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Room to Grow Into Our Best Selves

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After a cold, snowy Winter, all I want is some warm sunshine, green leaves, and colorful flowers. Winter in the North hones our patience. Winter after the calendar proclaims Spring tries our patience, which is all a part of the honing process, I guess. We “can’t always get what (we) want,” as Mick Jagger sings.

Twelve days ago we did have a sunny, relatively warm day! Chris and I decided to hike down at the Mississippi River’s edge, because we hadn’t been there (seen it) since ice-out. We followed the trail down the hill—to a beautiful blue… River-flooded trail. I guess we won’t be going that way….

We turned around, walked back up the hill, and went a different way. I spotted what looked like a Penstemon growing its greenish-purple leaves through the brown leaf litter. There will be Spring flowers in this spot in the weeks to come!

But on the other side of the road was a gray swamp with a green swamp-log, like a huge alligator laying-in-wait in the water, in the shadows and reflections, in the Winter debris.

A real water creature hopped up onto the road to warm itself in the sunshine.

The boat landing road did get us down to the River. This was where we had walked across the ice just six weeks before. (Walking Across the Mississippi River)

Even though we weren’t where we wanted to be—on the trail, in the weather, in the Spring—we were in a much different place than we were just six weeks ago. Sometimes we forget how far we’ve come when it looks like we have a long way yet to go.

A lone Red Cedar tree, well-watered by the near-by River and unencumbered by any other tree in its proximity, had grown into a specimen tree. All the characteristics, all the best qualities of the Cedar were showcased in this tree. It had had room and nourishment to grow into its best self.

The trail from the boat ramp along the River was squishy, yet passable. By an old Oak stump, puff-ball fungi grew from the decaying roots. When I stepped on one, it disintegrated into near-nothingness. Poof!

Colorful Red-twigged Dogwoods grew on the bank of the River—Winter and early Spring are their times to shine.

Brave cool season plants who can tolerate the fluctuating temperatures of early Spring have started to pop up in the woods. The beginning of the season of miracles.

When the trail left the riverside, we hoped to find our way to another part of the Park. The trail was muddy, with low spots in the woods filled with water. But once again we were stopped by the flood waters when we encountered a bridge in troubled waters. We turned around and re-traced our steps all the way back to the boat dock road—the only way out.

A Poplar leaf had imprinted in the mud of the road.

Spring is slow to show its pretty face this year. There has not been much change in the twelve days since we walked that trail. The temperatures have been cold at night and marginal during the day. We’ve had a day or two of rejoicingly warm weather, but we’ve also had snow. The grass is a tinge greener, and there are some swollen tree buds. We continue to hone our patience. And we continue to hone our patience with Covid-19, as trying as that is. It looks like we have a long ways to go—and we may—but look at how far we’ve come in our knowledge of the virus and the navigation of the road ahead. Sometimes we have to backtrack or take a different way. We also have an opportunity to be like the Red Cedar tree—unencumbered, socially isolated, and able to grow into our best selves. We can tromp through the mud, be respectful of the flood waters (which will recede), and we can shine even when all around us seems bleak. Sometimes it takes the mud in order to see the Love.

Without a Map or an App

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In this stay-at-home/ social distancing/ unprecedented time of the Covid-19 pandemic, we find ourselves without a map or an app. How do we do this? Which way is the best way to go? Where do we end up if we follow this path? The unknown is unnerving. Even as the hope of Spring is pulling us out of the dark, bleak Winter, there is still bleakness all around—death, sickness, chaos, partisanship, job loss, fear, hunger, and more. We haven’t done this before! What are we supposed to do?!

Twelve days ago Chris and I drove west to Birch Lakes State Forest. We had been there once before, a number of years ago. The gate was closed at the entrance, as the unplowed, sandy road was still snowy in places and soggy in the rest. We parked by the sign, the only ones—the only human ones, that is—to inhabit the forest for the afternoon. Before we were even out of the car, we saw an eagle circling above our heads. They are so impressive and free—watching them fly takes me out of my earthly worries into the clear blue strata above.

The pond across the road was still ice-covered, the snowmobile tracks still visible, the trees in the forest still unadorned. As much as we want our beautiful, full-blown Spring, this is our Spring reality.

Before we left the car side, we heard a high-spirited screeching in the sky. Two hawks were singing and swooping in a joyful sky dance! The mated pair flew apart, then close together (one carrying a stick in its beak) with grace and energy for the Spring ritual of mating, nesting, and raising a family.

It was only when we saw a path and entered the forest that I remembered we didn’t have a map of the trails. No worries—even though we hadn’t hiked in this area before, I knew Birch Lake was at the end of the road, and we would find our way.

With the exception of a few Fir and Spruce trees, the landscape was brown and gray—until we walked a little farther and looked a little closer. I saw a bright red dollop in the brown leaves—one of the earliest, showiest fungi—the Scarlet Elf Cup.

Vibrant green Sedge grass looked unscathed by five months of being buried under snow.

Fungi was the star of the show in the brown woods, in color, texture, and form with expressive names like Turkey Tail, Oyster, and Artist’s Conk.

Lush green moss covered areas of trees, logs, and ground in impressive mini-scapes.

From the hardwood, deciduous forest we entered a quiet, moss-covered Spruce forest. The sun streaked through in an other-worldly way.

A number of times the trail diverged in the woods—which way to go? Where will it lead? I would choose one. The hills were steep in places, and the north faces still had quite a bit of snow. One lower area had a population of Leatherwood trees—short, almost shrub-like trees with pliable, yet strong branches. They bloom in early Spring with tiny yellow flowers before getting any leaves, but we were still a little too early to see them.

We found evidence of the non-human occupants of the forest—a clump of deer hair in a patch of snow mold and a deer rub where the bucks rub their antlers against a young tree.

The landscape looked bleak after the snow melt, but small signs of the hope of Spring could be found—the moss was flowering!

The ice was melting!

The water was flowing!

The geese were flying!

With no map, we navigated our way through the forest and ended up at Birch Lake. We walked back to the car in the soggy sand road marked occasionally by fresh deer tracks.

When we left the State Forest, we circled around Birch Lake by car, and we saw a huge, dark eagle’s nest in the distant trees. Our hike had begun and ended with an eagle—one high in the sky with his bird’s eye view and eagle eyes looking for food and the other sitting high in a tree with her nest of eggs or young ones.

The unknown doesn’t need to be unnerving—it can be an adventure. How do we do this? One day at a time with patience, faith, and love. Which way is the best way to go? Follow the signs (six feet apart) and maintain that inside sense of direction. Where do we end up if we follow this path? Expertise, knowledge, science, and history of past hard times will guide our path in this new time with the novel virus. What does a bird’s eye view show us about how we were living in the past, how we are living now, and how we want to choose to live in the future? This is our Spring reality—not how we’d like it to be, certainly not beautiful, definitely bleak in many ways, but there are small signs of hope everywhere when we look closely. No worries, dear people of our Earth, the process and the path will unfold. We will find our way.

The Tallest Shining Example

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The Tale of Three Trees—A Folktale

Once upon a time, three little trees stood in a forest high on a mountain, dreaming of what they would be when they were grown. The first little tree looked up at the stars twinkling like diamonds in the night sky. “I want to hold treasure,” it said. “I want to be filled with gold and decorated with jewels. I will be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!” The second little tree looked down the mountainside at the ocean far below. “I want to be a strong sailing ship,” it said. “I want to travel mighty waters and carry powerful kings. I will be the strongest ship in the world!” The third little tree said, “I don’t want to leave this mountaintop at all. I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me their eyes will raise up to heaven, and they will think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world!”

Years passed, and the trees grew. And then one day, three woodcutters climbed the mountain. One woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, “This tree is beautiful! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the first tree fell. “Now I shall be made into a beautiful treasure chest,” thought the first tree. “I shall hold marvelous treasures!” Another woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, “This tree is strong! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the second tree fell. “Now I shall sail mighty waters,” thought the second tree. “I shall be made into a strong ship fit for powerful kings!” The third tree felt its heart sink as the last woodcutter approached. It stood straight and tall and pointed bravely towards heaven. But the last woodcutter never even looked up. “Any kind of tree will do for me,” he muttered. With a dozen swoops of his axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter took it to a carpenter’s shop. But the carpenter was not thinking about treasure chests. Instead, he cut and carved the tree into a simple feedbox. The once-beautiful tree was not filled with gold or decorated with jewels. It was covered with dust, and filled with hay for hungry farm animals. The second tree rejoiced when the wookcutter took it to a shipyard. But the shipbuilder was not thinking about mighty sailing ships. Instead, he hammered and sawed the tree into a simple fishing boat. The once-strong tree was too weak to sail the ocean. It was taken to a little lake, where every day it carried loads of dead, smelly fish. The third tree was confused when the woodcutter took it to a lumberyard, where it was cut into strong beams and then left alone. “What happened?” the once-tall tree wondered. “All I ever wanted to do was stay on the mountaintop, grow tall, and make people think of God.”

Years passed, and the three trees nearly forgot their dreams. But then one still and silent night, golden starlight poured over the first tree, as a young woman placed a newborn baby into the feedbox. “I wish I could make a cradle for him,” her husband whispered. The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the clean and shining wood. “This manger is beautiful,” she said. And suddenly the first tree knew it was holding the greatest treasure in the world. And then one humid and cloudy day, a tired traveller and his friends crowded into the small fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree sailed quietly out into the lake. But a thundering storm arose, and the second tree shuddered, knowing that it did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through the fierce wind and rain. The tired traveler awoke. He stood up, stretched out his hand, and said with a strong voice, “Peace, be still.” The storm stopped as quickly as it had began. And suddenly the second tree knew it was carrying the King of heaven and earth.

And then one terrible Friday morning, the third tree was startled as its beams were yanked from the old lumberyard. It flinched as it was was carried through an angry, jeering, spitting crowd. It shuddered when soldiers nailed a man’s hands and feet to her. It groaned as the man cried out in agony and died. It felt ugly and harsh and cruel. But at dawn the next Sunday, on the first Easter morning, the earth trembled with joy beneath the third tree, and it knew that God’s love had changed everything. It had made the first little tree a beautiful treasure chest. It had made the second little tree a strong sailing ship. And every time people looked upon the third little tree, they would think of God. That was even better than being the tallest tree in the world.

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I wasn’t thinking about Easter when Chris and I started our hike two weeks ago at Fritz Loven Park. The dark, bubbling Stoney Brook was picturesque within the snowy banks. The Pine trees rose high into the clear, blue sky. It was a beautiful brisk day, more like Winter than the newly-announced Spring. I was zooming in on some ice over the creek that sparkled like a thousand diamonds in the sunshine (no justice for sparkles in this photo).

A few steps beyond the ice, I pointed and exclaimed, “Look at that cross!”

The sticks and broken ice/snow chunks had fallen–mashed–piled–converged–lined up so that a wooden cross was outlined against the white snow in the dark water. To the left of the cross was an ice cave, like a tomb, I thought. Interesting.

There were fallen logs all over the park, but there was one by the creek with its bark stripped off, ragged, and hanging in shreds—like the flesh ripped off someone’s back in a whipping, I shuddered.

The Passion continued to instill itself in our hike. A towering, lone Pine tree, pointing bravely towards heaven, was crossed by a still-live Birch tree. I have no idea how they got into this position, but the striking thing to me was the s-c-r-a-p-i-n-g of one live tree against the other—as the Birch fell or as the wind still blew it to and fro. Wounded.

As we circled the park towards Upper Gull Lake, three large trees growing in a cluster reminded me of the picture book I read to the kids when they were little—The Tale of Three Trees. Surrounding the three trees were a host of golden-leaved Ironwood trees—like a shimmering aura in the sunlight.

Steps away from the three trees lay a pine knot cross, not uncovered by the melted snow, by somehow placed on top of it. Deer tracks and wood debris were around the cross but still didn’t tell the whole story. Pine knot crosses form when a pine branch rots away—the knots are where branches formed on a larger branch or trunk, where the wood is more dense and hard, and thus last to rot. When I worked at a church camp in the Black Hills, we would find them to give to special people in our lives. I haven’t seen such a perfect one in forty-three years….

Towards the end of the trail, I spotted an old, gray, weathered stump that had been there for a while. Most of the bark had peeled off, leaving the smooth gray wood. A chunk of the gray wood had fallen away revealing a puzzlework of rusty-brown-golden-amber art. Even after death, this tree was showcasing Nature’s beauty.

I confess I am in heaven on earth every time I’m out in Nature. There is so much to see, to wonder, to ponder, and to appreciate, and at the same time, it calms my nervous system, grounds my anxieties, and tunes me towards the power that is greater than all of us. But our Lenten hike two weeks ago lassoed my attention towards the cross and what that means for each of us. The folktale of The Three Trees has lessons, too. These dreams we have to be the most beautiful holder of treasure, the strongest ship in the ocean, and the tallest, shining example of God—and how years pass, and we wonder what happened. Yet, as the years pass, we grow—we learn and change, struggle and transform, and often end up becoming something entirely different in exactly the right way. The Power is greater than all of us: it’s the diamonds in ice, the healing for wounds, the angels of light, the art after death. Behold the treasures of our hearts and lives, the strength of our resolve as we navigate our trails, and the tallest, most shining example of God-in-us that we can be. Behold!

Lovable Hermits

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Have you ever asked yourself to see a situation from a wider perspective? Easy question to ask, but difficult, so very difficult, to actually do. I’m reading The Book of Joy—Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu with Douglas Abrams. Abrams writes, “The Dalai Lama used the terms wider perspective and larger perspective. They involve stepping back, within our own mind, to look at the bigger picture and to move beyond our limited self-awareness and our limited self-interest. Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors….When we confront a challenge, we often react to the situation with fear and anger. The stress can make it hard for us to step back and see other perspectives and other solutions….We (can) see that in the most seemingly limiting circumstance we have choice and freedom, even if that freedom is ultimately the attitude we will take.” Fear and stress, anger and limiting circumstances sound very familiar to all of us, all of a sudden, in this changing world.

I’ve always appreciated a ‘big picture’ approach, but only on the basis of a multitude of information from many small observations and facts (science). The big picture requires us to look beyond what we see (and believe). Our hike at Fritz Loven Park last weekend was an unfolding of that process. The trail circled the bottom of a tree-covered, almost snow-bare hill. Warm, crunchy leaves and bright sunshine belied the deep snow and cold temps of the hours ahead.

As we walked along the flatlands by the fast-flowing Stoney Brook, I noticed that most of the trees were young compared to a small number of very large ones. I wondered if this area had flooded. One distinct and eye-catching tree was a large Cottonwood, who would thrive having wet feet, so to speak.

But as we walked up toward a ridge, I then wondered if there had been a fire at one time. Often the tallest, strongest trees can survive a fire that consumes the smaller ones.

It wasn’t until the trail crossed a wide swath of nothingness (and stumps) that I realized the area had been logged. Logging was the predominant industry in northern Minnesota starting in the late 1800’s. Virgin timber was cut in this area around Gull Lake, and a railroad was built in order to transport logs. And in the summer of 1894, Fred Oscar Loven was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Though tourism is now a major industry in the Northwoods region, logging continues. Large wooded areas will reside beside a clean-cut swath or a shaggy area of young saplings or brush that had previously been logged.

Even through the deep snow, we could see evidence of the destruction of a forest and the life and vibrancy that remained. Dried ferns and wild flowers were visible beacons of the coming Spring when Nature effortlessly performs her miracles of new life.

Our trail through the park had been groomed numerous times throughout the winter for cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. It was packed down and relatively easy to walk on—not too rough and not too icy. The snow pack beyond the trail was also hard enough to walk on, and I asked Chris to use his walking stick to measure the depth of the snow.

It will be a little while until all of it melts…

The trail of Fritz (Fred) Loven’s life is sparse on details (that I could find), but one mention came up from the Pro Football Reference. He played guard one season with the Minneapolis Red Jackets in 1929 at the age of 35. Pro football before the NFL. We do know that Fritz’s trail three years later led him to 80 acres of land west of Nisswa that was his home for 43 years. He lived in a cabin with no electricity, running water, gas, or telephone. The ‘lovable hermit’ (may we all be lovable hermits during this time) didn’t have a car but traveled by foot, snowshoes, or boat.

His greatest contribution, in my opinion, besides his wish for his land to become a park, was that he normally planted 400 trees each year! Most people underestimate or take for granted the true value of a tree. Fritz Loven was a bower billionaire—he lived and worked under the shade of the existing trees and eventually, of the ones he planted—and we are the beneficiaries of his generosity and vision.

Like most ‘big pictures’ of any given situation, the larger perspective of Fritz Loven and his park is complicated. Signage on our hike told us that we were crossing private property at some points, though we didn’t know exactly where that was. Was the logging on the park land or on private property? Did the city need funding from the logging in order to maintain the park? It was sad to see incredible giant Pines and Oaks beside the clear-cut areas. How many trees that Fritz planted were cut down for timber? Who is replanting? Along with the logging, there was also damage from storms, these extreme weather events that are becoming common-place due to climate change. ‘Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors.‘ What are the facts? What are the observations? How do we look beyond what we see at any given moment and more importantly, beyond what we believe?

Fritz Loven was the guardian of the beautiful little trout stream, the keeper of the forest, and protector of the trees. He had faith that the trees would grow, the fish would reproduce, and that his vision and work would be a place for people to enjoy decades and decades after he was gone. With the fear and stress of our present coronavirus situation, how do we step back from our limited self-awareness and our limiting self-interest to see the larger perspective? Within our own minds, how do we tamp down the fear in order to see the factors that converged to get us into this situation and the solutions to get us out? We are the guardians of our own bodies and minds, and collectively, we are the guardians of our earth. Faith is how we look beyond what we see. Openness is how we look beyond what we believe. Love is how we show up for ourselves, one another, and for our sustaining Mother Earth. May we be lovable hermits at this time and have all three.

Hunkering Down

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I love when a cool, old word all of a sudden becomes apropos (another cool word meaning ‘suitable in a particular situation or at a particular time.’) I’ve been saying it, my friends have been saying it, and the newscasters and experts have been saying it—hunker down. ‘Hunker’ is a good word to say out-loud (almost always said with the word ‘down’); it has grit and meaning and motion. The word/phrase emerged in the 18th century in the Scots language referring to ‘squatting down on the balls of one’s feet, keeping low to the ground, but still ready to move if necessary.’ Over the centuries and in this situation and time we find ourselves in, it also means ‘to be prepared to stay in a particular place or situation for as long as necessary, usually in order to achieve something or for protection.’ Yep—here we are hunkering down.

At this particular time, hunkering down for Chris and I includes what has always been a part of our lives—going out in Nature, and this weekend was no exception. We drove north again, even a little farther than we did last weekend. We contemplated the different parks in the Brainerd region and saw one called Fritz Loven Park, west of Nisswa. It was the name—great to say and intriguing as to why it was so named—that was the deciding factor for our Saturday destination. The park is named after Fritz Loven who settled on the 80 acres of land in 1932. He was known as ‘the lovable hermit’ of Upper Gull Lake. Social distancing was his norm for decades. I will tell you more about him in my next post; for now, just know it was his wish that after his death, his land would go to the town of Lake Shore. It will be forever protected by the Minnesota Land Trust.

The first surprise and delight when we emerged from our vehicle was the sound of running water—literally a babbling brook aptly named Stoney Brook. The dark water coursed between the banks still deep in snow.

As we hiked, another striking observance was the number of huge fallen trees in the park—some broken off, others uprooted. A summer storm in 2015 and another in May of 2016 that carried with them devastating extreme winds, had toppled trees and power lines. The evidence starkly remains.

In the midst of the past destruction and the as-of-yet-ongoing Winter (despite the calendar’s announcement of the arrival of Spring), we saw great beauty. Mother Nature creates amazing art at any particular place and time of year—and at this time and place, it was intricate ice art. The brook was lined with it, and I hunkered down (first definition) at the edge of the water with camera in hand.

We are living in the vast gray area where things don’t fit into neat ‘us and them’ categories and when trying to incite that division falls flatly with a resounding thud to our humanity and decency. The picture is bigger now. We are all team players, like we should have been all along. It’s always been about life and death—if not physically, then spiritually, emotionally, and socially. We are losing people—the fallen—for reasons we will never understand and for reasons we should have been more prepared for. And in the midst of the fear, confusion, collapse, sickness, and death is an upsurgence of art and creativity and caring. Music, visual arts, poetry, stories, and heroism are being brought to the fore, and it’s making a difference in our isolation. The loss of lives and livelihood is tragic, but it does not have to be without meaning. With such a trauma to our world, there is no going back to the way it used to be—we have an opportunity to go forward to a new way of being with the very things that are most important to us now in this time of quarantine. Hunker down in love, self care, creativity, renewal, and charity for others—we’re all in this together with grit and meaning and motion.

Connection Under an Azure Blue Sky

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It all began with my prejudice against red pepper flakes. We were eating our breakfast at KoWaKan, sitting at picnic tables under the tarp-covered kitchen. One of the board members we met the night before sat beside me and sprinkled red pepper flakes on his scrambled eggs. My Scandinavian sensibilities instantly went into danger mode—ie. ‘how to ruin a perfectly good, calm, comforting morning meal.’ When I cautiously mentioned his usage, he assured me that it made everything taste better. In my righteous and myopic defense of Northern European culinary practices, I quipped something like “and you’re from Minnesota?!” He was not from Minnesota. He said he grew up in Kansas City. Well, that explains it, I thought, as I told him that that was where my husband Chris grew up, too, (who also flavors his eggs with red pepper). We continued to eat our eggs and chat. When Chris walked over from the fire where he had been warmly eating his breakfast, I told him that John was from Kansas City! Chris asked him what part of KC he was from, then asked if he had gone to Southwest. John said no, that he had gone to Rockhurst High School. Things kind of went slow motion in my head as I looked from one to the other, and then he added, ‘Class of ’76.’ Chris and John were classmates! What the heck?! They used to play basketball together every day in the ‘short-guy-lunch-hour basketball league!’ We were in the northern wilderness of Minnesota at a Methodist camp and two Kansas City Catholic boys meet again after 40-some years! It blew my mind—I could hardly stand the deliciousness of it!

We were all on the same work team that morning, and the conversation between them flowed from past memories to present day to how they got here. During the shoveling, bucketing, trimming, and digging, in the midst of the smudge smoke that kept the black flies from our eyes, there was a re-connection from a distant time and place. From all the stories that Chris had told me about Rockhurst, I knew that it, too, had a ‘Spirit of the Place‘ about it.

Later in the day, I walked the trail from the Meadows to Hilltop, capturing the details of a late Spring day in the forest. Spruce, Pine, Fir, Birch, and Aspen are the largest trees in the forest, including those on the three islands of Section 12. Star-white flowers of small Serviceberry trees will produce dark, edible berries later in the summer.

Moss and lichens grow on nearly everything. The moss-covered rocks and soil are interspersed with tiny Violets, Wood Anemones, and other plants for later blooming.

Wild Blueberries grow on a sunny, rocky hill facing the lake. The low-to-the-ground shrubs with their small, pale, bell-shaped blossoms can easily be overlooked.

Wild Blueberries are the larval food for the Spring Azure Butterfly, who is almost camouflaged when its wings are folded, but who is a tiny piece of blue sky when flying.

I saw a swimmer out in the lake, gracefully going under and up in a measured, undulating cadence. From a distance, I knew it wasn’t a Loon, and Aaron confirmed that he had seen River Otters here during his work summers.

Another resident of the lake that Aaron retrieved for closer inspection was a dragonfly nymph. After the adult lays eggs on a plant in the water, the nymph grows and develops for up to four years before emerging from its shell and the water to become a flying dragonfly!

After my cold and restless second night in the tent, I was rewarded for getting up before the sunrise to see the mist rising from the still water.

Even the island was obscured in the morning mist…

…but the Loons who had sung our evening lullabies were seen swimming in early morning reverie.

We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep. –William James

Our weekend of service and connection with Aaron and our friend Luke and in this special place would have been wonderful in and of itself, despite the chilly nights. But the meeting of the classmates after more than forty years?! That chance? meeting just gave me so much delight! Later in the weekend, we also found out that two other fellow KoWaKan helpers had lived and camped at a Lutheran church camp that I had worked at in South Dakota when I was in college!! Ah, the graceful cadence of our lives! That Grace, that Cadence, is often overlooked in our busy lives or obscured by the mist of work, children, responsibilities, or ‘more important’ things. How do we connect with those other islands around us? I think first is the acknowledgement that we are already connected ‘in the deep.’ Secondly, it takes communication—talking, listening, asking questions, telling stories, and being open and brave. And finally, it takes caring, dedication, belief, faith, service, and the all-encompassing sea of Love. All of those converged that weekend under that tiny piece of azure sky of KoWaKan.

The Spirit of the Place

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There are those moments when you feel, when you know at a deep level, you are not in your usual place. There are places—different for each of us—that are special in a soul-satisfying way. There are reasons, usually experiential, sometimes beyond our knowing, why we connect with a certain place.

On the last evening of May, we stopped at Rookie Pond after hours of traveling—we were within miles of our destination, but it is a favorite ‘sunset’ place to take in the beauty of the Northwoods. Breathing in the North air, I felt a strange combination of relaxation and excitement at the same time. I was not in my usual place!

The wildness of the Northwoods (the ubiquitous term describing the northern woodlands of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Maine, and other northern states) is humbling. We are the guests in this land—it is proper for us to take cues from it and to show respect and appreciation to our host. This is home to wolves, moose, black bears, and other creatures—it is their place. (The next day we saw picture proof of a black bear crossing the highway not far from this lookout the day before we arrived.)

A beaver’s lodge was prominently placed in the lake—not for our eyes but for its purposes. Nature’s great architect and builder goes about the business of being a beaver.

Our destination was KoWaKan, the Methodist camp that was the summer home for our daughter Emily and our son Aaron for a combination of eight or nine summers. Staff and campers live in large canvas tents on wood platforms, and most groups leave KWK to canoe and camp in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) Wilderness nearby. We arranged our sleeping bags and blankets on the cots, anticipating nighttime temperatures in the 40’s. Chris was sleeping before it was dark, and I crept into the tent with my lantern a bit later after leaving the campfire. I put on my layers of sleeping clothes—two pairs of socks, long-john pants, three layers of shirts/fleeces, and a wool stocking cap. I found myself smiling in the dark—I was so happy to be there. The frogs were singing, and the loons were calling on the lake right down the hill. But I couldn’t get to sleep. I kept getting colder. Drat! I would have to get up and put on more clothes. So I climbed out of bed, added gloves and another layer of leggings, rearranged my wool blanket to go under and over my sleeping bag, then climbed back in. The cold still crept into my toes, onto my nose, throughout my bones. I wasn’t sleeping, and I was no longer smiling. I brainstormed ways to get warmer with what we had left in the tent—all would mean getting out of my sleeping bag. Then the driving force to action struck me—the need to use the outhouse. Ugh. Boots, lantern, shivers, and I was out in the woods. But when I looked up at the sky in our tent clearing, I found the gift to my cold discomfort. The stars were a shining, masterpiece mural across the dark sky! The Milky Way swept its splendor of billions of stars in a high arch above my head. A shooting star fell before my eyes. Well then!

I slept fitfully the rest of the night until the early morning (34 degrees!) light lit the path to the outhouse. A huge anthill was piled up beside the path—home for the ants. (Did you know that bears will swipe off the top of an ant hill and eat the tiny, protein-packed ants?)

It was time to get to work! Opening camp for the season includes setting up tents, putting tarps over tents to prevent sun damage, cutting brush and firewood, raising the tarp roof over the kitchen and tent-drying areas, getting outhouses in shape, setting up cots and the kitchen, and many other things. The three staff members and other KWK helpers had started the process before we arrived, but there was plenty of work left to be done. But first, it was coffee time. What to do with coffee beans and no grinder? The flat axe head didn’t work that well, but our friend Luke’s idea of a large rock and some muscle power from Luke and Aaron soon had the coffee ground up and perking in the pot! A KWK mortar and pestle.

Section 12 is the source of beauty, of singing, of solitude, of sustenance, and of cleanliness for all who dwell in this place. One greets the lake upon rising, and the lake reciprocates. It is a prayer for one another—the greeter and the lake, and for all who eat, work, worship, and sleep on her shores.

Water is gathered with a hand pump from the lake, boiled, and put into pans for washing and rinsing dishes and hands. It is a life of simplicity, of routine, and of physical work in service to oneself and others.

We had noisy neighbors called Gray Jays during our meals. They are known for their brashness in stealing human food from campsites. They were watching us and our plates!

Another frequent visitor to the kitchen is chipmunks. They scour the ground under the picnic tables for bits of dropped food. I found an eating place of theirs along the trail where fir cone shells were left in a pile after the seeds were eaten.

Most of the year, KoWaKan belongs only to those who inhabit the woodlands and lakes—the bears, Jays, wolves, and chipmunks. It is their place. For three months of summer, we are guests of their land. It is a special place, not only for the memories our children and decades of campers have gathered, but also for the intrinsic spirit of the place. KoWaKan means ‘Place of the Almighty.’

Where is the place that satisfies your soul? The place that floods you with memories and brings a smile to your face? Those places teach us the business of being ourselves, where life is simple and hard, all at the same time. Those places challenge us, yet give us unexpected gifts. We use our minds and bodies in work and problem-solving, serving ourselves and others. May you be blessed in your special place.

What Kind of Flower Are You?

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What if you were a flower? Which one would you be? After waiting so desperately for Spring flowers, we now have an explosion of sorts! The Crabapples and Lilacs are garnering star-status attention—eyes are drawn to their charisma and beauty. From a distance they are admired, and up close they are appreciated.

Lily of the Valley are hidden among the wide, pointed leaves—at first glance, green is all one sees. A closer look reveals pure, simple features with an exquisite fragrance.

What’s not to like about Virginia Bluebells? Beautiful shape and color and one of the first flowers to bloom in the woodland before getting covered up by the vigorous summer plants.

The tiny, delicate Brunnera is easily missed among the larger green leaves. The flowers can be mistaken for the better known Forget-me-nots.

Sweet Woodruff, a shade-loving groundcover, has a diminutive, elegant flower reminiscent of the tropical Stephanotis.

On their own, the Purple Flag Iris and the Anemone are brilliant and eye-catching, each with distinct, enchanting features. When paired together, they are a power couple!

What flowers?! Jack-in-the-Pulpit flowers don’t look like flowers at all! They blend in with the triad leaves and the purplish stems.

I always forget the name of these Spring flowers that pop up from low-growing vines. Chris reminds me they are Creeping Phlox that can be confused with the other Creeping Phlox. (The perils of a common name.)

Wild Geraniums are showy in color with large stamens and striped flower buds, but the mound of cut-leafed foliage is the most distinct feature of the plant.

Dozens and dozens and dozens of Honeysuckle shrubs are blooming in our woods right now. Some are pink, others are yellow and white, and some are a darker rose color. They are sweet-smelling and abundant.

Serviceberry and Chokecherry are best know for the fruit they produce, but without the flower, there is no fruit!

Ajuga, besides its great name, is a richly-colored ground cover that can get carried away. (In other words, it can spread into places you don’t want it.) The stalks of lobed blue flowers are impressive at this time of year.

Variegated Solomon’s Seal is a work of art with arching stems, white-lined leaves, and pendulous pairs of white and green flowers.

If you are not looking for this flower, you will miss it. The large heart-shaped leaves hide the ground-hugging purple-red flower. They are exquisite flowers when you look closely.

Spring/Winter was hard on the bulb flowers this year. The Crocuses that line the driveway grew their leaves, but did not produce one flower. The Daffodils were late to push up their lance-like leaves, and only two flowers showed their sunshine faces.

Flowers of the Nannyberry Viburnum are large clusters of many smaller flowers. Their strength and presence come from the compilation of lots of small, individual beauties.

I know some Crabapple people in my life—they are seen and heard from a distance and are admired and appreciated by many. Some people I know aren’t showy at all—their gifts are more subtle or hidden, and it takes time and effort to uncover them and get to know them. Others blend in, get covered up by more vigorous people, are confused with others, or are missed entirely. They are the ones that need intention, time, noticing, and listening from the rest of us. Their gifts and beauty are just as important to our communities and lives as are the abundant ones. Certain people are known only by the fruits of their labor, what they produce, the work they do, and the brilliance and perseverance of who they are as a person is lost in that translation. I know couples who are superb and talented individuals who are synergistic in their togetherness. And some people are having hard times and are just doing what needs to be done to survive—their sunshine faces are clouded over. We are all flowers, each in our own exquisite way. When you look closely, we are all works of art.

The Next 364 Days Through Shadow and Light

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When we were young married kids, I remember the anticipation and excitement of an upcoming special day—Chris’ birthday or our anniversary or Christmas. I planned ahead making gifts and cards, cakes and surprises. Fast forward a dozen years to after we had three kids, and I remember, as I’m sure Chris does, that I was sick for his early January birthday for years in a row. I had planned gifts and cakes and cards for our three children’s December birthdays and Christmas and was just worn out by the time January arrived. Once everyone was in school, the same thing happened with our mid-May anniversary—the end-of-school busyness preempted the anticipation of our anniversary—wait, how many years has it been now? Luckily we followed the belief system of Ruth, Chris’ Mom, who declared that one special day meant nothing compared to every other day of the year. Mother’s Day? Treat your Mom with love and respect every day. Anniversaries? Show your love and respect to your partner daily. I know there were special days when we endured some disappointment, for whatever reason, but we had the next 364 days to show that person what they meant to us.

The week before last, we celebrated our thirty-seventh anniversary. No more end-of-school busyness with kids, but this time it was LIFE that took away the energy and excitement of a celebration. We were slogging through our days—too many things felt heavy and out of control. So we went to the woods, to the pine forest, to the place we’ve been before, where we knew the healing balm of Nature would give us respite for a little while. One of the first things we saw along the trail were bright yellow Bellworts with their hanging, nodding heads.

We walked through deciduous trees with their newly-emerging leaves, passed by Cedars and blooming Elderberry shrubs…

until we got to the Pine forest, in all its glory.

The first towering evergreens were Scotch Pines with their peeling bark towards the top of the tree that exposes butterscotch-colored trunks. Only the mature trees that had peeled away the onion layers of carefully crafted bark revealed the rich, golden treasure of color that identified the tree.

Red Pines made up the majority of the forest with their scaly, gray bark that ‘reddens’ with maturity. Evening sunlight streamed through the trees, striping the pine-needle-covered trail. We walk through shadow and light all the moments of our lives.

At times, it really is hard to see the forest for the trees. The trees are up-close, obscuring our sight, demanding our attention. Our lives shrink down to a narrow focus, often fear or survival-driven—it is the way our mammalian brain works.

So what do we do? We notice there are other things in the forest besides trees. Growing up through the old pine needles, cones, and twigs is a shade-loving Columbine that will soon show its intricately-shaped flower to those who notice.

I stop and touch the warm bark of a tree. There is sap coming from a wound—it has become thick and sticks to my hands. But it is fragrant with the very essence of the Pine, as are the layers of shed needles that we walk on. The living, breathing, fundamental essence of the Pine tree fills our nostrils with the most delightful perfume. I breathe deeply, and my headache slips away.

We notice and become aware of the future. A decaying Pine stump exposes the interior structures that built and maintained the tree during its long life. It really is a marvel of engineering—thank you, Creator. I like the dense, twisted wood where a branch was, where a knot would be if it was planed down into a board. That spiral of wood is often the last part to disintegrate back into the soil.

We take a closer look at the shadow and light bands of our lives. We have been through tough shadow times before, remember hon? We have been in this place before. We came through those shadow dark times to light once again.

Then, as we walked along, there in the forest, I saw a burning bush! A young pine was lit in sunlight, burning with brightness!

Here I am, on holy ground.

Not wanting to leave the luminosity of the burning pine, I wondered where we should go next. What path? How? Why? We continued to slowly walk the pine-cone-strewn path—those old fruits with new seeds. We saw vibrant young pines growing at the foot of the wise ones and the sun shining on them all.

We could see the forest, the hallelujah forest, with the old ones, the young ones, the sunshine, the bark, and the needles, lifting a song of life straight up to the sky.

But then we heard a crow cawing us back to our bodies, back to our lives, back to our headaches and questions. What do you see from your vantage point?

We saw footprints that led us back to the bridge that returned us to our car, to our real and present lives. What do you know from trekking the path before us?

It was an anniversary to remember. It was a path we had walked before, yet as always, the same things bring new things. I had bright flowers and sweet perfume—that soul-filling pine perfume. Some of our wounds were temporarily clotted with the thick sap of it. It is a fragrance that makes a person know they are alive. I was grateful for the relief. We had stillness and singing, stillness and movement as we walked together through the cathedral of Pines.

In thirty-seven years, we have peeled back quite a few layers of the carefully crafted bark of our previous years. It’s a gift to craft and a gift to peel back the parts that are no longer needed. What a privilege to see the golden treasure underneath. So here we are. Standing on holy ground. What does the luminous voice from the burning bush tell us? Where do we go? What do we do? Where is this land flowing with milk and honey?

The Gold in All of Us

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I remember the feeling I had when I went off to college of having the opportunity to become a new person. I’m not sure if that was an expectation of society or an internal wish on my part or both. Stepping from dependence to independence (the first error in my thinking) seemed like a good time to become this new self, my true being.

It’s happening right now as I write, as the birds sing their joyful songs, as the breeze blows through the grass that needs its first mowing—each and every tree, shrub, and perennial plant is stepping into its full being! The hints and false starts and stubborn stuckness is over—this week we are rising to the crescendo of Spring!

It is striking when the higher-arching sun illuminates the new leaves with gold. The fresh new cells of the emerging leaves seem to carry an inner brightness and glow that is sparked by the warm sun. Green and orange and red glow with gold.

New growth of a Red Oak unfolds from a single bud that was swollen with potential. It emerges like a butterfly from a cocoon or a calf from the womb—wrinkled, wobbly, and fragile looking.

Timing of each tree’s unfolding varies—some are early starters, in full-leaf by the time others are just pushing out their tiny works of art—all in the glow of becoming. It’s supposed to be that way. Only a fool would expect Nature to be all the same.

And then there’s this. Even as these brand new leaves emerge, there is already a connection to another kingdom, another species. Nature is a web of interdependence, seen and unseen.

College was a time of growth and learning, but by no means did I step into my full being. I think perhaps we are like the trees—we get a chance to emerge into a new being with each year of our lives. We have an inner energy that can’t be denied and guides us toward the next step. It’s supposed to be that way—it’s the high-arching journey of our lives. It also provides us with grace—we don’t have to get it ‘right’ at any certain time, but we learn and grow and hopefully get better with each iteration of newness. So, we always have these innate buds of potential waiting to emerge, and we need to be protective of their wobbly births and beginnings. The seen and unseen connections that bind us to others can be uplifting or destructive, not only to our new births, but to Nature’s web as a whole.

“Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.” –Chief Seattle

Here’s to new beginnings! Here’s to all of us stepping into a higher, better iteration of ourselves. Here’s to the new, developing cells in the warm glow of becoming. Here’s to the uplifting, positive forces that know the truth and power of Chief Seattle’s message. Here’s to the gold in all of us!