Spring Archives - Page 2 of 13

Big View, Small Water

June 19, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It was a house with a view. I noticed the potholes in the driveway, the old sheds tucked into the trees, the railroad tracks just below the hill of the house, and why is there an old semi truck parked by the garage shed?! But all I could look at was the view—it was spectacular! Our Airbnb house for the Duluth wedding weekend sat on a hill overlooking miles and miles of Minnesota and Wisconsin forests. Somewhere below our sight line was the St. Louis River we had followed at Jay Cooke State Park earlier in the day. The Superior Hiking Trail and the Willard Munger State Trail wound through the trees in our view. The evening colors were rich and dusky as I stood on the deck and the sun dropped below the horizon. There was much to see and nothing to see in the vast forest that lay below us—much like the far-reaching prairies of the Dakotas that I love.

The house was compact yet roomy, comfortable, and nicely laid out, with seven large windows that allowed the big view to dominate the inside space. The color of the sky and trees had changed and brightened in the morning light. I couldn’t help but feel it was going to be a very good day!

We left Chris with the sunshine and the view—gratifying manna in its own right, and all one has to do is sit there, let it in, and allow it to heal and feed the body and soul. Passive rejuvenation. The rest of us walked down the gravel driveway lined with brilliant white Trillium flowers I had not noticed the day before. Had I missed their beauty as I noticed the potholes?

Fifty yards or so from the driveway was the parking lot and entrance for Mission Creek Parkway hiking and mountain biking trail. We crossed a bridge over the railroad, then another over the state bike trail and were soon on the path down a long, gradual slope. We had stepped backwards into Spring—the ferns were freshly unfurled and the trees were newly-leaved, casting a yellowish–green glow from the sparse canopy.

We continued down the slight slope until we reached a creek—Mission Creek—that meandered across and alongside the trail. After the big waters of the Mississippi and St. Louis Rivers and of course the almost infinite waters of Lake Superior, this small body of water seemed insignificant. Boulders and large rocks were scattered along the waterway creating its own tiny twist of bubbly rapids—trivial compared to the churning, voluminous rapids of the St. Louis River.

The water was brown with tannins, just like the big waters, but shallow and transparent. Waterplants lazily floated with the current, and minnows darted about, their shadows darkening the sienna mud bottom.

Wispy yellow-green beards of Meadow Rue flowers shook in the breeze, scattering the pollen in the hopes of germinating another woodland plant. Tender Blue Violets surrounded the spikey ball flowers of Wild Sarsaparilla (said with a cowboy’s western drawl, of course.)

The longer we followed and crossed the little creek, the more it became evident that it was a life-giving and life-supporting body of water, no matter how small. River Otter tracks led down from an old stone bridge through the mud to the water.

Thimbleberry bushes with their bright green palmate leaves grew along a sunny path, and in a couple of months, will produce ruby red domed berries.

Mosses remind us of how small things are important in the big view of life.

We left the small waters of Mission Creek and returned to the big view of our weekend dwelling. I saw a huge log building that I didn’t notice among the trees in the miles and miles of forest, and later found out it was a resort in Wisconsin. (Hidden in plain sight.)

On our last morning, a deer grazed around the railroad tracks as I watched from the windows—and soon she saw me. She lived in the big forest and was a patron of the small water of Mission Creek.

There are so many small things in life that we often overlook, deeming them trivial or insignificant. There are other things that are in plain sight, and we never even notice them. And while our brains cannot possibly register and keep track of ‘everything,’ I wonder what we miss or dismiss that is actually substantial and meaningful. The small water of Mission Creek was actually the water of life for the forest valley and all its inhabitants—all a part of the big view. Often when we think there is ‘nothing to see,’ there is actually much to see, and it is gratifying manna for our lives. And that makes for a very good day!

Follow the River

June 12, 2022 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

They met on the River—the great Mississippi River—while on the rowing teams at University of St. Thomas. Anne had taken a circuitous route to St. Thomas after being accepted at another school and with other obstacles that reasonably would have steered her away. But something compelled her to pursue it. And to those of us who know her, she is a force. It was there she met her friend Erik who was introduced to us via Facetime when Anne was visiting—by then, more than just a friend. Anne worked at Star Lake wilderness camp with our kids—always ready for an adventure with Nature or with people and preferably with both.

Anne and Erik were married last weekend at a ceremony overlooking Lake Superior in Duluth. They had just returned to Minnesota after a long stint at Berkeley where Erik had gotten his doctorate and Anne had advocated for women in sports—planning and participating in marathons, triathlons, hiking, and most unbelievable to me, she had swum from the island of Alcatraz to the California shore! She is a force!

On our way to Duluth for the weekend, we stopped at Jay Cooke State Park where the tumultuous St. Louis River winds through the Northwoods towards Lake Superior. We crossed the Swinging Bridge—the 5th iteration since the original was built in 1924. Floodwaters have destroyed the bridge numerous times—the Civilian Conservation Corps rebuilt it in 1934 and again in 1940. The last damaging flood occurred in 2012 at the highest level ever recorded, and once again the bridge was restored.

The water was brown with tannins and white-capped with the furious flow over rocks, a raucous rootbeer float of a river. Standing on the Swinging Bridge was exhilarating with the cacophonous water ringing in our ears and flowing under our feet!

Emily and I left the bridge and followed the River trail, a vestige of the canoe portage that had been used by Native Americans, fur traders, explorers, and missionaries for centuries past. The St. Louis River was a critical link between the Mississippi River waterways to the west and Lake Superior and the other Great Lakes to the east. We were walking on history.

And while the River continued to tumble over the rocks on one side of us, the forest brought calm and quiet. In Spring form, as Winter was not long departed from this area, the ferns were just unfurling their ‘fiddleheads.’

Sustaining food for animals and people alike—Wild Strawberries and Blueberries—were blooming and will soon produce fruit.

The water was calmer in areas between the large rock formations that had pooled from the Spring flood waters, but the piles of logs and debris on top of the rocks and even up on our trail were evidence of the power and might of the rushing water.

Delicate beauty that curves on stems of nodding Yellow Trout Lilies and Yellow Lady’s Slippers is sometimes overlooked or unseen on the bustling path of adventure and advancement. Looking closely, one sees the light and the shadow.

The rocks have a billion-years-old story to tell, complete with sand and seas, faults and heaves, volcano lava, and icy glaciers. The tilted rocks are slate and were quarried near this location in the late 1800’s, early 1900’s.

Stripes of a hidden Jack-in-the-Pulpit flower mimic the stripy leaves of the plant behind it—all a story of light and shadow, design and texture.

Following the River can be rough at times and navigating it impossible, but if you keep at it, you find a bridge that is high above the rough waters and will connect the two sides.

Anne and Erik found one another on the Mississippi River and have rowed and flowed with the river ever since. They have already weathered the rough waters of graduate school and cross-country moves, yet they have many more obstacles in front of them. I know they will design an interesting life for themselves, cognizant of the light and the shadows in themselves, one another, and the people surrounding them. May they always remember and be able to count on the family who came before them. May they stop and notice the delicate beauty in one another and in the world around them. May they be nourished by good food, knowledge, great friends, and much love. May they find the bridges necessary to get over the rough waters and to connect with one another. And if a bridge is washed out, rebuild and restore. An old adage advises that if one is lost, find and follow a river. It will bring you back to safety, to people who love you, and to the place you need to be. I think Anne already knew that.

Peace of the Pine Forest

May 29, 2022 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

I’ve been crying a lot lately—not for me and my station on this good, green Earth, but for other people. I cried for the victims of Putin’s war—the mothers and children who fled their homes, the fathers and brothers who stayed behind to fight, the old and infirmed who couldn’t flee and were bombed to death, and for every lost life and destroyed city. The tears escape my eyes when I watch the news or see the headlines—it is my knowing that what I am witnessing is antithetical to Goodness. Last week it was for the grocery shoppers in Buffalo, New York who were targeted and killed because of their skin color. This week, the tears flowed again for the young students and teachers at Uvalde, Texas. It could literally happen at any school at any time. Even the mass shootings happen so frequently that the mourning for the one before has hardly begun before it is ‘lost’ to the coverage of the newest one. Not to mention all the other, pervasive deaths by violence. Not to mention the perverse political rhetoric around the ‘reasons’ for the deaths. It is soul-crushing.

I know for sure that the fallout from each one of these violent losses of life is far-reaching and will be long-lived. Many of the victims, the families, the first responders, and the witnesses will carry the burden of trauma with them for their lifetime. The price we as individual persons and as a society pay for violence is unbelievably staggering. In the midst of a political culture that is not doing all it can to help prevent such tragedies, an individual person can feel overwhelmed and impotent in the face of it all. What do we do? Let me begin with a story that presented me with an important lesson.

Seventeen years ago when my father-in-law died, my brother-in-law sent a message to us that ended with “Peace be with you.” I was already in a state of activation—death, grief, loss, change—and I remember exclaiming rather indignantly to Chris, ” How can we have peace at a time like this?!” I did not understand at the time that my brother-in-law was offering a gift to each of us individually—that in spite of our loss and grief, we could have the comfort of peace. I did not accept that gift at the time—I didn’t know how—but since that time, I have not forgotten that offering. I have tried again and again and again to find peace within myself in the midst of my own pain and loss and of that of the world’s. A substantial part of finding peace in a time of crisis or a reaction to it, is learning to calm down our activated bodies—and when a person has an ingrained trauma response, it takes lots of practice to change. One of my practices to calm down and find peace is to go to the woods—I did it intuitively as a child, and I do it intentionally as an older adult. I find peace in the Pine forest.

So we went to Warner Lake County Park where I left Chris and his healing hip to sit beside the lake. He could see the Pine forest across the water. He was in the midst of the noise and exuberance of young adults who were already free for the summer and were anxious to sunbathe and swim in the chilly lake water. I tried to appreciate their exuberance even as I gladly walked away from their noise. Come walk with me into the forest.

According to florgeous.com, Violets symbolize honesty, protection, dreams, healing, and remembrance. May it be so. Peace of the Pine forest be with you.

Something Old, Something New

May 22, 2022 by Denise Brake 8 Comments

A couple of big things have happened in the last two weeks—we celebrated an old marriage, and Chris got a new hip! The hip came first—I am just amazed at the technology that a robot can help the surgeon take out an old, damaged joint and replace it with a new one that works better. Along with the fact the person walks out the door just hours later! Wow! But just as miraculous is forty years of marriage! It’s a relatively old marriage, though perhaps more middle-aged when I think of my friends who have crossed the sixty-year marriage mark. We looked at pictures from that day forty years ago when we were new adults, newlyweds, new partners. It was a sweet and wonderful day!

Hip recovery requires care, some new equipment, patience on both our parts, practice of therapy exercises, pillows, and ice. This second phase is super important to make sure the excellence of the first phase remains. So we c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y went on an outing this week, packing up the needed equipment for Chris to sit under the old giant Pines at Belle Prairie Park while I took a hike. He looked out over Old Man River whose water overflowed its banks with Spring flooding. Something old—the old River reminds us and ties us to the past—the hard times and the good times.

Something new. New leaves. New flowers. So tender and sweet and pristine. Hope for the future.

Something borrowed. The beavers were busy using the floodwaters to their advantage, borrowing the young trees to make their home. It’s easier to move logs in water than across land. They are building for a long, happy life.

Spring flowers fit for a wedding! Wood Anemone is no flash-in-the-pan flower. It takes a single plant five years or longer before flowering! Commitment and tenacity.

The marsh and the forest are a combination of Old and New. The marsh is always ready to accept the Spring floodwaters, year after year, which in turn nourishes the lovely, brilliant Marsh Marigolds. Their buttercup flowers and glossy, heart-shaped leaves are a swath of sunshine through the Spring forest.

Old bark on old tree trunks shows the signs and scars of age and wear. Living long takes its toll, even on trees. Right beside them grow the young ones with smooth, gray bark—a long life ahead of them. And both get new leaves every year. Renewal is for everyone!

Something blue. Violets were scattered along the trail, warding off evil and giving me nods of good luck.

Surprises. Both of these surprises could be seen from far away at this time of year—before the leaves offer a shield or camouflage. An Oriole nest, a marvel of construction—does it house a nest full of eggs?

As bright as the Marsh Marigolds was a Scarlet Tanager, though with flaming red feathers and contrasting black wings. A handsome gem in the Spring forest!

Then back to the Mississippi River with flowering Wild Plums growing along its banks. The big island trees had their feet in the flood waters, as the new foliage began to cover their impressive Winter silhouettes.

“Ol’ man river just keeps rollin’ along.” Oscar Hammerstein

The wedding tradition of ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ incorporates values and qualities that we wish for every new couple. It honors the long river of the past and the people who came before us, it encourages hope and prosperity for the future, it advises to learn lessons from the people who have already traveled that path, and wishes good luck—to do good and avoid evil. All four values are enveloped in love. For forty years, Chris and I have committed to these values. We have seen hard times and good times with surprises of both. With the scars and signs of age, we know there is always renewal and along with it, sweet hope, like nectar for our souls. We have learned that the old builds the new—what was is the foundation for what’s to come—whether of ideas, emotions, mistakes, or actual physical manifestations. We keep rolling along, building our long, happy life together.

Walking in Sun Sparkles

May 8, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Me making decisions is an excruciating exercise for most of the people around me who do so ‘normally’ or God forbid, quickly. This decision-making can be about buying something or doing something or getting someone to do a repair or whatever. It takes me a long time to decide. It’s part of the fall-out of my perfectionism, I think—I’m afraid I will make the ‘wrong’ decision. So I look at things, read endless reviews, think about it, wonder if the quality is ‘good enough,’ question the future utility of the object, look at it again, think about the pros and cons, wonder if I have enough energy to do something, think about the ramifications, and the craziest of all, wonder what other people would do or will think. It’s exhausting just reading about the process, isn’t it?!

Mother Nature seems to have been in my indecisive mode when it came to Spring this year—she allowed the snow to melt, then made it snow; warmed things up, then froze things; showed the tiniest bit of green, then brown, brown, brown. But we no longer have to search for Spring—Mother Nature is all in on the Spring decision! It was a long time coming, but Spring is bursting forth everywhere! With the snow melt, ice melt, and Spring rains, the Mississippi River has overflowed its banks. When it comes to wildfires and floods, though we most often think of them in negative ways, there is a time and place for each of them. Fires and floods have been an integral part of our ecosystem since the beginning and bring benefits to the plants that inhabit the places that are affected. A floodplain is low lying ground around a river that periodically floods. It is rich with river sediments and nutrients and has a diverse and abundant plant population. As I walked along the River at Mississippi River County Park, I could see the flooding of lowlands and islands.

With the water and nutrients from flooding, and the warm sun of Spring, vegetation was springing from the ground. The trio of leaves of Trillium were unfurling on their long red stems—soon a single flower with three petals will emerge from the foliage for a short period of time until the whole plant dies back for the rest of the year.

The early-blooming Spring Ephemerals have an accelerated growth cycle, taking advantage of the sunshine that filters down before the trees produce their leaves. Dutchman Breeches like to grow on the drier embankments by the River.

Bloodroots were in their full glory! Their single leaf with scalloped lobes wraps like a blanket around a single flower. Often the flower blooms before the leaf unfolds.

Gooseberry shrubs are one of the first to leaf out, and the spotted leaves of White Trout Lilies carpeted the forest floor, where a week ago it was brown.

A few had begun to bloom, and the bees were already gathering pollen and sipping nectar from them.

Hairy Wild Ginger was also unfurling from its underground sleep. The low-lying red flowers were still in tight buds.

The backwaters of the Mississippi—those ponds and streams that often stay filled year-round—were also flooded. I crossed a bridge that had streams of water on both sides that I jumped across. Turtles had their sunning logs poking into the water, and when I got too close, they plopped into the pond leaving only air bubbles behind.

I thought the inland trail would be passable, but very soon after the bridge, water spilled over it. The first ‘puddle’ had an edge of vegetation and a stick that helped me pass with only a little mud on my shoes.

I spotted a Great Blue Heron in the flooded area beside the trail and knelt down to get his picture—what a handsome bird! He walked among the sun sparkles and red Maple flowers that floated on the water.

When I stood up, he flew a bit farther away where I could see his long legs, and I realized how deep the water was where he walked in the flowers and sparkles.

The next trail ‘puddle’ was long and too deep to skirt by. I realized that I wasn’t going to get through without getting my feet wet—so into the flood water I walked. It was warmer than I expected at this time of year. I must have walked through four or five flood puddles before I got to higher ground. I had walked this path many times before but never in water up to my knees!

At the end of the last flood puddle, I found a downy feather, half white, half gray, among the debris and Maple flowers. Smiling to myself, I joyfully celebrated that Spring was really here!

My indecisive decision-making is time and energy consuming, and I had an ally in Mother Nature this Spring. But like Mother Nature’s all-in commitment to Spring this week, once I make a decision, I rarely change my mind or regret the choice I made. I’m still trying to hone down my process. In certain areas of my life, I am able to make faster decisions with confidence—like the Great Blue Heron, I stepped into the flood waters without deliberation. There is a time and place for everything under heaven. In our limited thinking (compared to the Universe), we often judge things as good or bad, wise or foolish, right or wrong, and yet we don’t see the whole picture—that fire can rejuvenate, that flood waters can fuel growth and sustain lives, and that we can joyfully celebrate all the seasons of our lives.

Waiting for What We Want

May 1, 2022 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

I remember the bubbling, hard-to-contain excitement I felt in grade school as the large round clock face inched its way towards the end of the school day. It wasn’t with a sense of relief that I moved towards that bell ringing, because I loved school and learning, but I looked forward to the other things in my life that were also meaningful—horses in the pasture by our driveway, cats and dogs at our home, and acres of woods behind our house where we built forts and made trails. My first way of learning. It’s hard to wait when something is pulling you forward.

I would not be stepping on anyone’s toes in stating that Minnesotans are anxiously waiting for Spring. She has shown up on the calendar, in the snow melt, and maybe in some moderating temperatures, but we have seen snow, freezing high temps, and barren ground. At least with waiting for Spring, kind of like watching the clock at school, we know with certainty that it will come.

On the 21st, one month after the official start of Spring, I walked at Saint John’s Arboretum in the hopes of seeing Spring come bursting forth. I found a scroll of Birch bark—did this hold the secret script of Spring’s timeline?

I found one patch of snow still on a shady stretch of trail. I found the reassuring green of moss covering a sloping bank and the first ‘flowers’ of the season pushing up stalks of spores from the soft bed of moss.

I found some green Fern fronds and a few trails of Wild Strawberries that had maintained their ‘greenness’ under the blanket of Winter snow.

I found a hardy Thistle rosette that had stubbornly thrived under the snow.

And on the prairie, I searched high and low for the early-blooming Pasque flower to no avail, but I did find the green leaves of Prairie Smoke under the old grass litter—a small signal of Spring hope.

But that was it—beyond the tough little Pine seedlings that survive the snow burial of Winter which actually protects them from extreme cold and nibbling rabbits and deer. Gotta love them!

So I waited another week—one 60 degree day and some rain tricked us all into thinking this was it, but the cold returned, the sun hid behind pouty clouds, and we all waited again. Then on Thursday, I noticed a change! Leaf buds were showing and swelling and even opening! Lilacs, Gooseberries, and Elderberries! Oh, my!

Scarlet Cup mushrooms, the first showy color that peeks from the forest floor, are one of only a few mushrooms that can grow when conditions are below freezing. They have been in their chilly element these past weeks.

In a day’s time, some sort of perennial Lily did finally burst forth, growing inches in hours! Now that is truly Spring!

This weekend has been rainy, though still below-average temperatures, and will be the game changer. The grass looks greener overnight, enticing the rabbits and deer to munch on the vernal goodness. And the Crabapples will soon be blooming!

The wait is not over, but the things we want from Spring—warmer temps, leaves, green grass, and flowers—are manifesting as I write. It’s hard to wait for what we want. We live in such an instantaneous self-gratifying world (thanks technology), and it has trained us to be impatient when things don’t go our way. But waiting for and anticipating something that is exciting for us can be a gift in and of itself. I remember wanting my own horse but having to wait for years before I had earned enough money from cleaning out stalls at our neighbor’s horse farm. I remember wanting to be married to Chris, to see him every day but waiting in different states until our wedding day. The conditions have to be right—for Spring, for buying things, for getting married. And sometimes, we don’t get what we want—the conditions are never just right, our will or desire is not enough to overcome the odds, another person is unwilling or unable, or things are so beyond our control that we cannot get what we want or even need. But the things that pull us forward are limitless—the Spirit of the Universe never sleeps. Spring will arrive, then Summer, Fall, and Winter. It may not be on our time schedule of wants, but it will happen. That’s reassuring. Waiting also gets us out of our own heads and our thinking that we are the Kings and Queens of the world. We are not. We have things to learn—patience may be one of them. And sometimes, oftentimes, the outcome—whether a flowering Spring, a wonderful horse, or a beautiful marriage—is definitely worth the wait.

Portraits of Hope

April 24, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Hope is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops at all- —Emily Dickinson

I usually love Earth Day. We all have so much to be thankful for living on this good, green earth. Sharing the beauty and goodness of the flora and fauna that surrounds us and sustains us is a great pleasure of mine. But I’m not feeling much hope this year—when the western half of the United States is in a continuing drought, short on moisture and water, and battling wildfires at all times of the year. Such loss and destruction. When the evil of an unprovoked war is tearing apart a country and killing thousands and thousands of innocent people. Extreme loss and destruction. When ‘mysterious’ illnesses and causes are wreaking havoc on our bee and insect populations, and more recently, on people’s health. Who is benefiting from such harm? It is overwhelming. It makes my small contributions to science, goodness, and beauty seem fruitless.

I gathered words and pictures from magazines at the New Year to make a 2022 vision board, and on it I placed a picture of a pure white feather with Emily Dickinson’s first line from her famous poem: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” I feel like I need it more now than even in January when I was hoping the pandemic would finally abate.

And then, things with feathers kept showing up for me this week—when I was looking out the window while eating breakfast at home and during a short, quiet walk at Saint John’s Arboretum. The corner of the house roof was a ‘cooing perch’ for a male Mourning Dove—his throat would puff out, stretching the ruff of feathers, and the calm, lonely coo escaped from his body without opening his bill, without any words. Most surprising was the patch of pastel iridescent feathers that were displayed when his throat was ballooned with air—a handsome fellow with a peaceful song.

Cardinals are so expressive with their crest of red feathers. Carotenoids from fruit and insects are responsible for the red pigment. Often during Winter or after molting, their back feathers turn a gray color until the richness of Spring when they change to brilliant crimson.

The ice was gone from the lakes at Saint John’s Arboretum, and an immature Loon swam all by himself in the big lake. His head feathers were transitioning to the shiny black of adults, and his eyes were still black instead of red. Pretty feathers of hope.

On one side of the boardwalk through the marsh swam a protective male Canadian Goose. His watchful eye and wary honks let me know that he was not going to go far from his companion.

She was on the other side of the boardwalk, peeking over the rushes. I’m sure their nest was not far away.

A nesting pair of Trumpeter Swans was hiding in the cattail rushes, almost unseen.

Feathers were everywhere. Portraits of hope. My Earth Day sadness is still clinging to me, and I don’t see a pathway to change with all the turmoil, disdain, and division in the world. But if hope is the thing with feathers, my soul has been reminded of that with abundance this week. With each bird I see or feather I find, I will be reminded of hope. With each song or coo I hear, I will remember to have faith. With each pair of loyal companions making a new nest for a new family, I will observe love. Mother Nature’s hope, faith, and love never stops at all.

A Great Wind is Blowing

April 17, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Time and the wind never leave anything alone. –Marty Rubin

There was no ignoring the wind. No ‘cooling breeze’ upside could be proclaimed, for the weather wasn’t warm and snow was coming down…sideways. We tried to time our trip to South Dakota for when the morning temp nudged above freezing and before the wind was at its worst, but it picked up speed the farther west we drove as the snow piled up alongside the road in places. And that was just day one of the gusty tempest. Night and day it continued, leaving nothing alone.

If anyone questions the value of trees planted in a ‘windbreak’ or ‘shelter belt’ around a home or for livestock, these were days that proved their worth without a shadow of a doubt. When I walked beyond the trees, the wind literally took my breath away, and I could not speak. By the third day, the bluster had diminished a bit, and we drove around Oakwood Lakes to see the waterfowl. The geese and ducks on the water were like surfers, bobbing up and down on the whitecap waves, giving in to the power of the wind and water.

Some flew against the wind for short stints, perhaps to find a more welcoming environment that didn’t consume so much of their energy.

Others had their feet firmly on the ground with a bank or rocks that helped to block the terrific wind.

There was a menagerie of waterfowl coexisting against the elements and with the elements—the wind their adversary, the water their foundation. It was wonderful to see Canvasback ducks with their beautiful red heads, sloping black bills, and shining white backs. They intermingled with others in a pileup against the shore—their heads tucked down in rest mode with some relief against the wind.

A dark slash of a wind tide in a shallow pasture puddle drew a line across the newly-melted snow and ice.

I was hoping to see some Pelicans, and my Mom noticed some of the big birds as we drove by another section of the lake. We walked along a grass road, the cold wind hitting us in the face and wobbling our cameras with every attempt to capture the peculiar and lovely birds. A bank of snow and a tangle of tumbleweeds gave the pair a bit of respite from the wind, even as they bounced around on the waves.

When I got too close, they took off to put more distance between us. Their black-tipped wings, mostly hidden in their swimming position, were in stark contrast to the alabaster white of the rest of their feathers. Their orange bills and dark orange feet completed their dazzling ensemble (the whole of what they are).

A pair of Great Blue Herons flew into a cove and farther up the shore stood another solitary fellow, his long legs and neck braced against the wind, his feathers flattened and fluttering.

The wind doesn’t leave the leafless Oak tree alone either—it will prune any dead or dying branches with a snap of its power. But the strong, hard wood of the Oak tree and the deep, expansive roots offer the best resilience to the bullying, beating wind.

Time and the wind never leave us alone, even as we wish for it to do so. How can we be halfway through the fourth month of the ‘new’ year already? Who else has ‘lost’ time to the pandemic years? Time and the wind itself aren’t the culprits—it is what they do to us and how we handle them. Too little time? Too much wind? I think all of us have experienced both. So how do we navigate the power of time and the wind? I think both require us to maintain a strong foundation, whether that be faith, intention, self-awareness, gratefulness, or physical protection (or likely all of them and more.) Catherine the Great proclaimed, “A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.” In my experience, it gives you both. It can be hurtful, harmful, harrowing, and take your breath away, and it can spark imagination, ideas, and new directions. We can’t outrun or outfly the bullying wind or the restless time, but we can accept its power, brace ourselves with resilience, and surf the ups and downs in our own lovely, dazzling ensembles.

Flying Solo

April 3, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I’m flying solo for awhile, and it’s a new experience for me. I acknowledge the many women in the world who do so on a daily basis whether from desire, need, circumstance, or the roll of the dice. And by flying solo, I actually mean hiking solo—I still have my partner around for the rest of my life. But Chris is out-of-hiking-commission for a couple months until he gets a new hip. The wear and tear of decades of physical labor is now calling the shots and winning the pain war.

I am an intrepid partnered hiker—I don’t worry about getting lost or about bothersome insects or about getting too tired or hurt. The natural world is my home, so to speak. It feeds my soul. But something happens to me when I need to do it alone. My irrational fear takes over—that something-bad-is-going-to-happen fear that has plagued me for most of my life. It rises up from my belly and takes control of my breathing and heartrate, and it hijacks my mind. The good news is I have been working on ‘overriding’ that very ingrained behavior for more than a decade now—I see it for what it is, take back control of my breathing, and talk back to the fear voice. So…all of that happened before I even got out the door to hike at Saint John’s Arboretum this week.

Chris is a patient hiking partner—he stops and waits when I see something interesting to photograph, he comes back to look at really unusual things, and he points out artistic perspectives that I miss. The kids tease me, wondering how many hours per mile we’re doing when we hike together! At any rate, literally, it didn’t matter when I was by myself. But I missed having Chris with me to share the sights, signs, and sounds of Spring—and I ended up telling myself that I would be sharing those sights and signs with you readers of North Star Nature—like you were with me. The stirring calls of Canadian geese greeted me at the trailhead—the return of the geese and Trumpeter Swans is a sure sign of Spring, a satisfying sound to hear.

I was thrilled to see the dried remains of last year’s Compass Plants—it takes many years to get these prairie perennials established. Their twelve-foot high stems are matched by tap roots that burrow down to fifteen feet in the ground. It takes a strong foundation for such tall plants!

The distinct, deeply cut basal leaves of the Compass Plant are its namesake—during the growing season the leaves stand up vertically and orient themselves with their flat surfaces towards the east and west to avoid the intense heat of the peak sunlight.

The upper stem of the Compass Plant produces several sunflower-like flowers. The shaving-brush-like seed pod holds the seeds that are favored by many species of birds. In fact, the whole plant is an ecological home to over eighty different species of insects that live on or in the plant!

Old things, Fall and Winter things, still dominate the landscape at this time of year—cattails that have gone to seed, nests that held eggs and young birds, ice-covered lakes, golden Ironwood leaves, and snow-covered trails in shady places.

But the melting snow reveals some encouraging signs that are truly only impressive when compared to the last four months of frozen landscape. Each small sign of green and growing reminds us of what is to come and whets our desire for the new season.

The melting snow also reveals some unusual finds. Bones are an important food and nutrient source for animals during Winter. All the flesh and most of the cartilage had been chewed off this bone, along with the marrow that could be reached from each of the ends.

One of the trunks of a double Maple tree was inexplicably broken about fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. My guess is a sap ‘explosion’ occurred on a freezing night during these warm days/cold nights that are imperative for the flow of sap (and thus for the collection of sap for maple syrup.)

A Crow lost a handful of feathers in some kind of recent scuffle—the feather was too pristine to have made it through a snow-covered Winter.

Bright yellow-orange is a hike-stopping color at this time of year! Perhaps this is Yellow Brain Fungus—it’s growing on decaying wood with plenty of moisture from the melting snow.

Thanks to my friend Gail who sent a post about snow fleas, I noticed these little jumping critters! Snow fleas aren’t really fleas but are able to jump several inches like fleas. They are actually tiny arthropods called springtails. (And they don’t bite.)

As a Winter color-deprived observer, I liked the colors of these rocks on the trail! Celebrating the simple pleasures of the season!

On this first day of April as I wandered alone through the prairie, wetlands, and forest of Saint John’s Arboretum, the seasonal change was palpable. The ice was melting, water was flowing in spots, waterfowl were pairing up, sap was flowing, and green things were growing. No fooling, Spring is here.

Growth—whether greening of the flora, developing of the fauna, or the expansion of our inner knowledge, resources, and strength—has its seasons. Sometimes we willingly and proactively choose to expand our comfort zone, and other times Life’s circumstances do the choosing for us. Flying solo is a choice many make intentionally, and just as often, that ‘choice’ befalls people who had no desire, will, or capacity to go it alone. But death happens, divorce and separation happen, war unfortunately happens, and all sorts of other disruptions. As unfamiliar as it is for me to hike alone without my partner of forty years, it is a small thing compared to what many other people are going through. And yet, it stretches me. It forces me to confront my irrational fears while at the same time acknowledging that solo hiking for a woman has its very relevant dangers (as does walking alone in many urban settings.) It’s at times like these that it’s helpful to burrow down deep into the foundation of our Selves—the taproot of our being—to find the strengths and skills we possess that show us the way. Old things always fade away to new green and growing things—we are no exception. I am celebrating and sharing with you the simple, colorful pleasures of the new season.

Potential Flow

March 27, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I can feel my grief starting to soften. I think it comes from practice after years of enduring and moving through grief I thought I could not bear. Grief can be ice hard and immovable. It can build up in your heart, layer upon layer, as you realize all you have lost. When grief resides within you, it doesn’t leave much room for anything else. Time, tears, energy, and grace can begin to soften it.

It’s a fickle time of year. Last weekend’s warmth melted the majority of our snow, but cooler temps on Tuesday brought more snow and substantial wind chills. Thursday was a Spring-is-here day with warm sun, temps in the high 40’s, and those wonderful, wispy Spring clouds. I walked, or rather, slogged through slush at Mississippi River County Park. It takes longer to melt ice from the rivers and even longer from most of the lakes once the snow has disappeared. The River that was a road in the heart of Winter was now impassable by any means. It contained all states of aqua—ice, snow, slush, water, and vapor rising in the heat of the sun. It had all softened and some had melted, and in a few places, water was actually flowing.

The trail was snowy and slushy in most places with mud and standing water in others. It was slippery and sloshy walking, but man, did it feel good to be out there! The unveiled moss was the only hint of the lush green that was to come.

At the boat ramp, water pooled over ice along the bank, and dirty, gravely snow and sludgy water melted and trickled. Everything was still constrained, but the potential for flow could be felt and seen.

Across the River, Red-twigged Dogwood fired up the bank with color, and an immature Bald Eagle perched on a high branch.

The River observer saw me before I saw him. He was two or three years old, not solid brown like a juvenile yearling, but not yet ‘balded’ with white head feathers and a white tail. His beak was still brown, but the yellowing of it had started at his cheeks. I wondered if he was in some stage of molting since his wing feathers looked sparse and his mottled chest disheveled. He sat in a wreath of swelling leaf buds—another sign of the impending Spring.

A flurry of hoarse honks drew my attention farther down the River to a line-up of Canadian Geese on an ice edge. Most were sleeping with their heads tucked along their backs; some had one foot drawn up to their bodies—a supreme yoga balancing act.

Perhaps it is their tree pose of balance, calm, and strength—feeling rooted while dreaming of flying in the sky.

An unexpected death can knock a person off balance—as can an unexpected natural disaster, diagnosis, or war. The impact on our bodies and minds can be devastating, particularly for those who have experienced trauma in other forms or at other times. We have a natural, innate system to protect us at the time—fight, flight, or freeze—which way depends on our experiences, circumstances, and personalities. Grief tends to be the ‘aftershock’ of the traumatic or unexpected event and is often immobilizing, like a river of ice. It freezes our ability to function in an open-hearted way. It takes an extraordinary amount of energy just to process grief, so it’s no wonder the ‘normal’ things in life get neglected. But ice and grief can soften. It can get messy in the half and half stage. But pretty soon, there is a loosening, and there is movement over and under the hard places. Finally, the frozen grief is melted and integrated into the flow of our lives—not forgotten, but transformed to a new state. It helps to be an observer of our own selves and the process. It helps to remember what fires us up, warms us, opens us. And it helps to practice coming back to balance and calm in whatever way works, be it yoga, meditation, or qigong. We find our equilibrium again—like a tree—steadily rooted and reaching high into the sky.

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