapegoats’ that bear the burden of our own burdens, knowingly or unknowingly. We want to shake them off onto somebody or something else. It seems easier that way. But the snow shows us our tracks. We are accountable to ourselves for the burdens we find draped across our shoulders and for the journeys we take in life. And that brings me back to my acceptance of the anomalies of life—those ‘out-of-the-normal’ norms. As prevalent as the struggle is for each and every one of us, I now regard it as our work—the spiritual work of our lives. It takes the pressure off of us in a way, while at the same time, our struggle-work becomes our very own—our power is not co-opted or controlled by the other person, the media, the government, the priest, boss, or partner. No need for scapegoats. It’s just me and Thee. We are beautiful and strong, and the snow is not finished with us yet.

Promise Shines Through the Gray

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There is a stark contrast in my photographs from this post compared to the last one with all the brilliant Fall colors, though nearly a month has passed since I actually took the colorful photos. Gray November comes to us gradually. It is time to see things in a different light—the literal reality of which we have no other choice. Shades of gray and brown dominate the landscape now. We do have a choice as to how we think about the ‘colorless’ palette of late Autumn and Winter.

It is a time to see the bare basics, the silhouettes of trees and shrubs. I appreciate their form, their shape, their strength and flexibility.

The gray Mississippi reflects the gray sky, surrounded by the gray, bare trees, the gray-green Cedars, and the surprisingly yellowish-brown grass. The day was raw with a northwest wind—eighteen miles per hour of wind chill on the below-freezing day. Enough to make my eyes water as I faced the flowing River.

We had had rain, much-needed rain, in the few days prior to my hike, and the ice crystals crunched ever-so-softly under my boots. Tiny beads of snow fell, hardly perceptible to my eyes and skin.

Along with the rain had been strong winds that had toppled dead trees and limbs, making obstacles on the trail and wreckage in the woods. Beware of the gravity-defying widow-makers who have not made their way to the ground!

A pile of invasive Buckthorn had been toppled on purpose and piled neatly beside the trail. Good riddance to that which takes over the forest, if allowed, in its hungry quest for dominance.

The bare trees allow us to see things that we would not normally notice in the Summer, and though it seems to have an ‘ugly’ look, it really is ‘just different.’ Our judgement clouds the reality.

Blemishes, wrinkles, wounds, spots, holes, marks, weathering, and decline are all exquisitely evident in the unveiling Autumn. It is Nature, and it is us—how can you not love it?

Here in the forested North, we have place-holders for all the others who have lost their leaves—the Evergreens. They are the hope-keepers, the oxygen-makers, the color-bearers. Usually when I hear the wind whisking through the tops of the Pines, it sounds like singing, but on this day, it sounded more muted, less lyrical, more….story telling. The Evergreens, whether the long–needled Pines, the conical Spruces, the wispy Firs, or the sturdy Cedars, tell the Winter story for all the trees and dormant plants. It keeps them all ‘alive.’

And so, the dried Goldenrod flowers become stars of light…

the Artemisia becomes an array of tiny silver bells…

the young Pines embody the everlasting Goodness…

the Red-twigged Dogwoods represent the warm flow of life-sustaining blood…

and the clinging red Oak leaves remind us of our resilience.

Growth is a given in Nature—the eternal hopefulness of that can sustain us through the cold and gray months. Meditate on the miracle of it.

Often with growth comes the shrinking and dying of old branches, childish beliefs, old, outdated coping behaviors, and ignorant information. (To me ‘ignorant’ is uninformed or inexperienced, not a judgement.) Gray November and the cold Winter are perfect times to prune away the old, outdated branches.

Sometimes our old, tightly-held beliefs and ignorances have grown so large that they have wounded those close to us, often with no intention and knowledge on our part. Pruning allows both to heal and grow.

At the end of my hike, I saw a noisy flock of birds scouring the leaf litter under some trees. Robins and Chickadees and a Northern Flicker hopped around looking for food. The Robins and Flickers will go farther south when snow covers the ground. They are some of the last to go, but I see in them their promise to be the first to return, just as the snow uncovers the ground in Spring.

Gray November holds all kinds of Hope. We attended a beautiful wedding last weekend that held the light of young Love and the energy of Happiness and Potential. Do you remember those? At this time of year, we can see more clearly with less obstacles in the way, along with a path around the ones that fall before us. Vision and Breakthroughs. We can look at the reality of our blemishes and human short-comings and call them Authentic. Forgiveness lives on in the cold harshness of Winter. We can identify the invasive species of thoughts, beliefs, and behaviors that need to be toppled, pruned, and removed. Openness and Opportunity. With the un-busy-ness of the dormant time, the stories and glories of Summer and Growth have space and time to be told. And gray November and dark December unfold to Celebration—to giving Thanks, to decorating with stars, silver bells, ever-greenery, and warm red ribbons and bows. We celebrate Goodness and Life Everlasting. Promise shines through the gray.

A Humming Song of Hallelujah

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I’m a couple weeks behind the amazing Autumn leaf color-fest here in Minnesota—by now, most have fallen to the ground. But social displays of wonder are preempted by occurrences of life, death, and life. The possibility of losing a loved one (and I want to add the word ‘again’) grabs one’s attention from the mundane day-to-day as well as the seasonal wonder. It focuses our attention on the past, on the relationship, and on the absolute and pure preciousness of a person. When death is on deck, it changes things.

I was emotionally exhausted when we came back from Missouri. Everything tends to grind to a halt for me as I try to process everything that has happened. The first day back I was rather catatonic—I didn’t move much, and my thinking about anything was blurry and scattered. I sat outside and let the sunlight sink into my skin. The following weekend, Chris and I journeyed to the golden cathedral of a Maple forest. A forest of mostly Sugar Maples turns the most brilliant yellow-gold in those fleeting days of Autumn color. Being a prairie girl, it was an extraordinary delight when I first went to the Maples of Lake Maria State Park in the fall of 2014 and wrote ” The Trees Were Glowing.” Every year since then, we find a Maple forest in which to bathe in the ethereal glow of the gilded leaves.

The day was cloudy, which made for a different kind of glow. No rays of sunlight danced on the leaves and slipped to the leaf-covered forest floor. The cloudy light was reflected back and forth from leaf to leaf like a humming song filling the air.

A relatively ‘young’ part of the forest had tall, straight-trunked trees, like a colossal choir dressed in robes of gold, swaying to the humming song.

Two large rocks at the base of two older-barked trees, along with a flexible, bent-over young Maple, created an alter of sorts. We pray for the souls of our loved ones.

With awe, we stood by the Grandmother and Grandfather Maples whose branches reached out wide and tall, proclaiming their time-honored wisdom. Like all elders, they deserve respect for all they have seen, all they have lived through, and all the hardships they have survived.

Pines shed a certain number of needles each fall, usually from the interior of the branches. Their winged pairs often get caught on other foliage, as do the bright-colored leaves.

We came to a clearing in the forest where Sumacs grew along the edges, happy in the more abundant sunshine. The deep red leaves are a sharp contrast to the golden Sugar Maple leaves. Sumacs are one of the first to change color, so by this time, many had already lost their leaves. But in contrast to most other shrubs and trees, they retain their striking brick-red seedheads throughout the winter.

The younger stems are fuzzy and pink, and after the leaves drop, look like arms raised in hallelujah!

Tucked into a little valley that protected the Sumac from leaf-dropping wind, was a spectacular display of a community of trees of all colors, sizes, and shapes! In the center of the fall color was an Eastern Red Cedar with a shine of gray-blue ‘berries’ (actually small cones) dusted on its branches.

We walked back into the forest where even an uprooted tree looked like a woodland sculpture with the background of golden leaves.

One part of the trail had beautiful red-leaved Maples that added to the color palette of our rustling footsteps.

Then before we left, the clouds broke away, and the sun flooded the golden cathedral with shimmering light!

Death was a swing and a miss this time around, thank the Good Lord, but all the feelings and sensations of uncertainty, compassion, love, loss, and grief took us on a roller-coaster ride. It’s funny how we are never quite prepared for it, even when we’ve been in similar circumstances before. It’s like the forest coming alive with golden light as the leaves are dying—life, death, and life again. We tend to take for granted the long Summer of green when all is well, then panic and wail a bit when leaves change and fall. Mother Nature has shown us time and time again that that is not the end of the story. As people of faith and mercy, we believe that, but as people of doubt and confusion, we constantly need reassurance that it will be so. So in the aftermath of such a roller-coaster of emotions, it is a healing balm to walk into the golden cathedral forest, to be surrounded and blessed by gilded light, and to raise our arms and hearts, along with the trees, in a humming song of Hallelujah.

Mesmerizing Middle

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I’m going to begin in the middle. In the middle of our hike, that is. And only for one photograph, one minute of time, one funny little revelation. It inspires all of my hikes, and with reflection, it really is the basis of why I take photos, write this blog, and share it with you all. We walked across a ‘floating’ wooden bridge over an inlet to a shallow pond halfway through our hike at Mississippi River County Park. Duckweed has been covering the slow-moving inlet water and much of the pond for months now. On this day and all those going forward into Autumn, leaves had fallen onto the thick duckweed, creating a collage. I peered over the edge of the bridge, staring into the pea-soup green water. Since the bridge ‘floats’ on top of the water, every movement we made radiated out into the water and duckweed, producing movement and patterns through the bright green medium. “This is kind of mesmerizing,” I told my patiently waiting husband. With his usual dry humor, Chris broke my nature-spell by proclaiming his take on it all, “Makes me want to jump in and go for a swim!” I laughed at the absurdity of it, imagining his rising from the water as the incredible green hulk!

Nature is mesmerizing for me. I see things and wonder…who lives here? How did the tree die? How many young ones have fledged from this high-rise home?

Look at this pearly shell! Scooped up by the water from the sandy shore and placed on this rock for a moment in the long trend of time until a bigger wave sweeps it back to the Mississippi waters.

Seaweed and floating Willow leaves have their own kind of enchantment as the waves move through them.

In the full green of Summer, vines are often overlooked, but at this time of year, they show themselves with changing colors, as with red Virginia Creeper, orange-berried Bittersweet, or yellowing Wild Cucumber. Wild Grape vines and Wild or Bur Cucumber vines can absolutely enshroud all other vegetation or structures with their robust twining and climbing. As some of the other leaves fall, Canada Moonseed vine comes into its own with hanging purple fruit that looks a bit like edible Wild Grapes, but in actuality, is poisonous.

Another common vine is Virgin’s Bower. It is a type of wild Clematis with indistinct, small white flowers. Its fruit and seedheads are the fascinating part of this vine—the wispy tails of the fruit dry into puffs that inspire its common name of Old Man’s Beard.

In the middle of summer, Mississippi River County Park becomes very monochromatic and homogeneous after its enthralling Spring of woodland/floodplain flowers. Few plants are blooming, trails can be wet with rain and heavy with mosquitoes, and the cons often outweigh the pros for hiking there. But Autumn comes, and the park once again embraces its color and beauty.

The shallow pond in the middle of the park reflects the golden trees, provides a home for Painted Turtles, and grows Monet-worthy Lily Pads.

Colors of all shades and hues begin to pop out of the greenery. The process of the energy-producing shutdown that happens to most plants in the Northland is fascinating!

And then there’s the Sunlight. It shines on the color, over the brown seedheads of Monarda and Indian Grass, and through the green leaves of Stiff Goldenrod and others. It is the fire that fuels Spring growth, Summer production, and Fall decline. It entrances us because the Sun is just as important to us as to the plants.

Poet extraordinaire Mary Oliver wrote: “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” It is the way I live my life. It is the reason I started North Star Nature. It is my fascination with all the mesmerizing aspects of Nature that impel me to write my blog week after week for over eight and a half years now. To my readers, I thank you and hope you have been astonished along with me. Nature deserves your attention. It deserves your love. It deserves your caregiving. I hope you have an enchanting Autumn!

Work Well Done

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I’m not a betting person. I like a sure thing, not the maybe–potential–good day–bad day–luck–fate thing that seems to juice the adrenaline of gamblers on any kind of betting opportunity. Too much drama for me. That’s why I love the changing of the seasons—it’s a sure thing. And yet, there are humans who want to make even that a little more dramatic! When will the leaves be at peak color? Don’t miss your chance to go North to the place where the Fall color will be the most spectacular at this particular time! We even want to game Mother Nature. (I guess that’s nothing new.) Don’t get me wrong—I love the spectacular colors of Autumn leaves at peak times. It really is the epitome of storybook Autumn, especially when paired with pumpkins, hot cider, fingerless gloves, red cheeks, cozy sweaters, and Uggs. But I also love the process of Fall—the subtle shift when plants stop growing and pour all their energy into the production of fruits and seeds, when there is ripening and fullness and deep color to the produce, when waning energy production is noted in the loss of gloss or slight color change in leaves, and when a morning temperature in the low 40’s produces a heavy coat of dew on the warm, sun-soaked earth of the previous day.

Thursday was officially the first day of Autumn, but signs of the process of Fall have been showing for weeks now. Last Sunday Chris and I hiked at Oak Savanna Park in Sherburne County. 140 acres of the park were gifted to the County by Bill and Margaret Cox on the outskirts of Becker. There was a hint of coolness in the cloudy air when we began our hike from the parking lot of Sherburne History Center whose signage reminded us of ox-cart trails, Indian land, and settler farmers who tried and often failed at making a living on the sandy soil. In essence, they urged us to go forth on this land with the knowledge of who and what came before us.

At this park, as at the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge to the south, there are acres and acres of wetlands.

The rolling hills above the wetlands were home to an impressive Oak stand that is being managed as an Oak Savanna as invasive species like Buckthorn are removed.

Sumac is one of the first tree/shrubs to display their brilliant Fall colors and even show the process of how the leaves change from the outside tips to the central vein of the compound leaves. Aren’t they beautiful?!

Poison Ivy is coordinating its Fall colors below the Sumac.

Certain plants are stand-outs at this time of year—purple-stemmed Raspberries with carnival striped leaves, pale purple and albino bracts of Spotted Horse Mint, and the spiny brown balls of Cockleburs.

The park has horse trails and an extensive disc golf course, so at times we found ourselves on someone else’s turf.

Ash trees are one of the first hardwood trees to change color, and again, the leaves show the Fall process of losing chlorophyll.

And Gooseberries, one of the first shrubs to open their leaves in the Spring, have turned a rosy color along with the Virginia Creeper growing at their feet.

There is a subtleness to Autumn along with the spectacular color. It’s like a sigh after work well done.

Mother Nature has worked hard all Spring and Summer to grow, reproduce, develop, mature, and produce—the work of all our lives in one way or another. It takes a tremendous amount of energy (thank you photosynthesis and Sun) along with imperative resources like soil nutrients and water in order to get to the point of ‘work well done.’ Sigh…

I think we have a tendency to want the ‘good stuff’ right away—the spectacular peak colors, a great paying job as we start our career, a well-furnished ‘dream’ home—the epitome of American life. But when we embrace the process, we don’t ‘wish away’ the time it takes to get to the ultimate experience. The proverbial ‘life’s a journey, not a destination’ holds true in Nature and in our lives. If one only lives for the ‘hit’ of peak colors or for the money jackpot, what happens next? The apex experience only lasts for a minute or two, then we strive to reach the next ‘hit.’ There is wisdom and satisfaction in the process—growth and development comes one way or the other, the embraced way or the hard way. We can go forth on our journeys, satisfied with ourselves and what came before us to get us to this moment, enjoy a time of rest, then move forward into a new season of growth, development, and production. Enjoy the process!

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.