Fall Archives - Page 4 of 13

Food and Refuge

November 22, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Food. It has been my refuge for way too long. When things feel out of sorts, or stressful, or downright scary, I reach for food. I learned early on that food was comforting—with good reason—eating food, especially certain kinds, releases ‘feel good’ chemicals in our brain that really do make us feel better. It’s science. Well, it may be science, but something went wrong in how I use food. For most of his life, my Dad would say he eats to live, not lives to eat. It’s simple, but oh so hard for those of us who have substituted food as a coping mechanism for all things distressful in our lives.

Food. It is what Sandhill Cranes leave the refuge for. Our trip to Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge, while it included a hike at fire-damaged Blue Hill, was really to see the gathering, or ‘staging’ as they call it, of thousands of Sandhill Cranes. These prehistoric birds (fossil records from millions of years ago) gather here from northern breeding areas to rest and eat in preparation for their long migration to Florida. (The count on 10/29 was over 11,000.) At night, the cranes roost in the wetlands of Sherburne, and at dawn, they take to the skies and fly to neighboring fields that have been harvested for corn or soybeans. Like a bear before hibernation, the cranes feast on the grains to sustain their bodies for the long flight.

There are six subspecies of Sandhill Cranes, some migratory and others non-migratory. The Sherburne species is the Greater Sandhill Crane, standing at four and a half to five feet tall with a six foot wingspan, but only weighing between ten and fourteen pounds! The mated pairs stay together for life and both help incubate and raise the one or two young ones that hatch after a thirty-day incubation time. The young ones with their awkwardly long legs are called colts.

As dusk approaches, groups of cranes fly from the fields to return to the refuge.

There was a lot of chatter. I wondered if there were ‘leaders’ who decided when it was time to fly and what the signal was to do so. I did notice that some would flap their wings on the ground, like an impatient ‘time to go,’ while others were still very invested in consuming more corn.

At a clearing on the edge of the refuge lands, we parked to watch the mini-migration back to the roosting grounds. Wave after wave after wave of different sized groups flew over our heads and to both sides of us. We didn’t notice how long this deluge of chattering cranes continued, but we did eat our picnic supper under the constant serenade of the Sandhills.

Sandhill Cranes and animals in the wild ‘eat to live.’ It takes an inordinate amount of their time to find and consume the food that sustains their lives. The abundance of harvest gleanings at this time of year is the Cranes’ needed fuel for migration, just as the fall ‘fattening’ period is for other animals facing a tough, cold winter. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I ‘live to eat,’ but food has definitely been my ‘go to,’ my refuge, as a coping mechanism for most of my life. I know I’m not alone. So how does one leave the refuge of food and find sustenance elsewhere? The same can be asked of alcohol, drugs, gambling, and any other addiction, though food falls into a unique category in that one actually does need food to survive. Abstinence does not work. Therefore, the impetus of change needs to occur on the inside. How can I stretch out that time period between the uncomfortable, distressful feelings and the act of reaching for food? What could I possibly do that would make me feel better in this moment than half a bar (or more) of dark chocolate? In my experience, it takes an inordinate amount of will and often a lot of pain (either physically or emotionally) to initiate that will. It has so much to do with self-love and feelings of worth and self-compassion and ‘but I deserve…’ and ‘who has my back?’ (chocolate always has my back) and what’s easy and what’s hard and wave after wave after wave of very real feelings that in reality have nothing to do with food. And therein lies the answer—a new refuge is needed, and I can be its creator.

Fire and Refuge

November 15, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality. –Miles Neale

There was something a bit off when we drove into the parking lot of Blue Hill Trail at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. I saw prairie land, a big hill, and some scattered trees. I couldn’t identify what didn’t seem right. We readied ourselves for the four or five mile loop, then set out on the sandy trail. Almost at once I noticed the standing totem of a burnt tree—not unusual in any place we hike. But the colorful-for-Fall Sumac seedheads were much more delightful.

It was not long before we saw other burnt, dead tree trunks. Had there been a wildfire here? Most of the trees were Oak—White Oaks who had dropped their leaves and Red Oaks who were still adorned in their rust-colored finery.

From that point on, most every tree we saw had been damaged by fire. The big, beautiful Oaks were in various stages of decline—some were dead and fallen, others were dead and standing, and quite a few others were alive, but distorted in their growth. That’s what was off about my first impression—the trees no longer had a normal canopy for the size of the tree. Lower branches were gone, some limbs were dead, and the rest of the foliage was concentrated towards the top of the very tall trees. Survival seemed very uncertain for the standing, living dead.

The undergrowth, or I should say, the new growth since there wasn’t much ‘under’ left, was a combination of Hazelnuts, shrubby, multi-stemmed Red Oaks, Raspberries, and some Willows in marshy areas. The purple-stemmed Raspberries conveyed their color in sharp contrast to the brown landscape.

Hazelnuts—the actual nut—are usually long gone by this time of the year, eaten by deer, wild turkeys, squirrels, and pheasants. But the shrubs were so abundant in this area that many nuts remained, peeking out from their curled husks.

Autumn revealed an ‘unhidden’ nest in the bare branches that had earlier given protection and security to the hard-working bird.

Pocket Gopher mounds were everywhere. I wondered how they could build their burrows in such sandy soil without the walls collapsing all around them. Deer tracks were plentiful also, all along the trail. We joked about the trails being for humans or deer, and Chris noted they were just like us, taking the path of least resistance.

When would this come crashing down?

All 30,000+ acres of Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge is a combination of forest, prairie, lakes, and wetlands. It was established as a refuge in 1965 to protect and restore habitat in the St. Francis River Valley for migratory birds and other wildlife. During the months of March through August, most areas are closed to the public to allow the wildlife to breed and raise their young ones without human disturbance.

Two-thirds of the way through our hike we came to Buck Lake. More than a dozen Muskrat houses poked up from the marshy water and reeds.

On a mud bar in the middle of the lake, a family of Trumpeter Swans was busy with the business of preening and cleaning their feathers. Beyond the Swans was a flock of ducks feeding in the shallow water with ‘bottoms up.’

After the preening, Mother and Father Swan slid into the water and glided through the reeds, the wind messing their just-smoothed feathers.

The young cygnets followed their parents, their dusky gray feathers getting ruffled in the wind. They will migrate and winter as a family, and their parents will most likely return to this lake to nest again. Trumpeter Swans and Muskrats have a synergistic relationship—when Muskrat and Beaver populations increase, Swan populations also increase, as they use the tops of the dens for nesting sites.

Seven young Swans a swimming…

Beyond a Mullein patch was an evergreen forest, which I later learned was referred to as the Enchanted Forest.

It was a forest of Spruces—the first wholly Spruce forest I remember seeing. The trail wound through the towering trees. It was dark and quiet, so unlike the rest of the hike. It did seem enchanted!

We emerged from the forest with Blue Hill in our sights—the highest point in the refuge. Trees still showed their wounds, the lasting legacy of the destruction of fire.

With a little research after I was home, I discovered that Blue Hill had had ‘prescribed’ burns in 2009, 2015, and 2018. Prescribed burns are fires that are carefully planned to take into account temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction. They were being used to restore the Oak savanna by thinning non-native grasses and plants while promoting the health of native vegetation. They had protected the Enchanted Spruce Forest by how and where they set the fire. It sounds good in theory, and good practices were used, but something went wrong. They harmed the very trees they were trying to protect—the towering White Oaks. Fire will take the path of least resistance—most destructive forces will, whether of Nature or mankind. So how do we find refuge in the face of destruction? We can bury ourselves in the sand, not seeing, not listening, hoping for the best. (Though I bet there were plenty of roasted Pocket Gophers after the fire that decimated those trees.) We can run away in fear and busyness, not taking the time to ‘read the landscape’ and gather information. We can sit on our island of entitlement refusing to see the flames that are engulfing those around us. “True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality,” says Miles Neale, a Buddhist psychotherapist. It is a brilliant statement. Refuge is defined as a condition of being safe or sheltered from pursuit, danger, or trouble. To truly have refuge we need reality, the reality of facts, evidence, expertise, and truth, along with the reality of love and compassion that emanates from our spiritual beliefs. We don’t want to destroy the very things we are trying to protect. Fall into the refuge of reality.

The Meeting Place

November 8, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

When I was in my early twenties, I was staying with friends of mine who lived out in the country. Before going to sleep one night, I saw a light flashing by the window. Instantly I was scared. I froze in stillness with my eyes wide open, trying to see where the light was coming from. Was it somebody walking around with a flashlight? My friends were sleeping in the next room. I was convinced I was in danger, that there was a bad person prowling around outside, but I was frozen with fear. I don’t know how long I lay there in fear, finally falling asleep against my will.

We headed east from Ely. Superior National Forest surrounded Highway 1 in Autumn glory. Our late September trip up north wasn’t quite over, even as we were heading home. We drove to the shore of Great Lake Superior. It is such an amazing sight! We stopped at Tettegouche State Park—just one of around 17 state parks that line the eastern border of Minnesota along Lake Superior, the St. Croix River, and the Mississippi River. Tettegouche is a French Canadian phrase meaning “meeting place.” The land was home to a logging camp in the late 1890’s, then a fishing camp and retreat, and conserved by a couple owners and The Nature Conservancy before becoming a state park in 1979. With the afternoon waning, we opted to hike to High Falls along the Baptism River, the highest of four falls that drop the Baptism River 700 feet to Lake Superior.

Getting up to the falls took a substantial amount of breath, but once there, we walked across the swinging bridge to peer upstream and downstream to the edge of the falls.

Trails on both sides of the River, along with the bridge, allowed us to see the spectacular rock face and sixty feet of cascading water.

We hiked back down to the car, crossing the Superior Hiking Trail that runs though the park.

We wanted to see where Baptism River meets Lake Superior. The rock cliffs guided the River to the Great Lake who had tossed up a sand bar of polished rocks, seemingly blocking the flow of the river.

The ‘rockbar’ stretched across most of the mouth, but the River rushed around the corner of it, spilling into Superior.

We rock-hounded for a while, gathering some, leaving other ‘heart’ treasures the spirited Lake protects with her cold waters.

The spectacular Shovel Point, where rock meets water, glowed in the evening sunshine.

The clouds and dancing light of the sunset reflected down on our Minnesota sea where sky meets water.

It was many years after my frightening experience when that memory came rushing back to me. It was when I saw a light flashing by a window, just like that time so many years ago. This time I didn’t freeze. I was able to walk to the window and look out…. I saw fireflies. I had had a life-threatening encounter with fireflies. This time I marveled at how bright the tiny insects were when they flew close to the window. It’s such an embarrassing story, but it was very real to me. When we are exposed to what we perceive to be a life-threatening experience in our childhood and there is no resolution, our bodies become programmed for fear—for fight, flight, or freeze. Without thinking, my body froze when I was a young adult. Adrenaline coursed through my body, my heart raced, my pupils dilated. Fear took over my brain and body.

We are a nation divided by a great chasm of belief systems that are seemingly miles and years apart. Each side fears the other. I’m here to remind us that fear first works on our bodies and in the process, shuts down the logical, reasoning pre-frontal cortex of our brains. When we are in fight or flight mode, there is no reasoning with us. I truly believed that I was in danger that night, that I was going to be harmed. But in reality, I was safe. Fireflies pose no threat. I was wrong in my fear, my very real fear. This is when and where we need to extend grace to ourselves and others. Grace is the meeting place between us humans and the divine. It allows us to have a meeting place between our hearts and minds in order to dispel the fear that is taking over our bodies. That is work only we can do for ourselves, albeit with help from others. Blessings to us all in this endeavor.

We may differ widely in environments, education, learning, knowledge, or lack of it, and in our personalities, our likes and dislikes. But if we set ourselves the task, we’ll find a meeting place somehow and somewhere. Faith Baldwin, 1893-1978

It’s Time to See Our Roots

November 1, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

We take things for granted. Things unseen, things that have been in place for a long time, things we don’t think about, and things we just believe to be true and steadfast, even when the evidence says otherwise. Election season is such an interesting social experiment. I have taken voting for granted at various times in my life—I believed that all would be well whether I voted or not. I naively presumed that anybody running for office believed in the sanctity of the office being pursued. I trusted that public servants worked for all people in their constituency. And it didn’t even occur to me that there were people out there who didn’t want everybody to vote and to vote easily. (sigh)

What keeps a tree from falling over? We don’t think about it or usually see the structures that anchor a tree upright. Before leaving Ely on our Northwoods trip, we stopped to see Kawishiwi Falls, a place the kids have talked about from their summers there. Soon after we began our short hike, I saw a tree with roots like octopus legs! As I looked more closely, I realized that the tree grew out of an old stump and the roots grew down over and around the decaying wood. How unusual!

But that was not out of the ordinary in this place! Soon another rooted anomaly presented itself. The Birch tree trunk had been stripped of layers of white bark by passersby. (Not a good practice.) The tree and its roots curved around a large rock, depicting a long-necked turtle-creature being showered by Fall’s golden coins.

A stately White Cedar was poised on a knoll strewn with rocks with its exposed roots reaching towards the trail.

Another Birch grew on top of a flattened boulder, roots flowing out like a ballroom gown from a tiny-waisted dancer.

Rocky soil and years of erosion have exposed the roots of these giant trees—some with roots as big as trees themselves. It made me think about what it would look like if we could peer through the soil and see all the root systems of all the trees, intertwined, interconnected, working together to support and nourish each tree and all the others. The unseen foundation we mostly take for granted.

Along with the exposed roots, the falling leaves were everywhere. Fall is the ultimate recycling process, nourishing and replenishing the soil with fallen leaves.

I could hear the falls before I could see them. The terrain underfoot became solid rock. Then we saw the tumbling, aerated water flowing over the dark rock of Kawishiwi Falls. Kawishiwi is an Ojibwe name meaning the ‘river full of beaver and muskrat houses.’ It was a thoroughfare for Native Americans, explorers, and fur traders—all of whom had to portage around the 70-foot-high falls that links Garden Lake with Fall Lake.

In the late 1800’s, it became the route where loggers floated the huge, fallen trees to the mill town of Winton.

In the early 1920’s, as the railroad took over the transport of logs and the demand for electricity grew, the Winton dam and powerhouse were built to produce electricity. Nearly 100 years later, the power of the River is still generating zero emission, carbon-free electricity.

From the falls, the River flows around a little island into Fall Lake.

A portage trail (where people carry their canoes and supplies to get from one lake to another) still connects the two lakes for the canoeists. Along the trail I noticed this branch that had been drilled by a woodpecker. The drills were not fresh—some healing had taken place around the wounds, but the wounds were abundant. A tree can heal from wounds of many kinds unless they are too extensive.

We walked back from the falls through the forest Fall spectacular. Though most mourn the passing of warm weather a tiny bit, it is reassuring to see the next iteration of the progression of seasons.

Nature gives us some comforting certainty. With Autumn, we know the daylight hours decrease, the weather cools, the leaves change color and fall from the trees. We know that Winter will follow. We can take that for granted—for now, at least. We the people and our right to vote are the roots of our democracy. We the people are the ones that keep government upright, keep it stable and able to weather the storms of economic uncertainty or of a pandemic. I will not take my right to vote for granted again, for there has been a wounding of our democracy. Lies are wounds, foreign interference and disinformation are wounds, and the dismantling of expertise is an extensive wound. It’s time to heal. Don’t take truth and integrity for granted. It’s time to see our roots.

The Light of Our Better Angels

October 25, 2020 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

I’m reading a book entitled “The Friendship of Women” by Joan Chittister for my church group. One line jumped out at me as I read it: “It requires us to surround ourselves with people who speak to the best part of us from the best part of themselves.” It sounds simple. I believe in seeing the best in other people, giving them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps even to my detriment. My ‘best part’ doesn’t always show up when I speak—I react from old patterns of fear even as I daily try to change them. When I read that line, my first thought wasn’t about my personal life, however; it was about our public life as a nation. What if the election season ads came from the ‘best part’ of each party to the ‘best part’ of all of us? What if Congress and the White House gave their ‘best part’ to one another in service to the people of the United States?

The negative ads, memes, comments, and daily talk on the news and around the kitchen table is like a slow, insidious fog enveloping us, blinding us to common decency and connection. It draws a line in the sand, wants us to pick a side and come out fighting. It is detrimental to our bodies, minds, and souls. In our late September trip to the Northwoods, we cleared the air. We pledged not to talk about politics. We had no tv or social media. We had better things to do and more important things to talk about. (We did inadvertently land in the lap of politics two times, but we quickly pivoted away again.)

We had rain at various times each day and night when we stayed at KoWaKan. Our hike to Secret/Blackstone trail in Superior National Forest was under a blue sky and bright sun. By afternoon, the clouds started rolling in. Four of us went canoeing and fishing at a nearby lake, while the rest of us stayed at camp and canoed. Emily and Chris got rained on when they were out. Those rain clouds passed, and the sun shone again.

Emily and I got rained on when we went out, but we also saw what happens when rain and sun collide!

We dried ourselves and our socks by the campfire. The fishermen returned with stories of a small catch and a beautiful rainbow.

We prepared hobo dinners—ground beef, onions, carrots, baby potatoes, the last picking of green beans from the garden, butter and seasoning, all wrapped up in a double layer of aluminum foil—and placed them on the coals of the fire. We ate our campfire-cooked meal around the fire as the sun slipped behind the trees, and the sky darkened. We looked for stars between the clouds.

My day had started with a welcome from the eagle across the lake, progressed with a challenging, breath-taking hike in the National Forest, continued with a canoe ride bathed in rain and a rainbow, and ended with a delicious meal—surrounded by people speaking from the ‘best part’ of themselves. The ‘best part’ of me declared that this was the best day I have had in years! “Better than the Super Bowl weekend?” they challenged. That was very good and fun, but this was better. “Better than our trip to Wisconsin last year before Covid?” I loved that, but this day was better. Part of what was better was just how much ‘better’ I was on this day than on those others. Part of the better was being in the unbelievable beauty of Nature. Better was being in such a special place with so many good memories and stories. Better was being away from the negativity and stress of the pandemic and politics.

The next day we did a little more canoeing and fishing, packed up our things, and got ready to leave.

I am not delusional enough to believe that we can exist in a utopian world. I know unresolved hurts and traumas in our lives affect how we view the world, how we treat other people, and how we act and react. I know that my best self doesn’t show up all the time. I also know that drawing a line in the sand and tossing bombs of hate and disrespect do not make a United States of America. It does not make us a better country or better people. Our lives right now are stormy and messy. Our spirits are dampened. I wish you could all feel the way I felt at the end of that wilderness day—deep satisfaction, joyful happiness, and peaceful contentment in my body, mind, and soul—all wrapped up like the promise of a fleeting rainbow. I now know how ‘better’ feels. We can have a new beginning with each sunrise. Like the eagle, we can call out a welcome to others. We can place our feet on the Earth and see her beauty. We can glide on water and feel the blessing of rain. We can make a promise to do better. We can nourish our bodies with good food and nourish our minds and spirits with people bringing the ‘best part’ of themselves to the fire ring. We can look for the light of stars and the light of our better angels.

Come Hike With Me

October 18, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Leave behind your worries. Don’t think about the Corona virus. Put politics and the ugliness that is election season out of your mind. Take your time. Look closely. Let’s get present. Let’s get real. Come hike with me.

Superior National Forest encompasses nearly four million acres in the ‘arrowhead’ of Minnesota. On our trip up north, we hiked the Secret/Blackstone Hiking Trail. The nighttime rain had cleared away to blue skies. The air was crisp, the sun was warm, and breakfast of fire-toasted bagels was in our bellies. We were ready to go!

The young ones waiting for the older ones to catch up

Claw marks. I’m not the only one who slid down this steep part.

Marsh and creek from Blackstone Lake to Flash Lake

Aspens–one of the first to grow after a burn

How do you feel? Three hours, more than four miles. Lots of lakes. Challenging rocky trails. Exquisite Nature! Breathe deeply. All is right with the world in this moment.

Wilderness Kaleidoscope

October 11, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

The Coronavirus has honed our list of needs for our lives. We all have bumped up against the brick wall of ‘what do I need in life’ versus ‘what do I want in life.’ Especially in the early days of the virus and perhaps in the winter yet to come, our narrowed vision from stay-home, work-at-home, order-from-home is a tumbling, moving, ever-changing kaleidoscope. What do we need? Toilet paper–yes, food–yes, hand sanitizer–yes–well, maybe–soap and water works, too. Do we need to eat out? No. Think of all the people who have learned or re-learned the simple pleasure of preparing daily food for loved ones!

After our brief time in Ely, we headed east on the Fernberg as the clouds gathered. We pulled off the road at Rookie Pond overlook—a beautiful view at any time of the year. It was a kaleidoscope of Fall colors—not in a narrow vision like the optical toy—but a panorama that circled around us, towered above us, and displayed below us.

Even as we flirted with raindrops, we took pictures and looked out over the water with the excitement of being in this wonderful place again and of the anticipation of our time together. The beaver lodge, expansive in size, enduring in longevity, reminded me of the constancy of certain things in Nature—every time over our thirteen years of coming up here, the beaver lodge has been here with a topping of new birch logs.

Two Trumpeter Swans swam and dipped their heads into the water in the beautiful landscape of their Rookie Pond home.

We arrived at KoWaKan, the wilderness camp of the United Methodist Conference. It had been the summer home for two of our kids over a span of six years or so. Staff, campers, and visitors have everything they need: a kitchen and dining area…

…cupboards protected with bear bars, though sometime in the last year a bear had tried to get into them, as evidenced by the torn-away wood and claw marks…

…a hallway of trees…

…to the bedrooms…

…and a short walk…

…to the bathroom.

There’s water, abundant and muscle-powered…

…and a fire for warmth, companionship, and a morning cup of coffee or tea.

It has been eleven years since Emily has worked here or been here—she was excited to show this incredible place to her husband. Aaron knows this place like the back of his hand—both have walked the trails untold times, packed food and gear for countless trips into the Boundary Waters, and started innumerable fires, both here and on trail. For when one is ‘on trail’ in the Boundary Waters Wilderness Canoe Area, the ‘needs’ of a person are further reduced. The kitchen and dining room are around the fire, the cupboard is what one can carry in packs and bear barrels, the bedroom is a mat and sleeping bag on the floor of a tent, and the bathroom is an open-air latrine. Sometimes our list of ‘needs’ needs to be pared down for us in order to experience something out of the ordinary, something extraordinary.

Something extraordinary like waking with the early morning light, quickly pulling on clothes in the chilly air, starting a fire and heating the water for a cup of good tea, and hearing the trilling chatter of an eagle across the lake. I think she was welcoming us to her home—she talked for a long while.

When is the last time you looked through a kaleidoscope of tumbling colors? The optical toy was created over 200 years ago by Scottish inventor David Brewster. The word ‘kaleidoscope’ is from the ancient Greek words meaning ‘observation of beautiful forms.’ The wilderness is an expanse of beautiful forms. It is infinitely enduring, constant in its cycles of life. What do we really need in life? What literally sustains us? What gives us ‘life‘—that feeling of joy, contentment, energy, and deep spiritual satisfaction? When the trappings of our lives are stripped away, we come face-to-face with ourselves. It gives us an opportunity to discern what’s truly important for our very own hearts and souls. May the wilderness of your heart be an expanse of beautiful forms.

Lichens & Leaves, Rocks & Trees

October 4, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

I don’t spend a lot of time in front of a screen on a daily basis—some tv, some computer, no ipad or phone. I’m not required to spend eight hours or more on a computer for work like so many other people, especially in this covid time. That is not a choice for most people—but what about the time we do have for choosing? It’s a touchy subject to say the least, just like questioning any way we choose to spend our time. I’m sure you know what I mean. Screen time is rather addictive, and we think it is serving us well—it informs us, connects us, records our activities, entertains us, relaxes us, makes us feel in control…doesn’t it? But what happens when we don’t engage with screens and social media? When was the last time you spent a whole evening without any of that, let alone a full day? It’s a study in self-awareness. Were you anxious, bored, uncertain, or crazy without it? Is ‘screen life’ your ‘real’ life?

Last weekend I spent three days with family members in the Northwoods—no screens, no phone, no news, no social media. It used to be that cell phones wouldn’t work up there at all, but that has changed with the installation of cell towers, which are an intrusion on the wilderness.

We had a beautiful drive to Ely—the Birch and Aspen trees were brilliant yellow, and Maples were all shades of yellow, orange, and red. After a few stops at our favorite places—The Front Porch for my favorite tea and Piragis Northwoods Company—we began our time in the woods and by the water. Shagawa Lake is on the north side of Ely and has a park and beach area. A hiking trail along a peninsula took us across a bridge to an island of lichens and leaves, rocks and trees.

A small grove of Northern White Cedars dropped their flat, ferny leaves among the Pine needles and Birch leaves. A beautiful look of Fall.

A broken Pine tree shows how a tree grows, layer upon layer, scrolling around the ‘knot’ of a branch and protected by the thick bark.

Lichens growing on rocks and trees were like works of art. Lichens are interesting creations—most are composed of a fungal filament or structure that houses green algae or a cyanobacterium. It is a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship! They require moisture, minerals, and sunlight for photosynthesis.

The island and much of the land in the Boundary Waters Wilderness is rocky. The soil is shallow, and yet the trees grow. But the roots are often exposed as they curl upon the rock.

Lichens show up with different colors that are dependent on exposure to light and on availability of certain pigments.

This is an example of a shrubby or Fruticose lichen. Snails, voles, squirrels, and reindeer eat lichens, though some are toxic to poisonous for humans.

Many of the rocks had both lichens and moss growing on them. Mosses are primitive plants with a simple root-stem-and-leaf structure.

The ecosystem of the island, as in all forests, contained dead and dying trees of all forms—broken and twisted, woodpecker drilled, and water-smoothed driftwood.

On the rocky outcropping at the end of the island, we found Butter and Egg flowers blooming. They are an invasive species that the DNR recommends eradicating, pretty as they are.

Beyond the flowers we found these tiny Snapping Turtles! They looked like rocks and were not moving until Aaron warmed them up in his hands. We figured they must have hatched recently—maybe from the hole one crawled back into once he was warm. Eggs take around 72 days to hatch, and the sex of the hatchlings is determined by the temperature of the nest!

It was a good start to our Northwoods weekend. Even though the skies were cloudy and we were expecting some rain each of the days, the temperature was fairly mild. We could not have planned a better weekend for the Autumn colors. We hiked back through the trees, over the lichen-covered rocks, through the fallen leaves and pine needles, and over the bridge in order to get to our destination and set up camp before nightfall.

We are living in extraordinary times when computers, phones, and screens of all kinds seem to be our lifeline to work, meetings, church, friends, family, sports, and our own sanity. It is all stress-inducing but necessary nonetheless. How do you know when you’ve had too much screen time? Do you feel it in your body? Wired and tired? Can’t fall asleep? Irritable or anxious? My daughter Emily says she knows it’s too much when her brain won’t relax. It’s hard to distinguish between the stress of actually being connected to our devices and all the stress of living right now. Don’t underestimate the negative effects of electronic devices on your physiology. But this I know—an antidote for stress of any kind is Nature. Our bodies ‘know’ the natural world—it is a relief for our wired bodies to be walking on the earth, feeling the bark of trees, breathing in the natural oils produced by trees, evergreens in particular, seeing the colorful lichens, and hearing the water lapping against the shore. It reduces our stress hormones, decreases our heart rate and blood pressure, and boosts our immune systems. Nature is a powerful healer and the backbone of real life.

Seasons Within a Season

September 27, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Imagine our lives as Mother Nature sees us—as a part of Nature, a part of Her. We are like the trees, moon, rivers, the prairie, elk, dragonflies, and the sweet apple. We were created as one of them. We have cycles, instincts, reflexes, and a myriad of functions that perform without our conscious will. We are physiological miracles! Our lives are on a trajectory towards death—that’s how it is generally portrayed, that is. Then we do all sorts of things to not think about that end—how do we distract ourselves, hold on to our youth, our old values, our accumulated wealth?

Imagine our life’s trajectory defined as seasons. Whether we view our lifespan as 80 or 100 years, we have completed our Spring season by our early to mid- twenties. Just when we feel we are ‘beginning’ life on our own, we are one-fourth of the way through our journey. We have budded, developed, learned, created, become. Our twenties, thirties, and into our forties are our Summer—productive, vibrant, energetic, full of growth. Summer gets things done.

Here we are in Autumn—literally. It is a favorite season for many, a season of harvest, brilliant leaves, campfires, pumpkins, cool weather, and a turn towards the hearthside. A short walk outside my door immersed me in the transition season—it could not be denied. A Birch tree and Hazelnut shrub are showing their colors.

Virginia Creeper vines, once just another green-Summer thing, stand out in brilliant red, and always project a poinsettia-like image of another season to me.

A sweep of Sumac under the yellowing Elms is showing its fiery colors and is being noticed in this Autumn season.

Even the ‘evergreen’ Pine trees change color and drop some of their needles in the Fall. They are culling the number of needles, downsizing in order to conserve energy during the cold winter.

I found a couple of Wild Turkey feathers on the shared trail along with yellow Milkweeds, rosy leaves and berries of a Mountain Ash tree, a tall, fuzzy-leaved Mullein, and the mottled tips of an Oak.

Back in the yard, a Wild Plum tree reminded me of an Autumn person—day by day there was a slight change of color, like a person gradually going gray.

The Crabapple tree, with its dark purple Summer leaves, actually gets brighter and more beautiful in Autumn.

Looking at our lives as seasons honors the development and beauty of each part. It has a rhythm and sensibility about it. There is no ‘over the hill’ as there is on a birth-to-death time line. In each season we have ‘work’ to do, challenges to overcome, and things to experience and learn. It’s like each season of our lives has its own cycle of seasons! Seasons within a season! And yet each is unique—Autumn is the only time the leaves turn brilliant colors and drop from the trees. It is a time for culling and downsizing. The Autumn season of our lives gives us empty nests, just like the birds. We conserve energy, and as the old way leaves us, we enter a period of quiescence while looking forward to a future new thing. No need for distractions. The seasons and cycle of Nature sustain us.

Snowed Under

December 15, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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