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Puzzling Places

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I appreciate our brain’s ability to ‘fill in the blanks.’ In any given situation, our brain has a puzzle of sorts before it—some pieces are the sensory information our body gathers on an ongoing basis—what we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, the temperature on our skin, the ground under our feet, and so many other things we are not aware of in the moment. Other pieces are the actual facts—the day, the time, the place, who is with us, what is happening. Most of this puzzle-piece-gathering happens in an instant of time and often without our conscious awareness. But then there’s a dilemma for our brain—the picture is not complete. Some things are missing. In a desire for order and wholeness, our brains ‘fill in the blanks.’ We use our past experiences and/or our imaginations to extrapolate the rest of the picture—and it feels better, more satisfactory. It’s a remarkable ability that allows us to function in a productive way, so we don’t have to ‘re-learn’ everything in any given situation. It can also get us into trouble when the puzzle pieces we have inserted look like they fit but are really the wrong pieces.

Going to Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in the southeastern corner of Minnesota challenged many of my Minnesota optics—the land of 10,000 lakes vs. an area with no lakes, a glacial state vs. the ‘driftless’ area that is devoid of the sand, gravel, and silt (called drift) deposited by the last glaciers. It is an area like no other in the state, and at first, it’s a little mind-bending. One of the mind-bending occurrences was the disappearing river that we learned about on our Mystery Cave tour. The South Branch Root River disappears into the cave which is at a constant, year-round temperature of 48 degrees, and is cooled by its journey underground. That is why 700 miles of streams and rivers in this area are designated cold water trout streams. The landscape here is known as ‘karst’ where limestone and other soluble rocks have eroded to form sinkholes, springs, underground rivers, and caves.

Mystery Cave is the longest known cave in Minnesota—over thirteen miles of underground passageways. Ours was the one hour tour that is accessible to most, but there are two and four hour tours that include much more rugged terrain and smaller pathways that require crawling. The cave is home to hibernating bats in the winter (they have a special door to get in and out) and is an actively forming cave with dripping water from above and pools and streams of water below the walkways. Come explore the cave with me!

Flowstone
A tree root growing through the ceiling
A hole in the ceiling formed by upward flowing water
Reddish ‘bacon’ formation
Broken stalactites
Cave popcorn
Turquoise lake

At one point in the tour, the guide turned off all the lights, and we were in total darkness. Our brains are not used to functioning in complete darkness, and some people still ‘see’ light. Our brains are ‘filling in the blanks’ again. The cave tour was such a cool, interesting part of our day. Later that night, after supper, when sitting around the campfire, a sliver of a moon shone in the western sky. We began to hear noises down by the dumpsters—the lids opening and banging closed. What could it be? It wasn’t people. I walked down the path to see who was doing the dumpster diving.

A truly tubby raccoon was climbing in and carrying out leftover food to eat on the top of the dumpster. He was not concerned when he saw me but returned to his supper routine.

The evening air was still, the campfire smelled of clean-burning wood, the trees were silhouetted against the still-light sky. It was a peaceful, restorative place.

The next morning, we drove to the little 1850’s village of Forestville at the northern end of the park. It was a ‘forgotten’ town when the railroad bypassed it, and eventually one man bought the whole town. A tour bus of people were gathering for a historic visit. Chris and I took to the trails that rose from the South Branch Root River up the forested bluff. Oak and Maple trees shaded the forest floor that was covered with ferns, Wild Geraniums, and Mayapples with an occasional red-pink Columbine. It was beautiful!

An overlook at the top of the bluff looked out at another bluff. This area of wooded hills and valleys seemed like a different world than central Minnesota—it was a confirmation of the splendid diversity of landscapes all encompassed in one state.

As I looked over at the next bluff, I noticed a stream flowing through the trees—it seemed so unlikely that a stream could be flowing so far up on a hill! But the karst region is a tangle of streams that begin from springs that flow through the underground rocks and defy the usual flow of water, just like the upward flow of water etched a hole in the ceiling of the cave. My brain’s ‘filling in the blanks’ of how things are, how things work was wrong in a place like this.

Our brains do what they do to expediate processing—we use what we have learned in the past to figure out what is going on in the present. But just like working on a real puzzle, when we have put a wrong piece in place, we eventually ‘see’ that it is wrong and remove it for the piece that really fits. That is the gift of learning—the picture becomes more complete, more satisfactory, more real. When we are stuck in our ways, stubborn in being ‘right,’ and unwilling to change out an ill-fitting idea or ‘fact’ for a valid one, we end up with a dystopian, Picasso-like, distorted picture. I never expected a Minnesota State Park, a place we went to for peace and comfort, would be a place that expanded my thoughts about darkness and water. We have an opportunity to learn every day, in every situation. Are we willing to do that in pursuit of a more whole, realistic picture of Life?

The Sweet Fragrance of Our Toil

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I remember the incredible energy and enthusiasm I had in early adulthood to make my way in life. I was naïve in the ways of the world and idealistic to a distinct and long-lingering fault. My pragmatic friend Judy tried to point out my rose-colored vision and give me a reality check, but I cheerfully resisted and persisted in my verdant views of life. I was young, fresh-faced, and immature in experience and judgement. I was in the early Spring of my life, teeming with tender ideas and raw emotions.

One month after we had been walking through those resistant, persistent snow piles in central Minnesota and after our short stay in Cassville, WI for Mary’s burial, Chris and I spent a couple of days in the verdant hills of Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in southeastern Minnesota. The trees had not fully leafed out yet—groves of Walnut trees, shy of cold temps, were just pushing out their young compound leaves. Everything was fresh and green and flourishing! This ‘driftless’ area of Minnesota was unglaciated in the last two glacial advances, but the glacial meltwater cut through the limestone and created the bluffs that predominate the area. Winding through and at the bottom of the bluffs are shallow, cold water streams and rivers that support trout, making this an angler’s paradise. After a death and burial, our bodies and minds do well to have a respite from the busy, ‘normal’ life that feels like an assault against the tenderhearted soul work of losing a loved one. This rich green park was a perfect place to buffer ourselves for a transition time back to normal life.

We hiked the Palisade Trail the first morning in the shadow of the palisade or line of cliffs that loomed over the shallow South Branch of the Root River. On the trail down to the river bottom, we saw Mayapples with their two umbrella leaves and single white flower.

Wild Geraniums and Honeysuckle flowers attracted bees and insects and disseminated a sweet fragrance.

The limestone cliff shaded the River and trail from the morning sun—it was noticeably cooler when we descended to the River.

Meadow Rue, Wild Mustard, and Wild Blue Phlox thrived in the cool valley of the rugged limestone cliffs.

With the heat of the sun and the cool of the valley floor, dew had collected on plants, including the beautiful Virginia Bluebells, and soaked our shoes as we walked.

There were fishermen trying to land a trout, and geese swimming in and flying above the River. It was a peaceful, beautiful place.

Later in the day, we walked another trail that wound by the Root River, through the campgrounds, and up over a Maple tree-covered hill and ridge. Ferns of every sort and large Jack-in-the-Pulpits lined the trail.

The park has a horse camp area, and we saw numerous riders on some of the trails we hiked. The horse trail forded the River below the road bridge. Hiking up the ridge was a good workout, and as we puffed our way up, a horse rider exclaimed that they let their horse do the work!

The trail at the top of the ridge was beautiful. I had expected there to be a flattened meadow once we got to the top, but the ridge was literally the ridge between two steep, deeply wooded valleys. Exploring a new place is always an adventure.

Early Spring, whether in our own lives or in Nature’s cyclic rhythm, is a time of fresh and supple greenness. Ideas, beliefs, faces, leaves, flowers, and all accompanying entities are unscarred, unscathed, and untested. Then comes Life, death, soul injuries, insects, weather, loss, and a whole host of things that temper the young, fresh living beings. ‘Temper’ is a key word about the process—it describes how steel is heated and then cooled repeatedly to improve its hardness and elasticity. Life does harden our young greenness, but it also increases our elasticity or resilience, if we include ‘the cooling.’

Whenever there is grief, a ‘heating up’, whether by the death of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, a stark and jolting reality check, or the gradual realization that a naïve, fervently-held belief is not nor ever has been true, we desire comfort. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”* Comfort is the ‘cooling off’, the neutralizer or counterbalance to the heat and pain of Life. It is often overlooked, undervalued, and not given its due time and respect by society. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.”* Green pastures, streams and rivers, old forests, ancient rocks, fragrant flowers, rest, love, words of care and understanding, hugs, and time for self reflection cool us down and restore our souls. Life is a good workout for our souls, but we have to do the restorative work ourselves. God knows it’s hard work, and he leads us on the right paths.* With each pain, each grief, each adventure, and each comfort, we are tempered—stronger and more resilient. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”*—the sweet fragrance of our toil.

*from Psalm 23

Flowing Together Like a Great River

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I grew up caring for animals. Always cats and dogs. Sometimes chickens and ducks. Later horses and cattle. I would feed them, make sure they had water, help build their shelters, and take care of their wounds. I hauled hay, cleaned out stalls, helped pull a calf, and doctored pink eye. Taking care of animals teaches responsibility, selflessness (chores come first), and hard work. I loved it, and I loved them.

I’ve been a little obsessed lately about what people care about and how it seems to be skewed in some odd directions. Can you make a list of things you really care about? And how do you know you really care about something? Spend time doing the work of caring? Spend money in support of the cared about thing? Give energy to the entity, relationship, or cause high on the caring list? And then, what is the outcome of your caring? That’s often even harder to identify and articulate. Certainly we gave time, money, and energy to caring for our animals—in return they gave us food, protection, fun, love, livelihood, and lessons, to name a few.

When looking up the definition of ‘care,’ I was surprised that the first meaning of the noun was ‘suffering of mind: grief.’ The second was ‘a disquieted state of mixed uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility.’ The third was ‘painstaking or watchful attention.’ The verb care was similar. Only later on the list of meanings for both was desire, regard, interest, or fondness mentioned. The first definition actually gets to the crux of care—if what we really care about is ‘taken away,’ suffering of mind is sure to follow.

Two weeks ago we pulled out of our driveway on the Great River Road and hours later drove the Great River Road into tiny Cassville, Wisconsin. We left the Mississippi River at times to expedite our trip, but the force of it was ever present on our minds. We returned to Cassville to bury Chris’ sister’s remains beside her parents and infant brother. The four and a half months since her death had taken the edge off our grief, but our disquieted minds still desired the closure of a burial. The permanence of a burial, along with prayers and blessings for the deceased and for those caring, grieving people left to live, is a sealing of that chapter of life.

After seeing the flooding the Great River unleashed in our area, we were curious to see what was happening in Cassville at the little resort cabin we had reserved that was the favorite of Chris’ folks. The floodwaters had risen to the edge of the cabins but had started to recede by the time we got there.

Our first visitor to the deck overlooking the River was a tiny Hummingbird. Soon after, we discovered a pair of Robins had a nest in the Birch tree that provided shade from the western sunlight. The male Robin took great care to bring food to his mate who warmed the eggs in the nest they had built.

The receding floodwaters and subsequent mud provided a perfect playground for a pair of Killdeer and their fluffy, long-legged offspring. Their halting scurrying, bobbing, and distinct high-pitched chattering made them endearing neighbors.

The people-free, flooded dock was a great place for the Northern Map Turtles to bask in the sun. I didn’t even see the little ones in the bright sunlight when I was taking the photo of the big one. The next day we saw one floating down the River on a log—I think they are glad for this warm Spring weather, too!

Across the slough on an island was a dead tree that provided the perfect lookout for an ever-watchful Eagle.

It was good to be in Cassville beside the River. The cabin hadn’t changed much since the folks had stayed there, and my mind easily ‘saw’ them standing against the pine-paneled walls or on the deck overlooking the River. These people who we so deeply cared for and loved were home again or still in this River land, in this familiar cabin, and as always, in our hearts. Evening came with softly rippled reflections. The still water seemed ‘alive’ with a humming layer of mosquitoes or other bugs that had the fish jumping. The well-fed fish had little interest in the lures and bait that Chris and Aaron were throwing into the water from the marina dock.

As dusk fell, a Spotted Sandpiper teetered about in the shallow water, and a beaver swam undeterred until Aaron threw his line too close for the rodent’s comfort.

I cared for our animals with diligence and love, and if one of them was injured or died, I suffered their injury or loss. I like the analogy of grief as suffering of mind—it normalizes the pain of loss and gives it a deep container and a long timeline in which to hold it. Time tends to ease a suffering mind in ways that make living a little more doable. I have learned that the next step is to give your suffering mind some watchful attention, some care, some love, so that life becomes more than just doable. If we think about our grief as a palpable display of caring and love, the grieving and the living flow together like a great river. When grief gets dammed up behind a supposedly protective wall, it can easily overwhelm everyday life. It displays as depression, anxiety, lethargy, anger, blame, hate, and violence. Remember, grief is a suffering mind, no matter the cause. I think Mary’s life and death taught me to bind the suffering with joyful living. As a person with Down Syndrome, she needed people to take care of her—there was always uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility with her care (just as with all children.) And she cared deeply for the people around her, for animals, and for her job—she lived with joy. I can suffer her death and live with a peaceful heart. It takes time, energy, and oftentimes money to really care about someone, a relationship, an entity, or a cause. Caring is the business of lifting up, providing for, giving attention to, and suffering at the loss of the cared-for; it is not a frivolous business. We can all step into the great river of caring and grieving, loving and suffering—it is a force that can change the world.

Heartwood

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When we had a beautiful newborn child come into our lives in the mid-eighties, I remember laying her on the bed with a colorful, hand-crocheted baby blanket and taking her picture. I took the film photos of her on the same blanket once a week. By the time we actually got the film developed and saw the pictures, it was astounding how much she had changed each week in those early months of her life! That is how the last six weeks of Spring have been—an astounding transformation from remnants of snow on the winter-desiccated landscape to fully leaved-out trees, green grass, and blooming flowers! Both are sure signs of the miraculous metamorphoses of Life!

Two weeks ago, on Mother’s Day, I was happy to visit Afton State Park with our son Aaron and his girlfriend Zoe. The park is a short drive to the east of Saint Paul on the Saint Croix River. My first impression was that it was ‘crowded’ with people, as are most of the parks that are easily accessible from the Cities. It had been a cloudy, misty morning, but skies were beginning to clear by the time we arrived. The Saint Croix River is an indomitable body of water that marks the eastern border of Minnesota for part of its length and joins with the Mississippi River not far south of Afton State Park. Afton is one of five state parks that preserves the wild beauty of the Saint Croix River bluffs. We followed the North River Trail, an old railroad bed that followed the River. From the built-up height and railroad bridges, we looked down on the flood waters that crept through the trees and housed dozens of waterfowl.

The leaves of the trees were fresh and light green in their annual coming out celebration. Going from bare branches to abundant, distinctly-shaped leaves covering those branches is a Spring miracle that never fails to amaze me!

Looking over the bridge into the rippling flood waters and tree reflections was a bit disorienting.

The flood plain and riverside are perfect places for Eastern Cottonwood trees to grow tall in height and large in girth. They love having their roots so close to the water.

If my first observation of the park was an abundance of people, my second was the absence of Spring wildflowers compared to the central Minnesota parks. We saw these delightful variegated ferns emerging and found a few clumps of golden-starred Puccoons, along with some white-flowered Rue Anemone, but that was about it.

Green was the color of the day, however, and after a long, white Winter, it is a welcomed change. The flooding and movement of the River had created sandbars, pools of water, and piles of debris. The receding water left patterns in the sand, mats of old vegetation, and opportunities for new spikes of green grass. And isn’t it amazing that along with new leaves, some trees have flowered and fruited already? Winged Maple seeds had flown from their new places on the branches to the sand below.

We left the riverside and began to climb the bluff on the switchback trail that led us up to the top. We saw the distinct, pocketed cap of Yellow Morel mushrooms, the most hunted wild mushroom, I would guess.

Close by was another mushroom, colorful and cute, that I should have taken a closer look at (as in the underside), because it is probably either a Golden Chanterelle (edible and desirable) or a Jack-o-Lantern mushroom (toxic). The Jack-o-Lantern has distinct gills on the underside and has a green bioluminescence when fresh! They glow in the dark—well named!

I also loved this bark palette of blue and green lichens. Mother Nature’s beautiful art.

We climbed past a stand of Red Pines and saw a broken branch that perfectly illustrates why the innermost, oldest part of a trunk or branch of a tree is called heartwood.

At the top of the bluff was an overlook of the Saint Croix River and a backpack campground. It is where the little baby I took pictures of in our old home in Missouri, camped with her college friends.

A bright flower-of-a-bird, the American Goldfinch, flitted from tree to tree, and sitting near the top of a dead tree was a Sharp-shinned Hawk watching the passers-by.

When we returned to the trail where we began, the sky had cleared and reflected blue on the water. There was even change in a couple of hours!

Spring brings constant changes, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, as Mother Nature transforms from dormancy to vibrancy. It is exciting to see the new leaves, plants, fungi, and flowers return. Mother’s Day is a reminder to me of the pregnancy days, the baby days (and nights), those fun-filled elementary days, the incredible growth of personhood in the middle and high school days—how fast they all go! Then the winged children fly away to college and beyond, to different states, different jobs, and different loves. Mother’s Day is now bittersweet for me—I no longer see the daily, weekly, monthly growth of my dear adult children. I can no longer take the weekly photos to stash those memories—not having those reflections is disorienting at times. I cherish the time I get to be with them and mourn the ‘childless’ holidays. I can only hope that they have loved having their roots grow from mine and that they have learned to appreciate Mother Nature’s art and miraculous science. And as they change and I change, I hope they know the love of my heartwood grows with them.

Threading the Needle

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This spring I participated in a Lenten book study at our church on conflict. The book was ‘Redeeming Conflict’ by Ann M. Garrido. As a conflict-averse person, it felt a little like stepping into the flame (okay, make that the fire). It was not at all comfortable or familiar to me, (but isn’t that what the Lenten season is supposed to be?) As a middle-child peacekeeper, I would much rather everybody just all get along, and then we wouldn’t even need this book or have these difficult conversations! The premise of the book is similar in that people may think there isn’t conflict in churches—that everybody all gets along in Christian love—but the author and the pastor who led our class knowingly pointed that out as a fallacy. Both also argued that conflict could be a ‘good thing!’ (Anybody else feeling uncomfortable?)

As a scientist, the subject of conflict was never on my list of classes. I readily believed that science is science is life—there are ideas (hypotheses), methods, protocols, experiments, data, results, and always those tentative conclusions with ‘further study is needed.’ There could be disagreement on the integrity of the hypothesis or the methodology, but it just meant that things needed to be honed and adjusted. And that there would always be more experiments! (I would like to acknowledge my naivete on conflict-free science with due respect to those of you who know that I am wrong about that.) As uncomfortable as the book topic was, it was also fascinating to me! I was stepping into a new universe of awareness. One of my favorite parts of the book was the idea that we tend to conflate the problem with the person we are having the problem with—the problem then becomes the other person or the other side, as in politics. Blame is a cheap and easy way to inflict pain and not take care of the issue. But we can step out of that by identifying the problem (which is often the hard part) and standing side by side with the person in unity to solve the problem. (I have shared this fascinating concept with a dozen people…and now all of you…in my enthusiasm that this should change the world!) But how do we thread that needle?

Last Sunday Chris and I went up to Crow Wing State Park by Brainerd. Most of the parks by major rivers in the state are still dealing with flooding, and when we checked the website, it said the south trails and the Red River Oxcart trail were impassable. We hadn’t been on the north trails for quite a while, so we set out to do that. We parked at the campground that had recently opened and headed north. The needle-like, green-as-can-be Sedge grass was blooming, as were the Bloodroots with their protective capes of curled leaves. Both are perennial pioneers of Spring.

After following the ridge for a ways, we began to descend the hill towards the Mississippi River….and found that our trail had ended in the floodwaters. This was a problem even the bridge couldn’t resolve.

We backtracked, then took a trail by the River that led to the boat launch. Another Spring pioneer, Prairie Buttercup, shone its little ray of sunshine in the brown leaf litter.

The River was full (of course, out of its banks), but the current had slowed from the fury of the tumultuous ice and snow melt. The puffy white clouds and the dark tree shadows were reflected on the water.

And then we got to the boat launch and parking lot. Both were full of water.

We backtracked again. We talked about how the River looked fairly calm, and suddenly Chris said, “Let’s walk out on that log.”

My first reaction was “You can do that” and then I looked more closely at the fallen tree the rushing water had unmoored.

At the base of the tree was a Garter snake stretched out in a patch of sunlight. The wind was cool from the northwest, so we were all enjoying the sun!

We tried another trail from the campground that connected to the Paul Bunyan State Bike Trail. We successfully navigated a low spot that had wetlands on either side. The Spring Peepers were singing loud and strong—it sounded like a million of them! But I could not spot a single one of the singers as I zoomed and scanned the marsh.

We hiked on the bike trail up on the ridge for a little while but knew we wouldn’t be able to loop around on the trail by the River, so once again we turned around. The valley below held the flood waters that spanned a half a mile or so from the bridge we couldn’t cross.

We took a trail that ran parallel to the flood waters to see how far we could go. Willow blossoms were perches for Red-winged Blackbirds, and trees that literally could not stand another flooding tipped and fell into the water.

Then in the brush of Willows, Red-twigged Dogwoods, and old, exploded Cattails, I saw the ‘eye of the needle’ embodied in a fallen log and its reflection. Anyone who has threaded lots of needles would recognize that shape.

The valley was vast when viewed from the reflections of the flood waters—it was another natural place that accepted the extra Spring water from the Mississippi River. I wondered how many places along the 2,340 miles of the Mighty Mississippi have been the overflow areas for all these millennia.

We hiked up the ridge cross-country to the campground when the trail became covered with water.

We drove to the south trails parking lot to see what the River was doing there. It is where the Crow Wing River meets the Mississippi River as they merge around the island of Crow Wing.

This convergence of high water from two rivers takes over the lowlands on the peninsula that is circled by the Red River Oxcart Trail. The trails were blocked in two directions, not far from the old townsite.

But the waters had receded from their highest mark, leaving behind a mat of debris.

So we headed for higher ground again, above the old townsite, above the flood waters, into a peaceful, sun-dappled pine forest. It seemed like a good place to stop and rest and breathe in the wonderful pine smell.

Threading the needle, besides the literal meaning, is defined as skillfully navigating between conflicting forces or interests; to find harmony or strike a balance; to find a path through opposing views. In football and other sports, it means throwing or hitting a ball through a narrow gap, all of which take an abundant amount of practice and dedication. On our hike, we were trying to find a path through the woods but were stymied in almost every direction by Mother Nature’s floodwaters. Even the bridge of connection had been washed away. Sometimes the power differential determines the path (and therein lies much of ‘the problem’). Conflict is the same way, despite my desire for fairness and mutual cooperation in identifying and solving a problem. Redeeming conflict may not work with those who have no desire for redemption. In facing the flood, we backtracked and tried again and again. We took the high ground to find peace for ourselves. We were happy with our day regardless of the setbacks. Redemption is the act of making something better or more acceptable. We can all do conflict better when we know better and dedicate ourselves to harmony. We can be perennial pioneers pushing towards a better life with our protective capes, sunny faces, and the ever powerful grace and mercy of God.

The Motion of Balance

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Balance. It’s one of those things we are constantly striving for in all aspects of our lives, whether we are aware of it or not. Our physiology is perfectly attuned to balance or homeostasis, always adjusting on the cellular and systemic level to bring our bodies ‘back in balance.’ We know the physical act of balancing (like standing on one foot) is good for our brains, muscle strength, coordination, and stability, and is linked to a longer life. Most of us aspire to a more optimal work–life balance, active–sleep balance, and doing for others–doing for ourselves balance. Our lives are really a great balancing act!

In Minnesota this year (and most), the seasonal scales are tipped towards Winter. We’ve had snow on the ground for over five months. To be fair, late Autumn and early Spring are also the owners of below freezing temps and snowflakes, though most just call that Winter. Where there is balance, there is also a continuum. Two weeks ago, we hiked at Sibley State Park on a trail we hadn’t been on before. We began on the short Pondview Trail, circling a shallow lake, wetland, and clearing. In the middle of the pond was a fresh mound of wetland vegetation with a Canada Goose standing on one leg on top of it. His neck was twisted over his back, and his bill was tucked under his wing. He stood that way for longer than we hiked around the pond, and I marveled at his balance. Herons, shorebirds, ducks, geese, gulls, and even some hawks stand on one leg at times. It is thought to be for thermoregulation—to prevent the loss of body heat from the unfeathered legs. Yet that doesn’t explain why flamingos, who live in warm climates, are often posed on one leg, but scientists speculate they can conserve energy with that stance.

Other waterfowl were more energized by the sunlight and warmer temps—a pair of Wood ducks swam along the reeds, then flew away from the intruding hikers. A pair of Mallards cared little for who was circling their pond as they were busy feeding in a constant bob of bottoms up.

As we left the wetland area, we began to see the primary trees that inhabited this woodland—tall, stately Cedars and spreading Oaks, along with scatters of Aspens on the sunny fringes. We walked in honor of Arbor Day that would be celebrated later that week. We walked as tree-lovers, tree-planters, tree-caretakers. Chris is nearing fifty years of working with trees as his career!

As we walked farther into the forest, snow still covered the trail in places. Turkey tracks looked like arrows pointing us in the opposite direction in which they walked. Coming and going. Back and forth. The motion of balance.

We passed by an old Cedar with branches flowing down to the ground. On such an old tree, the lower branches often die back with lack of sunlight. Its sturdy trunk with flared roots as large as legs and its drooping branches created a shelter of sorts that I’m sure was used by some critters during the long, snowy Winter.

We spotted an old rock foundation in the woods and followed a well-marked! deer trail to an old homestead, complete with the rocky remains of a cellar. The forest was reclaiming what once ‘belonged’ to man.

Much later down the trail, we saw where an old Oak had literally claimed an enamel vestige of the homestead.

The trail was a wonderful combination of sunny Oak stands and shadowy, snowy Cedar stands. It is a bit unusual to see such large Cedars as a significant portion of a forest. Unusual and wonderful.

Two bright spots on the hike were a yellow, lichen-covered stick and a Snowy Egret perched in the dried reeds of the wetland.

And towards the end of the trail was a moss-marked tree that resolutely confirmed our tree-loving hike!

Walking among the trees, those great, grounded, balanced beings, is an act of balance, a balancing act(ion). There is motion in balance—one way, then the other. We usually know when we or thee are too far to one side—when things are out-of-whack. It takes considerable energy to maintain such an unnatural stance, and the cost to the organism or system is great. A balancing act can be a move (how about ‘tree pose’ or ‘flamingo pose’?), a behavior (like a hike in the forest), service (to people or our Earth), work (oh-so-many kinds), or pretend (our imaginative, fun side). It takes time and energy to ‘right’ ourselves, but once a more natural balance is achieved, life is easier again. We are ‘in the flow’ of life. The motion of our balance is measured and easy, like a tree swaying in the breeze.

A Good Flood

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We’ve all experienced a flood of emotions—whether anger at an injustice, sadness with the loss of a loved one, shame when something triggers our feelings of unworthiness, or love with the first look at our newborn. This flood of feelings can be overwhelming, sudden and surprising, and many times bringing tears to our eyes. Often the flood is a messy collection of emotions that are not easily teased apart and compartmentalized—it could be anger-sadness-shame-love all rolled into one tsunami. We flail around in the overwhelm, sometimes apologizing for our tears, often wanting to retreat or hide from the defenselessness of our vulnerability, and feeling the need to quickly erect the wall of protection that normally hides those feelings from the rest of the world.

It’s a messy time of year in Minnesota for hiking. There are still ridges of old, packed snow on trails in the trees that are softened and slippery. Other places are muddy with snowmelt and rain and snow again. There are big puddles in places where even ‘waterproof’ boots are challenged. In spite of all of that, we ventured to Mississippi River County Park on Monday. The first thing Chris noticed, even before we got out of the car, was an Eagle circling the area above us. When we got out, we saw two, then three of the graceful gliders! That’s a good start to a hike!

As we crested the hill that plunges down towards the River, we immediately saw we would not be hiking our usual route—the whole woods below us was flooded!

The riverside trail was the River now. The banks were overwhelmed, overtaken by the high and mighty waters that had gathered from the snow and ice that had quickly dissipated to liquid form in the previous unseasonably warm week. No slowing down the melt; no slowing down the water.

We walked back up the hill, along the bluff ridge, to the blocked-off road that goes to the boat launch. The road had been built up enough to be dry, though there was evidence the water had surged over it sometime before we were there. The woods seemed unrecognizable in the swamp of water. A twisty tree looked like a sea serpent rising from the swale.

The leaf litter and debris that floated to the top of the floodwater shone in the evening sun and looked like snow that still clung to the higher ground.

A little chipmunk scurried around the base of a big Cottonwood tree. He seemed to be more worried about staying on high ground than about us walking by him. I wondered how many little critters had been displaced with the flood waters.

On either side of the road was water—debris-shining, reflecting, still, rippling, engulfing, submerging.

A green-moss-log-gator loomed from the swamp water.

The boat launch was filled to the parking lot, the usual ‘banks’ covered, the new banks only defined by how high the ground was at any given spot. The River was making and taking its own boundaries.

We heard the chatter of geese across the River. Some strong, brave souls were swimming upstream against the current. One pair flew upriver close to the water. Perhaps this is their ‘spring training.’ But then as we walked on, we noticed some geese rapidly flowing downstream with the swift current, like the ultimate waterpark slide! Was it the same ones who had just navigated against the current? They ‘let go’ of their striving and rode the rapids, turning and twirling like a kid on a saucer sled barreling down a steep, snowy hill. Do you suppose they do this for fun?

One pair rested on a log that had become driftwood in the flood waters.

We were able to walk a short distance along the river trail until the water once again overtook the lower land. A raft of ducks bobbed about on a quieter part of the River.

We headed for higher ground to finish our hike. Bright green moss glowed in the sunlight, brightening the still-gray woods. And despite the snow, it was sending up bloom stalks, shaking off the dormancy of Winter.

We rounded a corner beyond a row of tall Pines. The sun was bright in our eyes. Without sunglasses, I squinted to see what Chris noticed—in the glowing sunlight stood a young deer looking at us. I always marvel at these creature to creature encounters when curiosity of one another binds us together for a moment in time!

The Young One wandered away, not running, not raising her white tail in alarm. We saw her and another larger deer nibbling at things among the Oak trees. They watched us, and we watched them, all of us happy for the melting snow, the unveiling of the fuzzy, green Mullein and shoots of green grass, and for the imminent promise of Spring.

Mississippi River County Park is a stellar example of a ‘good flood.’ Most often when we hear the word ‘flooding,’ it is a crisis of washed out roads and damaged homes. Melting snow and Spring rains bring about an increase in the volume of water flowing down a river—and it needs someplace to go. Lowland around a river—the flood plain—has been the natural place to safely contain excess water. It has adapted to being flooded in the Spring, and the plant life renews itself with nutrients dropped on the soil as the flood waters recede. As humans have drained and developed or farmed lowlands, there is less area to safely contain the excess water. More of it runs off to places that cause damage. The lowland at the park is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do—it’s a good flood!

The same can be said of our flood of emotions. They are our release valves in the messy business of being human. We have adapted to be emotional beings—it keeps us connected to one another, provides us with information about ourselves and others, and helps to keep us safe. When we notice and express our feelings in a healthy way, it helps to avert a crisis that causes heartache and damage. So we just have to let the good floods happen, let the tears and water flow, witness the overwhelm and the adaptability, connect with curiosity, learn, and have fun!

Crossing the Threshold

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There are many times in our lives we encounter a threshold where time seems to slow down with the weightiness of our next step. We become aware of all that has transpired in the past, and depending on the facts and our mindset, it may be tinged with negative feelings or with feelings so positive we are reluctant to leave it behind. And yet, the unknown landscape before us is calling our name in whispers both alluring and compelling. We are standing at the point of no return. No matter how comfortable or beautiful or sad the past has been, there is no going back—we must take that step, cross the threshold, and continue forward.

I am the worst when standing on the threshold. I can barely bring myself to leave the comfort I have grown into and around, so thoroughly enmeshed in the steadiness I have built into my past. I can be looking forward to the next adventure with excitement—whether school or a new place to live—and still I have a knot in my stomach, tears in my eyes, and fingers clenched on the door jamb in a dare to time and loved ones to move me forward. I fail miserably at adaptability.

I usually argue with Mother Nature at this time of year as the warmer temperatures of Spring start to melt Winter’s beautiful snow. I don’t want to see it go. I adore the ‘snow light’ that permeates the house. I love the crisp crunch when walking on the miraculous crystals. The cold feels so good on my face and body. But this last week, I have (mostly) graciously conceded to time (it has been five months with snow on the ground), temperatures (how can it be 78 degrees?), and my loved ones (who can’t wait for warmer days and green grass.) Mother Nature has shoved us through the threshold into Spring!

On Easter Monday Chris and I hiked our last snow hike of the season at Greenleaf Lake State Recreation Area. The tracks on the slushy ice of the lake were vestiges of ice-fishing capades. There is no going back there this season.

Old cattails with bulgy, lightened seedheads were ripe for dispersal of the fluffy seeds. Soon they will fly away to their new homes to make new plants in the cycle and circle of life.

The trail was a combination of sunshiny bare ground and soft, sinky snow where the warm temps had released the solid structure of the frozen molecules.

The Red Oaks and Ironwoods were liberating the old leaves they had carried all Winter, and the beautiful amber color of them was littered along the wooded trail. The beautiful Spring-is-here litter in the dirty snow!

We saw trees in all states—fallen soldiers who now protect a waterway from erosion, a decaying tree that gives a focused vision of the lake, a towering Oak with the power of the sun behind it activating the bud-popping sap, and the bark-stripped, weathered wood of a standing piece of art.

There were trees stuck in the ice, leaning or fallen into the lake but still alive, connected to roots, and getting ready to grow in their unorthodox positions.

Long-fallen trees in the midst of decay sported colorful little shelf mushrooms, along with lichens and moss. There was life among the death.

The spiny caterpillar-like stem of a gooseberry branch will be one of the first to open green buds beside the sharp thorns.

And the vibrant scarlet stems of Red-twigged Dogwoods are setting their pointy-leaved buds on the threshold of Spring.

A holey tree with a halo of golden Ironwood leaves has seen many decades of the past and has fewer years of life before it. It is probably gripping the threshold with roots and branches, too. How does one leave such a beautiful, holy life?

But then I spot a constellation of stars in an old Oak leaf in the dirty snow. Water and sunlight, in just the right way, created a new cosmic entity! There is so much in the world that we don’t see and don’t comprehend. We are like tiny new buds in the timeline of our ancient world.

Mother Nature gave me a reprieve today on my threshold of Spring. We woke up to white and will have six inches by the end of the day. But it will most likely be gone again tomorrow. There’s no going back—Spring is here. There is always life of a new season after the death of an old one. The threshold time is a pause for looking back, for gathering the good that gave our hearts comfort and joy, but also for listening to the siren calls of our souls that entice us onward. What whispers do you hear? What constellation of stars do you see?

The Last Time

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How many times have you wistfully uttered the words, “This is going to be the last time….”? It seems to carry a fair amount of meaning for most of us when we are going to do something we love for the last time or see a dear one for the last time. I remember knowing my third pregnancy would be my last and thinking with great conscious intention I was not going to wish away one minute of it. It helps us savor the time and armors us with resilience, e.g., when morning sickness strikes day after day. I also know there can be great gladness, celebration, even a ‘good riddance’ when something happens for the last time when we are ready for it to be over and done.

Last Sunday I wanted to go snowshoeing, thinking it would be our ‘last time’ to do so this year. It has been a great snow year, and Chris and I have had the best snowshoeing Winter ever. And I kind of hate to see it go. Chris, however, has already crossed over into the ‘good riddance’ category for this year’s snow. It cannot melt fast enough for him (even though as I write this we are cleaning up from an April Fool’s Spring snowstorm with another one on deck for Tuesday and Wednesday.) Chris reluctantly agreed to my ‘last time,’ so we drove north a little ways to Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. The parking lot was slushy and muddy and had a large puddle of standing water! (What?!) The trail had been groomed for skiing, but the sun had deteriorated the snow so much that we didn’t heed the rules to ‘stay off the tracks.’

Anything lying on the ground soaked up the warmth of the sun and sank into the ripples of mushy snow.

The wetness of the snow was like a drag on our snowshoes. It was a few degrees above freezing but seemed warmer in the light of the sun. We shoed toward the trio of Poplar trees that surrounds an eagle’s nest, sure that we would see the eagles busy with their egg or chick tending. But no one was home, and for the first time at the park, we didn’t see any eagles anywhere.

With the draggy snow, we decided to cut off a section of the trail by going cross-country. The wet-soaked snow packed with each step, so we didn’t sink in very far, but it still took more effort than going on the groomed trail.

Back into the Oak savanna forest, we saw the trees that had been burned inadvertently by a prairie fire. One standing tree was burnt on the inside, making a home available for some creature. Others were burned all the way down.

We saw lots of woodpeckers flying between the trees, but Rice Lake was still covered with ice, so no waterfowl floated or flew about.

The Willows around the lake were red, but not one fuzzy gray bud was showing yet.

As we circled around the lake towards the Platte River that flowed from it, we realized that it, too, was still frozen with ice. I thought maybe a strip of the River would be ice-free and flowing, then wondered if that was why there were no eagles around yet.

About three-quarters of the way around the looped trail, I started to falter. I would stop and rest, then go on for a short distance, then stop again. I totally ran out of gas after slugging through the wet snow for an hour and a half! Luckily I had packed a snack of pistachios and dried cranberries, so we stopped to re-fuel and get some water. While we were standing there, I saw movement in a tree by the River. There was the flat white face and pointy nose of an Opossum!

As I got closer, he tried to ‘hide’ behind the tree branch, almost like ‘if I don’t see you, you can’t see me.’

Once I circled around the tree, he realized he couldn’t hide. I noticed his frostbit tail and ears. Possums do not hibernate during the Winter, though they do find a den to stay in, so perhaps he made his Winter home in one of the burned-out trees. Their ‘bare’ tail, ears, toes, and nose are susceptible to frost bite. He probably wishes he could go south for the cold, snowy months and is most likely saying ‘good riddance’ to the last of Winter. I threw some nuts and fruit onto the snow at the base of a tree for our Minnesota marsupial.

After my re-fuel, I was ready and able to finish our trek—it’s amazing how quickly food energy can replete our muscles and mitochondria. I hoped the possum would feel better after his snack, too. I was a bit concerned that the eagle’s nest was empty, but maybe our timing was wrong for this particular place. And therein lies the mystery—we never really know the timing of most things. We have trends, averages, predictions, and hopes, but the Universe is large, and we are not in charge. At the same time, we tend to ‘feel better’ thinking we are in charge, and it helps us to ‘make meaning’ of firsts and lasts. Many ‘firsts’ stay in our memories for our lifetimes—the first time we met our partners, the first time we saw our babies, our first job, car, pet, house, etc., etc.. And when we predict our ‘lasts,’ it gives us something we need at that time—gratitude for the people and things we love, resilience to get through a tough time, hope that things will be different and better soon, or hope that we can survive when things are changing against our wishes or norms. Grace gives us these ‘coping mechanisms’ that move us along the trail of time and offers us another ‘first’ when we let go of the ‘last.’

I am celebrating nine years and 476 posts since I began North Star Nature! Thanks for coming along on the trail with me! (Not the last time!)

Our Unique Arithmetic Assignment

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Part of our life learning process is embodied in the statements “I’ve seen this before,” or “I’ve heard this before” or most importantly, “I’ve felt this before.” It goes beyond the situational ‘deja vu’ (literally ‘already seen’) when a person feels like they have experienced something before. This is more concrete, a simple arithmetic of sorts. In the early part of our lives, we do it unconsciously; it is how we learn. ‘I’ve seen this round object before and people say the word ball.’ Fast and furious learning takes place in the next decades with things we’ve seen, heard, and felt. As we grow into middle age and older, we begin to notice patterns in our lives that have become rote. ‘I’ve heard those same words before,’ and we may add ‘too many times.’ We are becoming aware and discerning how those words impact us. And this is when the simple math becomes conscious and truthful—‘I don’t want to hear those words again,’ ‘I’ve seen this scenario before, and I don’t want it to happen again,’ or ‘I am going to change so I don’t have to feel this same way anymore.’ Subtraction. We also have greater awareness of what we want more of in our lives, those sparks of desire that may have been muzzled with responsibilities, time constraints, and unawareness. ‘I’m going to take some classes to feel the thrill of learning again,’ or ‘I’m going to learn the words to that song I love so I can sing it anytime.’ Addition. It is a profound lesson in authenticity when we become aware of our unique arithmetic assignment and incorporate it into our lives.

On Thursday I drove to a place I have seen before. The prairie–wetland–woodland trail at Saint John’s Arboretum is familiar to me. I don’t really remember how many times I’ve hiked it, which is of no consequence to any further time I am there, for each and every time there are new things to see along with the familiar friends that bring me joy. This was the first time I had been there with so much snow, the first time I had snowshoed the trail. It was a crisp 23 degrees. We had had rain two nights before, so the deep snow had an icy, pockmarked crust. The metal on the snowshoes s-c-r-i-t-c-h-e-d against the snow with each tread. My noisy steps alerted the waterfowl in the open creek, and I heard them before I saw them. It’s a great, wonderful sound I’ve heard many times before—the heralding honking of Canadian geese, the throaty warning of Trumpeter swans, and the more indistinct chattering of Mallard ducks.

There was another sound I had heard many times before—the rattling trill of a Sandhill Crane. He stood on the frozen embankment of the flowing creek, looking like an unhappy camper, wondering why his return flight to Minnesota had landed him in the frozen tundra. He ruffled his feathers and called out in irritation.

I was the intruder everyone was talking about—the geese voiced their faux alarm, but not one flew away. The Trumpeter swans were more sensitive and took to flight along with their vocal dismay.

Mr. Sandhill Crane kept up his rattley chatter as he surveyed me walking closer and all of his waterfowl friends below him in the creek.

Then he slowly ambled away from the creek into the stalks of cattails, pretending to find a morsel of food to peck at but moving on with disappointment.

I left the wetland and shoed through drifts and a broken, uneven path to the forest. With a deep sigh of contentment, I knew I had felt this way before, and it was good.

The dark-trunked Maple trees threw shadows on the deep snow, but I knew they were warming up for Spring. With daytime temps reaching above the freezing mark, the sap was beginning to stir in their roots. The below–freezing temps at night settle it back down, and that temperature gradient becomes the ‘pump’ that gets the sap flowing, ready for the harvesting for Maple syrup. I also imagined the Spring Ephemeral wildflowers under the soil, under the snow, that would be blooming before the trees could even unfurl their leaves. Old friends that are always a joy to see.

Circling around to the other snow-covered boardwalk that spans the wetland, I heard the waterfowl chatter again, along with some nearby Crane talk.

This time, there were three red-headed cranes in the cattails! It looked like a mated pair and their colt from last year. The offspring may migrate back to their usual spot with the parents, but once the nesting begins, he will be ‘chased away’ to begin his solitary life for two to six more years before he finds his lifetime mate.

Addition and Subtraction. The way of Nature. The way of Winter into Spring. The way we learn and discern. Most everything I saw, heard, and felt on my Thursday snowshoe hike was familiar to me, and I welcomed it into my life once again with a resounding “Yes!” At the same time, new details of deep snow, new birds, and Spring clouds made my experience ‘something more.’ We have to be careful not to fall through the ice of expecting our surroundings to change because of our displeasure. Mr. Sandhill Crane had some unfortunate seasonal timing in his migration and nesting schedule, but he will have to ‘wait it out’ while the sun and tilt of the Earth do their work. We want to be conscious and truthful about our own lives, our own words and actions. It is the responsibility and privilege that Life bestows upon us. Good luck with your assignment!