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Another Time, Another Season

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I remember those times in my life when change was abrupt, when my life on one side of an event was completely different from the other side and when there was a glimmer of knowing that life as I knew it would never be the same. Some of those events were life-changingly wonderful—the day I met Chris and those three December days I gave birth to our children. Joy was the gift of those days. Others changed my life with gut-wrenching sorrow and disbelief when even the thought of getting through it was untenable, let alone any possibility of healing. How slow the hours drag by when one is in pain.

It is at this time of the year when pictures from a week ago can seem like they are from a different season. A week ago the temperature was abnormally high, the ground was dry, and winds were strong enough to warrant red-flag warnings in multiple states, including Minnesota. This week we have had rain every day—steady, consistent showers with perpetual cloud cover and cooler temperatures. The Spring world has soaked it up and responded—grass is turning green, Forsythia are blooming in sunshine yellow, and leaves are emerging from the dormancy of Winter. Change comes swiftly, eagerly, and joyfully.

Our Easter hike with Aaron and Zoe was at Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge, southeast of Little Falls. Wherever I hike at this time of year makes me feel like I have come at the ‘wrong’ time. The snow is gone, and Spring has yet to show up except for the earliest, subtle signs. The Refuge seemed stark and empty, despite the beautiful blue sky. We followed the Platte River trail through an Oak savanna, the sunlight streaming through the bare branches to the brown grass below.

The Platte River was surprisingly wide as we continued through the restored tallgrass prairie. I wondered what the prairie and the beautiful big Oaks looked like in summer and noted to Chris that we needed to return to this place at another time, another season.

And then we saw the fire-ravaged trees—the benign mediocrity of the prairie morphed into signs of sorrow. Fire is one of those events that can change life forever, whether for humans or trees.

Crane Meadows is part of the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge complex where we saw the same fire damage to trees in an Oak Savanna that had been burned. A controlled, prescribed burn for the prairie should not impact the mature trees in such a way, and I wondered what had gone wrong. The loss was immense.

Like at Sherburne, there was a burned tree graveyard, even more stark in the post-Winter, pre-Spring landscape.

The River and cool water gave visual relief from the burned area of trees. A small dam crossed the Platte, widening it into Rice Lake. I wondered if this was a nest of some sort or just debris that had gathered on the rock with high water.

As the River widened into the shallow lake and wetlands, there seemed to be more ‘life’—Pines, Aspens, Willows, and wetland grasses breathed ‘potential’ into the landscape. Soon a green blush will envelop the Aspens, and the Willows will leaf out from the catkins that had emerged.

Rice Lake had a few ducks—a couple showy, black and white Buffleheads and some rafts of Common Mergansers. I was surprised there weren’t more migrating birds, however, and I wondered if we were too early or too late to see them.

Across the lake we noticed an eagle sitting on a point of land that extended into the water. Through a spotting scope at the observation deck, it looked like he was raiding a nest and eating eggs.

On the return trail, we passed by an eagle’s aerie and saw mother eagle sitting on her expertly engineered nest, panting in the afternoon heat.

I think it’s common for us to believe that something happens at the ‘wrong time.’ We even use it as an apology and ‘out’ for doing something—usually by saying “It’s not the right time for me to do this.” Valid truth-telling in the choices we make. But what about the events that are beyond our control? I have waxed and waned about the ‘wrong timing’ of some events in my life—job searching and recessions, health issues and the fall-out, moves and their impact. Valid truth-telling deemed an excuse? Are the ‘wrong timings’ in our lives a nest full of potential or is it debris? Even if it’s a nest full of potential, a predator at the top of the food chain can destroy those possibilities with a swift stroke of power. And when we try to do the right thing to preserve and maintain the ‘prairie,’ things can go wrong and more harm is done—collateral damage is real and abruptly life-changing. Stark, empty sorrow. But there is a difference between burning it down inadvertently and burning it down on purpose. The arsonists of society are too often at the top of the food chain and slip through the cracks of accountability. Was it the ‘wrong’ time for us to go to Crane Meadows? We didn’t see migrating birds or fluttering sweeps of golden Aspen leaves or blooming prairie wildflowers, but we did see the very real and authentic reality of the transition time between seasons. It wasn’t ‘pretty’ or ‘exciting,’ but it was real—like every one of our lives. Scorched trees and dreams. Bland landscapes and routines. Empty wetlands and pockets—or hearts. New saplings and plans. Life-giving water and compassion. Building nests and resilience. A refuge for them and for us. We will return to this place at another time, another season.

The World Beneath Our Feet

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Give me the man who will surrender the whole world for a moss or a caterpillar, and impracticable visions for a simple human delight.

The man who authored this quote was Bruce Frederick Cummings, born in England in 1889. He published a book of diary entries entitled The Journal of a Disappointed Man in 1919. That was also the year he died at the age of thirty from multiple sclerosis. It was only in 1915 when he was rejected from serving in World War I that he learned of his diagnosis and prognosis. Afterwards, he wrote eloquently of his struggle from his ‘naturalist at heart’ perspective. He wrote about his impending death:

To me the honour is sufficient of belonging to the universe — such a great universe, and so grand a scheme of things. Not even Death can rob me of that honour. For nothing can alter the fact that I have lived; I have been I, if for ever so short a time. And when I am dead, the matter which composes my body is indestructible—and eternal, so that come what may to my ‘Soul,’ my dust will always be going on, each separate atom of me playing its separate part — I shall still have some sort of a finger in the pie. When I am dead, you can boil me, burn me, drown me, scatter me — but you cannot destroy me: my little atoms would merely deride such heavy vengeance. Death can do no more than kill you.

It was because of the rain the day before that the world beneath our feet burst into a lush, colorful canvas. Last weekend’s rain was the first substantial Spring shower of the season, the one to wash away the accumulated grime from Winter’s melted snow piles and the one to anoint the dormant ground with Nature’s blessing. The first to respond to that blessing is an array of mosses and lichens that have been covered with snow most of the Winter. Without traditional plant structures like roots, stems, leaves, and flowers, they absorb water and nutrients like a sponge—plumping up, greening up, and livening up.

A bed of moss makes a desirable, protective seedbed for tiny new trees, helping to keep the ground moist for germination.

Since mosses and lichens have no roots or structures to transport water throughout their system, most grow close to the ground so as not to dry out. When a tree is ‘grounded,’ moss will soon overtake it.

Young saplings looked like they were wearing ‘mossy pants.’

Deer tracks dug into the soft, squishy carpet of rain-drenched moss.

Lime green Plume moss pushed aside the dark purple, rolled leaves of late Fall.

Mosses and lichens are an essential part of our ecosystem, absorbing carbon dioxide and other pollutants.

Little stars of Juniper moss twinkled among the Jack Pine needles.

The forest floor, that world beneath our feet, is a community of sticks, leaves, grasses, insects, mosses, seeds, bacteria, lichens, fungi, and others—all living and working together in a symbiotic relationship.

When mosses ‘bloom,’ they produce sporophyte stalks and spores—after the rain, they were already getting to the business of reproduction.

The ‘red coat’ protuberances of British Soldier lichens are eye-catching in the early Spring monochrome…

…as is this light green lichen on the dark wood of a Pine.

Waves of wispy grasses are matted against the moss from the weight of Winter’s snow.

But on this day after the rain, the rejuvenated moss prevails.

Glittering Wood moss—isn’t that the most magical name!?—crawls over a log.

A golden lichen, Reindeer moss (which is also a lichen), and Trumpet lichen are intricate pieces of art on the forest floor.

The world beneath our feet is often overlooked in the practicality of getting from one place to another and in the mundaneness of green and brown. It only takes a closer look to discover a world of infinite variety and exquisite artistry. We cannot abandon ‘impracticable visions’ or ‘the whole world’ in pursuit of a moss or a lichen, but a balancing of those extravagant, exuberant goals with a simple human delight will ground us in our humanity. What would be your pursuit if you knew your days were numbered? A year of a global pandemic and millions of lives lost and grieving should shake us to question that, just as Bruce Cummings did after learning of his prognosis. May the tiny Trumpet Lichens proclaim exultant victory over death, and may we all be anointed with Nature’s blessings. Amen.

Beavers and Burls

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It didn’t take long into our hike before the title of my post popped into my head—beavers and burls. We were at Fort Snelling State Park in the Twin Cities for an outdoor meet-up with Aaron, Zoe, and our niece Stacey. Before we had even crossed the bridge to Pike Island, a beaver tree let us know the permanent residents of the island were busy and hard-working. Lt. Zebulon Pike chose this island for his camp site on his 1805 expedition to explore the upper Mississippi River. He met with Dakota Indian leaders whose people had lived, hunted, fished, and made maple syrup on this island for eons.

Huge Cottonwood trees, with their roots embedded close to the nourishing river shores, were like giants lining the island. And on the huge trees were huge burls. Burls are growths caused by some sort of stress—an injury, insect infestation, virus, or fungus. The abnormal growth contains a plethora of twisted, interlocking knots from dormant buds. The wood is prized for woodworking because of the unusual grain.

Hard work, hardship, building, and healing. The trees were telling us stories.

The beavers worked along a tributary of the Minnesota River that cut across and joined the outlet from Snelling Lake to flow into the Mississippi. While we saw many beaver-cut trees, we didn’t see any lodges or dams or beavers, though we knew they were there. Soon we were following the Mississippi River; the River was low from Winter’s scarce snowfall, exposing sandy beaches on both sides.

The water was clear and cold, inviting Stacey’s dog to wade and drink at various points along our four-mile trail.

The ice-clear River invited an Eagle to peer from his lofty vantage point into the transparent water for a fresh meal. A bevy of boats and fishermen were also looking for fish along this stretch.

Too late for this one.

Zoe’s work for the Conservation Corps on this island is removing Ash trees infected by Emerald Ash Borer like this heavily infested tree. The insect ‘trails’ are called galleries—destructive but artful.

At the point of Pike Island, the Minnesota River meets the Mississippi River. The Minnesota was markedly cloudier and discolored compared to the Mississippi. The two big rivers converged to continue their southward flow.

The Minnesota River side of the island was a typical flood plain of large trees and not much underbrush, but like most floodplains, I’m sure the summer vegetation is lush. The fallen trees were in various stages of wear and decay—covered in moss or stripped bare.

As we circled the island, we returned to the beaver and burl side where ambition and tenacity of the beavers were on full display along with hardship and healing of the Cottonwood trees.

This cut was so recent that the sap was flowing from it.

The trees were telling us stories—of ambition and hard work, of hardship and stress. The old huge ones cannot live as long as they have without the wear and tear of life showing in their boughs and in their core. And so it is with us. Accelerated growth and learning of childhood. Vigor and zeal of young adulthood. Hard work and hardship of our middle ages. Abnormal growth and artful beauty in confronting pain and grief in our lives. Occasional destruction we cannot recover from, but mostly we heal—somehow, some way. The River of Love nourishes us and sees us through another season, another year.

Seven years ago today I published my first blog post with this quote from Rachel Carson. “Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.  There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature–the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.” I have more faith and belief in this quote now than I ever have. Thank you to all the readers who have been with me these seven years and to those who have found me since. Nature holds up a mirror to show where we have strayed and gives us a path to healing. Please join me in appreciating, preserving, and protecting the global gallery of Nature’s abundant art.

Snow Chasers and Bear Bias

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We left home last Saturday with a bare yard—bare of snow, that is, except for a withering pile on the north side of the trees. As Winter was slipping away, I was in search of snow. Earlier in the week we had an overnight dusting, but I saw the Brainerd area had gotten five or six inches. So we headed north, hoping the sun and temps hadn’t gotten to the snow before we did. About ten miles or so south of Brainerd we began to see snow on the ground. We saw large piles of packed wet snow that had been plowed from the roads. I was hopeful we could snowshoe once we got to Northland Arboretum. We slipped into our snowshoes and began our hike on a south-sloping hill. Hmmm.

Birch tree catkins caught my eye, along with a golden patch of ice in the stream. Was it from pollen, a fungus, or sawdust?

Whatever it was, it made for an interesting piece of ice art.

After a short stint on the snowshoes where we pecked our way around too many bare spots, we returned them to the car and resumed our hike on foot, or ‘boot’ rather. Monet’s pond and stream were just beginning to open up; the bridge was not quite as picturesque as when we saw it in the summer.

It was a beautiful blue-sky day! The pine–birch–oak woods held a beauty beyond the brilliant sky and snowy background. There was an ‘aliveness’ about them, like an anticipation of things to come.

A wandering deer was camouflaged in the brush, her slow meandering movements showed no concern for us noisy neighbors.

The Spring sun was working on the exposed places…

while other places in the shadows and in the hidden nooks still had inches of snow.

Our destination this time was to get to Beaver Pond—our last time here we were so inundated by mosquitoes when we got to this part of the trail that all we did was swat and squirm. In our misery, we turned around at the Pine Plantation. In the Winter landscape, we could see the source and homeplace of the hungry mosquitoes—a large shrub bog and wetland.

Pussy Willows were beginning to bloom in the wetland—Spring was here, ready or not.

It was a day for appreciating the amazing clusters of white-bark Birches against the sapphire blue sky—something that gets lost when green foliage covers all the trees.

As we hiked farther north along the Johnson Plantation trail where the only human form of tracks were from cross-country skis, all of a sudden I noticed a trail of very large tracks. When we were at Northland in the summer, there had been a black bear sighting on the day we were there, and on this warm, almost-Spring day, perhaps a bear was coming out of hibernation! Bear tracks, I exclaimed! The palm of my hand fit neatly inside the tracks, a full six by four inches.

The tracks followed the trail; we followed the tracks. In one clearing where the sun had melted the snow, a large pile of fur-filled scat lay among the pine needles.

It was a perfect place for a bear to live—remote, wooded, plenty of food and shelter.

Even though the tracks looked a day old with the melting, refreezing, and melting again, we joked about giving a hungry bear the nut bars in my backpack.

I wondered aloud what had caused these moon craters in yesterday’s slush, and it wasn’t until I was further along the trail that I knew—a plop of wet snow fell on my head from high in the trees. I needed a little personal evidence to figure out my question.

Deer and Wild Turkey tracks intersected the ski trails, and soon the bear tracks left the trail and disappeared into the woods.

We arrived at Beaver Pond where a large lodge poked up through the ice on the far side.

When we circled the pond, we saw an inlet the beaver used and kept free of reeds and rushes so he could swim to the shore and float fallen logs back to the lodge.

Looking back across the pond, we could see the Pine forest, not just the trees.

The ring details of a striking amber-hued cut Oak log revealed the slow-growing and evenly nourished life of the tree that was.

Spring was showing in small, subtle ways in the snow-ice-water where warmth had penetrated the frigid layers of Winter.

Had a bear ripped the rotting wood from a standing Birch to get at insects?

Snow was melting away from Wild Blueberry shrubs on the rocky hills—a delicious bear food for summer.

It had been a beautiful, warm, nearly-Spring day in the wilderness of Northland Arboretum. I was quite thrilled to see the large bear tracks, and had even wished for a glimpse of the critter at a distance. But…here’s the thing…

they weren’t bear tracks. When I uploaded my pictures to the computer a few days later, I looked at the tracks and thought “That’s not a bear!” I looked at pictures of bear tracks compared to mine and said “That’s not a bear.” I looked up animal tracks and animal trails and dimensions of tracks—it wasn’t a bear. My mind was so focused on the bear that was there last year, on signs of bear, on food for bears that when I saw those huge tracks, I ‘knew’ it was a bear. I was bear-biased, even when I should have known the tracks were a canine of some sort—a really large canine.

It never occurred to me that it was a wolf. I thought wolves were only in far northern Minnesota, but I looked at the DNR wolf map, and sure enough, they are in the Brainerd area. My bear was a wolf. A bias or prejudice is a strong inclination of the mind or a preconceived opinion about something. I had both—I wanted it to be a bear, and I had previous information about a bear living there. My mind even over-rode my eyes and the knowledge that I have about what a canine track looks like! And I was closed-minded about a wolf even living in this area of the state.

We have tricky minds. We see what we want to see. Even though I am a scientist and an observer, I fooled myself. The information we feed upon can make up our minds for us. The things we want to happen can obscure what is actually happening. It can make us see things that aren’t there and aren’t true. It can make us blame people who deserve no blame. It can make us hate people and things for crazy, petty, obscure reasons. So how do we not fall into the mind tricks? We slow down. We ask questions. We compare notes with others who may not think just like us. We gather information. We trust our guts, even if things on the surface look great. We look at the forest and the trees, and we watch out for what falls from the top. I asked Chris what he thought the tracks were, and in his skepticism of it being a wolf, he said “Yeti,” and he’s sticking with it.

Rubbing Elbows with Trees

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The first time I mowed the grass at our new place was a little over three weeks ago. It takes awhile to get to know the lawn—how to mow in the most efficient way, where there may be roots sticking up that may impact the blades, which parts are weedy versus lush and long. I like mowing. It may be monotonous in a way, but it feels more like meditation to me—my body moves in habitual ways, the sun warms me, the breeze slides over my skin, and my mind can go wherever it needs to go. And then when I’m all finished, ‘the lawn looks good mowed,’ as Chris or I will say.

This place has many more evergreen trees to mow around than we’ve ever had, and it was not long before I realized that I was literally rubbing elbows with trees. As soon as that thought entered my mind, I affirmed that I was happy to rub elbows with trees! At this time of year, the new growth is soft and brightly-colored. The Green Spruces have opulent lime green extensions reaching out at various heights.

The distinguished Colorado Blue Spruces have light blue-green branches of tender new growth, like melt-in-your-mouth mints of candy confection.

Each time I mowed close to the trees, the lavish fragrance of a fresh-cut Christmas tree filled my nostrils.

A quad of Red Cedar trees grows close together, like school girls on the school yard with their arms linked, elbow to elbow—wealthy in friendship.

The prominent new growth of Spruces, Firs, and Pines is called ‘candles,’ which are most ‘candle-like’ on Pines. This once-a-year growth adds an abundance of new needles that unfold and harden off by early summer.

I love how the candles all point to the beautiful blue sky.

Rubbing elbows with eminent Oaks happens when they are young adolescents, when the branches are thin and pliable. The new, tender leaves are at the right height for grazing deer to munch on. If it happens early enough in the season, the tree will put out a new shoot of growth to ‘fill in’ where the deer removed the foliage.

Jack Pines are medium-sized conifers that often have crooked trunks and drooping lower branches. The pollen cones are rusty flowers that release a thick yellow pollen in late Spring, like gold drifting from the sky.

The small, hardy trees are well-adapted to fire. Their cones are ‘serotinous’—sealed with resin that requires high heat to open and liberate the seeds, most often with fire, but high air temperatures can open cones on low branches. One tree can be flush with many old, sealed cones with seeds that remain viable for years.

‘Rubbing elbows’ means to associate or socialize with someone—usually someone who is rich, famous, or special in a similar way. The President, who is most certainly all of the above, recently tweeted about some former cabinet members, “They all want to come back for a piece of the limelight.”

I prefer a piece of the sunlight that shines on us all, the wealth of blue sky for anyone who looks up, the abundance of beautiful trees affluent in life-giving oxygen. I want to rub elbows with creations that affirm life and liberty for all other creations of all sizes and colors. I want to link arms with living beings that are compelled to grow and change and whose trajectory is towards the light. Sometimes new growth and change come from the heat and passion and destruction of the old order, the ‘serotinous,’ unopened systems that protect the status quo. Public attention is widening. Illumination is happening. The new seeds are waiting.

Listen to the Pain, Find the Peace

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I know what distress is. I have experienced the long-standing fear of being killed. It feels like constantly carrying a boulder on your back; it weighs down your body and your soul and muddles your thinking. Every step of ‘normal’ life is hard, amplified by the weight of that boulder.

It has been a distressing week in Minnesota. How can it be that it was just Monday when George Floyd was killed? Time does weird things when extreme pain and sorrow run the show. A shocking event breaks down the fabric of normal life—like a terrifying trauma did when I was little, like the coronavirus pandemic did just a few months ago, like the death of George Floyd did on Monday as it ripped apart the ‘new normal’ we had constructed from the pandemic. The only thing worse than carrying one boulder on your back is carrying many.

Strangely, after the initial shock of it, I felt like this was exactly what should be happening at this time—not his horrific death, but the uprising of pain and grief that has been building for so many years and for so many reasons. Enough is enough. People want to live. We want to love. We want to work. We want to feed our families. We want dignity and respect. We want some fun and some peace. That’s not too much to ask. So what’s getting in the way of that? Listen with your eyes. Listen with your ears. Listen with your heart. Put yourself in someone else’s pain.

It’s exhausting, I know. Then find some peace, however that looks and feels for each of us. Three weeks ago at Mississippi River County Park, when the flooded peninsula burst into flowers, I saw a pair of Canadian Geese in a slough of the River. They were peacefully swimming and diving for food. Canadian Geese usually mate for life. These two had the look of a long-bonded pair, comfortable in their presence with one another.

Peace be with you all.

A River of Trees

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It’s a topsy-turvy world right now—too much confusion and disorder—not only around the corona virus pandemic, which is overwhelming, to be sure, but in so many other ways. Some safely-isolated people wonder what all the fuss is about, while those on the ‘front lines,’ amid the illness and death, wonder how some people can be so cavalier. Certain states and populations are suffering with great numbers of death and job losses, while others are living their lives without much disruption at all. The political fighting is like a bad divorce—both sides think they’re right and blame the other for all the things gone wrong. Nobody wins.

In the midst of the chaos, as states were beginning to find their way to ‘opening,’ we quietly kept a heart-promise made when Chris’ brother died late last summer. We followed the Great River that flows near our house down to Cassville, Wisconsin, the tiny river town where Chris’ folks grew up and where the boys spent their summer vacations. A homecoming of sorts. We spent part of the day high above the Mississippi River at Nelson Dewey State Park. The park’s 756 acres were once part of Nelson Dewey’s large 2,000 acre agricultural estate. As a young man (age 35), he was elected as Wisconsin’s first governor when the state formed in 1848. But long before him, it was home to Native Americans. Two village sites and three groups of burial mounds have been found in the park. Holy ground.

Looking out over the Mississippi from the bluffs, I remarked it was like a river of trees. Long sandbar islands of trees with their newly sprouted leaves made for a topsy-turvy river. It was difficult to tell where the main channel flowed in the maze of water and trees.

We hiked along the bluff trail among Oak and Hickory trees. Wild Geraniums bloomed with their delicate lavender flowers.

We saw a surprise that may turn your stomach upside down—a very large Black Rat Snake! Chris had been thinking about snakes since this area has Timber Rattlesnakes (one of which he has the skin of from when he was a boy), and it was a perfect day for ‘sunning’ on the southwest-facing bluff. I wasn’t even thinking about snakes and was delighted to see such a beauty!

A restored prairie area along the bluff still had the fall remains of amber grasses and wildflower seedheads…

…though one prairie hilltop pushed aside the old for a new Spring sweep of Bird’s Foot Violets.

What’s in a name? Among the Bird’s Foot Violets were bright Hoary Puccoons.

From the hilltop prairie we veered away from the River…

and followed the old stone wall that had been built in the 1860’s around the Stonefield farm that Dewey planned and moved his family to in 1868.

Limestone outcroppings looked out over the deep valley of forest and River. Tough, windswept Cedar trees grew on the points…

and exquisite flowers clung to the rock edges and burst into bloom from a bed of stone.

Shooting Stars
Wild Columbines

An old Cedar, overlooking the River, looked like a Bonsai tree—it had been trimmed and pruned, bent and stunted, by the wind and weather over the decades. The stories it could tell.

A tree we don’t see in the wild as far north as we live, was in full bloom—the gorgeous Redbud tree. Spring is synonymous with Redbud trees for Chris—another homecoming of sorts for his tree-loving soul.

Going to Cassville for the weekend was a reminder that the topsy-turvy time we find ourselves in is nothing new or special. The history of the place tells the stories. Governor Dewey and his family lived on a spectacular farm overlooking the Great Mississippi River. But disaster struck in 1873 when their house burned down and later that year a nationwide financial panic affected his investments, and he lost Stonefield in 1878 to foreclosure. He also lost his marriage during those years. On a more personal note, when we looked at the graves of Chris’ Mom and Dad, we realized they were toddlers when the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic interrupted the lives of Americans and the world. Their families had weathered the pandemic with small children and much more primitive ways of living. The Veterans Memorial reminded us of all the men and women who had fought in wars over the centuries, many losing their lives by doing so. Chris’ Dad’s name carved in the black granite is a lasting memory of the sacrifices he and others endured to protect the world from the evils of fascism. And mostly we were reminded, as we close in on the incredible milestone of 100,000 deaths from Covid-19, that every death is personal and ripples out in waves to a myriad of people who were touched by that one, special person. Grief is as deep and wide and long as the Mississippi River. If I were to wish upon a shooting star, I would wish for each of us in this upside-down world to be a tree in this river of grief—to have strong roots embedded in holy ground, to have strong branches to hold the pain of others as it bends and stunts their lives, and to have a new growth of leaves that hold hope and renewal as a way forward. To be a homecoming of sorts.

Path of Redemption

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This is a story about devastation and beauty, inspired and patient change, art and surprises, and redemption. On Mother’s Day weekend, we skipped our usual morning routine in order to ‘beat the crowd’ at a nearby park—the park that was flooded by the Mississippi River just a month ago. We were curious as to whether the trails were open, if the water had receded, if things were ‘back to normal.’ We walked down the steep trail towards the River, but before we even got to the bottom land, a beautiful sight met us at the path—uniquely-shaped Dutchman’s Breeches wildflowers. The delicate white flowers covered the hillside as far as we could see!

The River was morning quiet, like softly rippled glass, back in the low restraints of its banks. The trees on the other side blushed with pinkish-red and Spring lime green and saw their reflections in the Mighty Mississippi. A few boats quietly trolled the morning water for the anticipated fishing opener weekend. Occasionally, a goose harshly honked a greeting that split the quiet air like a foghorn.

We walked through the woods that had morphed from flood waters to greenery. A small path led us back to the River, to a canoe camp with fire circle, picnic tables, and an outhouse without the house.

A messy tangle of Wild Grape vines that for years have been winding their way in and among a couple of trees, stood out on the leafless bank. It would be near impossible to make this happen, yet here it was. It looked like a piece of art, a sculpture of time and growth.

We backtracked to the main path. The exquisite beauty of a Nodding Trillium—large white curling petals, snowy white pistil, and purplish-pink-lined stamens surrounded by delicate green sepals and large, veined leaves—rose with certainty from the ground, from the ground that had been covered with water and debris just weeks ago.

The abundance of greenery and white flowers continued with large swaths of Wood Anemones interspersed with sedge grass.

Wild Blue Phlox and Wild Violets, in their delicate blue colors, were welcomed outliers in the sea of white blossoms.

Where the last of the flood waters had remained, the ground was still barren and gray, a stark reminder of the devastation of the flooding.

The flood water had washed away the soil around the rhizomes and roots of the Wild Ginger plants, showcasing the ground-level flowers that are usually hidden from view.

And despite the deluge of water, the flood plain was blooming! Growing and blooming in abundance! White Trout Lilies (don’t you love their name?) covered the woodland ground, fields of them among the trees. Ferns grew up like meerkats amid the Trout Lilies, their fiddleheads unfurling in orchestrated movement.

There were millions of spotted leaves and demure pink buds that mature and open to white, then curl back their petals as the sun moves across the sky, exposing the bright yellow stamens of the single-flowering plant. With nightfall, they close once again.

A flower-lined path of redemption wound through the woods where the gray torrent of devastation had taken up residence just weeks before. What if we had given up on this path? What if the gray water from our last visit had kept us away? We would have missed the incredible beauty of this morning, these flowers, these unfurling ferns and leaves.

As we walked the flower-flooded River peninsula, we slowly realized that this land we were walking on was built for this—the flooding was just a natural part of the seasonal evolution. In fact, perhaps the devastation of the flooding was exactly what the plants needed to thrive! We think of flooding as being devastating because we often place things in the wrong place—we build houses where they don’t belong, want fields where Mother Nature has had wetlands and floodplains for millennia (for a reason). Devastation, messiness, and pain precede the growth and flowering. The coronavirus pandemic is making a mess of our collective lives right now. We need to leave behind the idea of ‘back to normal.’ Redemption is the act of making something better. What have we placed in the wrong place? How do we rise from the debris with certainty and blossom into exquisite beauty?

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

No One is Exempt

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There is a collective suffering in the world right now. We can’t ignore it like we have conveniently done in the past—when the suffering didn’t affect us or threaten us or kill us or shut down our businesses or make us lose our jobs or change the way we lived our lives. But now…now all of those things are possible or happening. No one is exempt. Some are better off than others, but no one is exempt.

Suffering is personal, even as we do this together as a world. It hurts our bodies, our spirits, our resolve, our bank accounts, our hearts. In the throes of our personal suffering, we slip into survival mode—we become less social, more focused on ourselves. We may lash out at those around us—the very ones we love and adore who are standing up in the shaky boat with us. Or we may project our pain and suffering onto ‘them,’ the ‘others’—the ones making the ‘rules’ to try to keep us from dying, the media who are informing us, our neighbors who aren’t following the ‘rules,’ the ones who think, act, look, or believe differently than we do. ‘They’ are to blame for the pain.

Personal suffering feels like living all alone in a hermit hut in the wilderness—and the roof leaks when it rains—and the cold wind blows in through the cracks—and there’s barely room to lay down—and the food is scarce—and there are creatures lurking about outside and inside the tiny hut….

…and looking out, the world looks bleak and bare.

Chris and I hiked at Saint John’s Arboretum last weekend. We were not very far into our walk before I saw a sight that made my heart so happy—a cluster of Pasque flowers! Lavender sepals with delicate stripes, bright yellow stamens, soft, fuzzy stems to insulate them from the still-cold nights. Pasque flowers are the first prairie flowers to bloom; they signal the end of Winter, as they can bloom surrounded by snow. They are a sign of Spring and hope. (The word Pasque is derived from the Hebrew word for Passover.) So lovely!

Yellow and red-twigged Willows with yellow-flowering catkins burst into life around the lakes.

Red-winged blackbirds sang their joyous melody from their precarious perches on old Cattail stems.

Another early-blooming grassland plant is Prairie Smoke. I scarcely caught sight of the pinkish-red flower buds in the old and new growth of the prairie grasses.

The waterfowl birds were in the predictable, peaceful process of nest-building, mating, and raising a family. The seasonable cycle, the circle of Life. New life among the remains of last season’s life.

Canadian Geese
Trumpeter Swans
Blue-winged Teals

Trees at the Arboretum had just begun to bloom—the pinkish-red cloud of Maple tree blossoms…

…and the delicate yellow blooms on my favorite flexible little tree, Leatherwood!

No matter the length or harshness of Winter, when the warming sun of early Spring hits the bare, leaf-covered ground in the forest, the Spring Ephemerals burst into bloom! They grow, flower, and fade away quickly, but they are an important part of the ecosystem being the first food for pollinators.

Hepatica
Dutchman’s Breeches
Virginia Spring Beauty
Bloodroot

Life was coming to life again after a cold, seemingly lifeless Winter. It is the way of Mother Nature. The bleak and bare world was an illusion—the life force was hidden for a while, resting, quiet, gathering nutrients and strength, preparing itself for the growth and renewal of Spring.

Mother Nature brokers in miracles.

An acorn germinating to become an Oak tree

What if no one was to blame for the pain and suffering of this virus? Not China or Trump or Democrats or Republicans or immigrants or Pelosi or that woman governor or fill-in-the-blank. That’s not to say that no one has responsibility or that no one has made mistakes or even that no one hasn’t purposely tried to injure or subject another group of people to hardship. In leadership there is accountability, responsibility, and consequences. Blame is a useless act of projection based on trying to get rid of our own very real pain. Suffering is the illusion of a bleak and bare world. It is the winter of our lives. It is living in a hermit hut and hating every minute of our existence. It is lashing out at those we love and those we oppose. What if pain and suffering are actually harnessing our virtuous qualities to pull us away from the perils in the old life? What if we are resting, a needed rest, in order to burst into new growth? What if right beyond our suffering is a blooming, melodious, life-creating world? Nature is the harbinger of miracles. No one is exempt from the Grace.

The Connection of All Things

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“Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” –Martin Luther King, Jr., pastor and activist

“We are not only a part of the world, but we are the world….Everyone is connected to each other just like a single cell in the body is connected with every other cell through a network of nerves and flow of blood.” –Awdhesh Singh, engineer

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe. –John Muir, environmentalist

“Everything in the world is actually connected. That means even if we get separated, we’ll never be alone. –Ohtaka Shinobu, artist

From a young Japanese manga artist to an Indian engineer and leadership specialist to the iconic social justice minister to a nineteenth-century environmentalist, the theme of the connection of all things is the conclusion of their diverse experiences. This connection is pertinent in the physiology of our bodies as we strive to stay healthy while the coronavirus infects people across the world, and it is imperative in our global efforts to fight the destructive effects of climate change. Our bodies. Our environment. Health Day. Earth Day.

I have been rather obsessed lately about the lessons that are hanging like shiny red fruit from an Autumn apple tree—abundant, nourishing, and ours for the picking. Every one of us has unique and profound lessons that are being brought to the surface with our shelter-in-place, work-from-home, social-distancing lifestyle of the time-being. What do I really need? Who are the most important people in my life? What do I really want to do for the rest of my life? How can I be my healthiest self? It matters what we do to our bodies. Smoking, eating too much, drinking, junk food, not exercising—the list is too long. And the list of things that affect our bodies that we do not control is also long and overwhelming—air pollution, water quality, food chemicals, etc.

Lesson # 1: We have great control over what we put in and on our bodies. Start there. Do one small thing each day that makes our bodies better, healthier, happier.

Lesson # 2: Sleep is the great healer. So much of our health comes from getting enough sleep. It is when our body repairs itself, and we are efficient, amazing organisms when it comes to the function of repair—from the repair mechanisms of our DNA to the healing of wounds to the removal of toxins.

Lesson # 3: Movement helps with the first two lessons. Walk, bike, swim, do yoga, garden, run, etc. Fuel your body for movement, then sleep like a baby.

Lesson # 4: Figure out what is getting in the way of obtaining the first three lessons. This is the hard part. But it’s still within our control. Think about it. Write about it. Talk about it. Figure it out.

The same process can be used with our Earth. What is harming it? What will help it? Ironically—or maybe not—the Earth is getting a reprieve during this Covid-19 time. There’s less air pollution, the water is running cleaner and clearer, and there is less seismic activity. All things are connected. What we do to our Earth matters.

Lesson # 1: We have great control over who we put in as our leaders who make the decisions about protecting our health and protecting our Earth. Start there.

Lesson # 2: The health of our Earth comes from Nature. What does healthy soil look like for optimum growth of nutritious food? What does pristine air not have in it? How does Nature provide clean water? Nature is the great healer.

Lesson # 3: Earth Day is a movement that started 50 years ago. Let’s not go backwards. Let’s not lay on the couch and pretend that everything will be okay if we do nothing to change the current trends.

Lesson # 4: What is getting in the way of the first three lessons? This is the hard part. Think about it. Write about it. Talk about it. Vote about it. Figure it out.

So whether you are an artist, a preacher, an engineer, an environmentalist, a farmer, a teacher, a politician, a CEO, a student, or any other, we are all connected. The health of our bodies and the health of our planet are connected, not just in a physical way but also in a spiritual way. How do we overcome the obstacles, roadblocks, and barriers that get in the way of having healthy bodies and a healthy Earth? With Love. When we love something, we take good care of it. Love is the great healer.