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The Mirror of Nature and Goodness

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Water is the mirror of Nature.  –Francis of Assisi

What happens when you see a person walking toward you unexpectedly get hit in the head by a ball?  Often we react with a cringe, a movement of our hand to our own head, or even with a verbal “ouch”—almost like we ourselves had gotten hit.  The mechanism for that occurrence is the activation of mirror neurons in our brains.  Mirror neurons were discovered in 1994 by a group of Italian scientists in a lucky accident.  They were studying individual neurons in a monkey’s premotor area of the brain, with a computer to monitor which neurons fired when the monkey picked up a peanut or banana.  The researcher noticed that when he was putting food pellets into a box, the computer showed that the monkey’s brain cells were firing, even though the monkey wasn’t moving!  He was watching the researcher move and reacting as if he were picking up the food pellets himself.  Research on mirror neurons continues, but it is now understood that these brain-to-brain links help to explain empathy, learning, imitation, and synchrony.  These brain cells are ‘online’ at birth and are an imperative part of how a baby and caretaker communicate with one another, how they regulate their respective physiologies, and how the baby learns—e.g., cooing and making sounds and words, playing peek-a-boo, facial expressions, and comforting tones and movements.  We are, in essence, programmed to pick up another person’s movements, emotions, and intentions and to make internal adjustments based on what we notice.  We also give clues to others about what is going on inside of us.

After a hot Memorial Day weekend, Tuesday’s storm broke the heat wave and brought us some much-needed rain.  As the storm was ending, the western horizon cleared, and the sun shone through the trees.  I went out the back door with the camera to photograph the colorful sunset, but what caught my attention was the birdbath.  The water in the birdbath was a mirror not only to the colors of the sunset but also a reflection of the wind and remaining raindrops!  It was mesmerizing!

 

Twenty-two photographs over four minutes of time.  Subtleties of color, shade, tone, and movement.  Each one the same, but different.  Each one mirroring a moment in Nature, reflecting the wind, the rain, and the sunlight.  We exhibit just as many cues and clues in four minutes of our time with subtle movements, facial expressions, muscle tightening, eye contact, voice tone, and posture.  Those around us are picking up those cues and clues via their mirror neurons and reacting to them based on the person’s development history, sense of safety, and state of mind and body (all of which can change the message in profound ways.)  And most of this is happening with little or no conscious awareness.  The challenge is not to be vulnerable to negativity in others, not to meet anger with anger or disdain with disdain, yet at the same time retain the empathy that keeps us connected as social beings.  What a challenge it is.  It does give credence to our moms’ warnings not to hang out with the wrong crowd—we tend to become like the people we choose to be around; she just didn’t know it was because of mirror neurons!  We have an opportunity to positively influence the people around us and the strangers we meet—we can look into their eyes and smile, we can open our hands and our hearts, we can make them feel welcomed, safe, and supported.  Our face and actions can be a mirror of Goodness, and that, dear ones, is mesmerizing.  

 

 

Zero to Sixty

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In two weeks’ time, we have accelerated from Spring to Summer.  The normal progression of leafing out and blooming has been disrupted this year—things seem rather confused.  The very warm temperatures of these last days have pushed some things to bloom, while at the same time the early bloomers are just catching up from the delay a late snowstorm produced.  So now the daffodils, honeysuckle, lilacs, crabapples, viburnums, flag irises, and anemones are all blooming at the same time!  Instead of Spring slowly unfolding in its progressive, orderly way, it’s been like a tire-spinning Ferrari going from zero to sixty in 2.9 seconds!

On Mother’s Day two weeks ago, we took a short hike around Rockville County Park.  The leaves were just emerging from the trees, which made bird watching easier.  We saw a Baltimore Oriole and a Rose-breasted Grosbeak and heard their beautiful songs.

An adult Eagle floated in the sky above us looking for food to feed the two hungry ‘babies’ in the nest.  They have a few years until they grow into the elegance of their parents.

A tall, showy Serviceberry was blooming in the woods, looking almost out of place with the other bare, brown-with-green-tinged trees.

Later, back at home, a lone turkey wandered through the front yard.  She circled around the garage, then was scared by a tractor going down the road.  She ran to the backyard and flew up into the oak trees, defying her size!  She stayed there for quite a while, cautiously looking around to determine her safety.  Finally she opened her wings and glided to the ground.

We had a few rain showers in the last two weeks, though it still seems very dry, especially as the temperatures have gone so unseasonably high this past week.  The rainy days helped the Purple Leaf Plum leaf out and bloom, helped the Purple Flag Irises open their tissue-paper-thin flowers, and gave the Baltimore Oriole a shower.

On another trek to Eagle Park, we saw Purple Martins sitting on the porches of their house.  Just as we got out of the car, they all flew away, and I saw a Hawk capture one in the air, going zero to sixty!  He flew to a branch of a tree with the Purple Martin in his claws.

Then he dropped it!  He looked down at his fallen prey but did not fly down to get it as we watched!

 

It seems like we waited so long for Spring to come this year, and then when it did finally show up, it zoomed into summer—what crazy weather!  I remember when the kids were younger how we waited for milestones—when they walked, talked, tied their own shoes, started school, and dozens of others.  While the waiting seemed long, when they finally passed a milestone, things started to move faster, and we looked back thinking how time had zoomed by so quickly!  How could ten years, twenty years, now thirty years have passed since we held these dear babies in our arms?  Crazy time.  These children of ours—we try to keep them safe, provide food, shelter, learning and love, help them to bloom, and teach them to fly.  Sometimes desires and dreams fall from their grasps—from our grasps—and we look down and decide whether or not we will pick them up again or let them go.  We all take a couple of years or a lifetime to grow into our elegance.

Gonna Get Burned

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Have you ever been burned?  I don’t mean literally, though we have probably all experienced that pain in some way in our lives—a sunburn that reddens and heats our shoulders or a blistering burn on our hand from cooking.  I mean figuratively.

“Love is the burning point of life… Love itself is pain, you might say—the pain of being truly alive.”  –Joseph Campbell

We all probably know this pain, too.

In April, soon after the snow melted, we attempted to burn our little prairie area.  We had the water hose, shovels, wet burlap in buckets of water, and matches.  The first dried grasses in the flame of a match poofed up and were instantly gone.  It seemed dry enough, but as we progressed, there was still too much moisture in the ground and in the grass to get a consistent burn.

I used a pitchfork to ‘move’ the flame from one place to another, with Chris standing by with his shovel, but it just wasn’t going well.  When we were about to call it a day, a smoldering flame lit the tall, dried grass around one of the White Pine trees and whooshed up into the branches.  Chris beat it with a shovel as I got the water hose and doused it.  But there was damage done.  Some of the lower branches were scorched and burned at the tips.  Glad it wasn’t worse.  But as the days passed, more brown needles appeared.  The heat of the burn had rose up and damaged the needles farther up the tree.

I tried to reassure the man who loves trees and who had lovingly planted these pines as two-footers, that it would be okay.  But this poor tree looked worse by the day.

Meanwhile, as I was driving on the highway not far from our house, the stark blackness of a burn rose from the road up a hill to the edge of a woods.

Prescribed or controlled burns help manage weeds and invasive species, including woody plants like cedar and buckthorn.  Burns also restore nutrients to prairie plants and stimulate growth of deep-rooted grasses and native plants.

The charred ground was in stark contrast to the vivid green of new Spring leaves in the woods.

As the weeks passed, I noticed buds emerging from the tips of our White Pine, including most of the branches with browned needles.  New growth was springing forth from the damage!  I am optimistic, even as Chris is much more cautious about the long-term welfare of the tree.

One week after I photographed the blackened burn on the hillside, it has already begun to transform to Spring greenness.

 

“If you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”  Even with preparation, consideration, and care, we still damaged one of our young trees with fire.  The tree will have scars from the fleeting fire, but it will continue to grow.  Hopefully, someday, the scars won’t even be seen.  The rapid transformation of a prescribed burn on the hillside from black to green is like a ‘do-over’—getting rid of the old, undesirable, and invasive to make room for the new, beneficial, and native.

Joseph Campbell, mythologist and writer of the human experience, wrote about love as ‘the burning point of life.’  It encompasses so many aspects of love—the burning desire of young lovers, the fierceness of a mother protecting her child, the passion one has for a vocation or avocation, and the absolute heartbreak of a lost love.  Love ups the ante of us getting burned.  We love, we get burned, we have scars, and we keep on growing through the growing pains.  Maybe we are all ‘prescribed’ these burns in our lives to manage our egos, to keep offensive things from taking over our lives, and to restore goodness to our innate selves.  Campbell also wrote, “Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.”  Love, pain, growth, and joy—when we know we’re truly alive.

To All Those Who Came From Mothers

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Our very being, essence, health and happiness depend on Mother Earth.                    –David Suzuki

Where and how do we begin?  What is our essence?  To whom do we owe our health and happiness?  Yikes!  These are deep questions!  On this Mother’s Day, there is no need to overwhelm ourselves with an endless pool of existential inquiry, but maybe we should at least dip our toes in.  Only some of us are mothers, but all of us came from mothers.  We all know at least half of the equation.  We were all mothered in one way or another—the judgement of how that turned out is only for each one of us to determine in the journey of our lives.  Of course, that journey changes if and when we become mothers (and fathers) ourselves and when we lose those that brought forth our life.  And so it goes…

The essence of life is Springing forth.  The change that happens in one week’s time is mind-boggling and mind-humbling—we are dealing with a force so much bigger than ourselves.  The greening of the grass seems simple compared to perennials pushing up and unfolding from the earth and dormant trees exploding with flowers and new leaves.  We really are fortunate to witness such miracles, do you know?  Look at the fresh flowers and tender leaves of these two types of Maple trees:

Blue Jay mates were foraging for food this week, vocalizing their pleasure of Spring mating and nest-building.

Linden leaves began the filling-out process of changing the trees’ skeletal silhouettes to geometrical shapes.

The Rabbits were in a frenzy one early morning, darting here and there, perhaps for no other reason than Spring is finally here!

Tiny new Wild Strawberry flowers opened up as the only-days-old Magnolia flowers wilted, browned, and fell—a miniature birth and death cycle that leads to the next step in the biological process—the formation of fruits and seeds.

Two surprises showed up this week that had me rushing for the camera—it’s exciting to see something that one has never seen before!  We have had many types of woodpeckers frequent the feeders, but I had never seen a flashy Red-headed Woodpecker until this week.

Another morning flash of color attracted my attention—a Red-breasted Grosbeak.

Mayapples, Epimedium, and Lily-of-the-Valley arose, appeared, and unrolled from the earth, from where there was nothing visible before.

Standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window, I see the ‘Prairie Fire’ Crabapple has a white cloud of Wild Plum blossoms surrounding its dark burgundy leaves and flower buds.

 

Spring marks the beginning of a full cycle of emergence, growth, development, seed formation, offspring, transformation, decline, and death.  It’s the new time, an exciting time, a time that makes one frenetic with energy for no good reason other than Winter is over and Spring is here!  Mother Earth’s pregnant potential showcases beginnings and alludes to the essence of Life.  She provides sunshine and vitamin D for our health and brings us smiling happiness and wonder.  In the midst of all of this, there is each one of us and our half of the equation.  Our being, where once there was nothing, was brought forth by an egg and a sperm, was developed in the nourishing cloud of a womb, emerged into this mind-boggling, mind-humbling world, and then developed and filled out into the shape of our essence.  We are mothered by mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, grandmas, grandpas, friends, teachers, mentors, and others—we deserve to be cared for, respected, listened to, and loved and to give those things in return.  If we determine that we have fallen short of that, we must remember that we are dealing with a force that is so much bigger than us—the God-force of Life itself, where all things are possible.  As we live into our half of the equation, let us give thanks for all the caring Mothers in our lives.  We really are fortunate to be such miracles.  

No Holding Back

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“No matter how long the Winter, Spring is sure to follow.”

Three weeks ago we had a foot of snow.  But Spring will no longer be held back!  On Monday, two turkeys foraged along the road pecking at emerging leaves of green grass and tender new buds.

It was so wonderful to see the grass finally turning green and the chives pushing their way up!

Two visitors passed through on their way North—a White-crowned Sparrow and a Yellow-rumped Warbler.

April’s end-of-month full moon illuminated buds on a tree, and a colorful sunset shone through the silhouette of trees where soon leaves will occlude the splendor.

The Bluebirds returned this week!  Their swift, swooping dives and chattering songs fill the front yard as they check out the nesting boxes.

On Thursday, I finally got to my annual Earth Day ditch clean-up.  Once again, with most of the trash being plastic, I urge everyone to ‘ditch’ plastic shopping bags and use paper or reusable bags.  It will make a difference!  I also found this unfortunate creature who didn’t make it through the winter—one of our resident opossums who waddle back and forth from the quarry to the woods.

By Friday, the Forsythia and Bergenia were blooming!  The lemony yellow Forsythia flowers shone in the morning sun along with one orange fall leaf that had held on through the winter.

The Bergenias send up a study flower stalk between green leaves that have weathered the winter and those that dried and died.  No holding back.

Ferns with their rolled fiddleheads emerged by warm rocks, casting shadows just as intriguing as the fiddleheads themselves.

The most amazing bud to me is the terminal bud of a Buckeye tree.  I’m always incredulous that such a huge amount of leaves can be coiled into one bud—and they are beautiful as they unfurl!

One sign of Spring that I always look for is the ‘green blush’ of new leaves on the Aspen trees down by the river.  Thursday, no green blush, but Friday morning, it was there!

The floppy, fragrant petals of the Star Magnolia opened on Saturday.  So beautiful!

For the first time, I saw a Baltimore Oriole come to our feeder!  No holding back the Goodness of Spring! 

 

I think most of us up North would agree it’s been a long winter, but Spring sure has been sweet this week.  It’s as if all the power and potential can no longer be held back, even as the last piles of blackened snow melt and the frost recedes from the ground—Spring has come bursting forth!  There are many times in life when we feel the holding back and comfort of what is known along with the pull of a new adventure.  A baby is happy to sit or crawl until the urge to walk implants itself in mind and body—there is no holding back.  Children are eager to learn and ‘do it themselves’ after years of parents doing it for them and teaching them motor and mind skills.  Adolescents oscillate between being a dependent child and pushing their way to adult independence.  At some point, there is no holding back the desire to live one’s own life.  A similar thing happens in mid-life after decades of striving, achieving, raising children, putting plans on hold, paying bills and doing the necessary matters.  We wonder if we have lost ourselves, if there is something more to life, if we have fulfilled our potential—we forage for new ways or remember something from the past that we have carried with us like a lone, orange leaf.  Some parts of our lives die—by our own hand or by the hand of a higher power.  We explore intriguing shadows that lead us back to our own intriguing selves.  No matter our age or circumstance, we are beautiful as we unfurl. 

When I Found a Tree and a Woman

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It was during one of the hardest times in my life when I found a tree.  It wasn’t that it was hard to find or anything—I had literally driven past it hundreds of times in my whole life, and it was a huge tree.  It stands in Pioneer Park just east of a little log cabin on display for picnickers or interested Highway 14 by-passers.  During the annual Arts Festival, its expansive crown offers a shady respite in the July heat for snow cone eaters and tired babies in strollers.  Many people have leaned against the wide trunk while listening to the lilting flute of Brulé and other music performers on the small stage tucked among craft and food booths.

It was during one of the happiest times in my life when I found a woman.  I actually found her after I serendipitously found her son—or he found me—in the same town where the huge Cottonwood tree lives.  She lived in a suburban split level house in Kansas City, Missouri, and I spent many nights and days in her home before Chris and I married, and she cautiously, quietly, graciously welcomed me into her life and the life of her family.  She became my Mother-in-law the day after we drove by the old Cottonwood on the evening of our wedding rehearsal.

When I found Grandmother Cottonwood, twenty-three years had passed since the happy day we drove by her to celebrate our marriage.  When I found this tree, my soul felt like it was dying.  I was confused, grief-stricken, weary to the bone, unable to find my way forward on any given day.  I sat staring out the window during the days and walked into the chilly nights with nowhere to go—aimlessly trying to flee the pain while at the same time yearning for something.  I had been blindsided—me and my whole family—with no left tackle to see what was coming and to protect us.  Nobody knew what to say or what to do.  One evening as I walked through the park, I walked over to the ample trunk of Grandmother Cottonwood and laid my body against her rough bark.  Her roots were large as trees and created a trough of tenderness for me to recline into, and I felt held, comforted, and understood in her solid silence.

This woman named Ruth became my second mother, as I was four hundred fifty miles from my own mom.  I helped her do dishes and set the table for family meals, decorate the Christmas tree, and move furniture.  She helped me understand my father-in-law, learn how to make a great salad and to live simply and well.  She was my protector when I was pregnant, and she held every grandchild—not just our three—with the tenderness and wonder of a miracle happening before her eyes.

Often on my nightly walks all those years later when I was once again near my home, near my own mom, I would go to the park, to the Cottonwood tree and lean against the deeply grooved bark.  My painful, nervous energy would flow into the ground, swallowed up by the roots of the old tree.  I would look up into the bare winter branches and wonder about all the changes this old tree had seen, all the storms it had lived through, all the celebrations it had witnessed, and all the creatures who had lived among its branches.  My body would calm down, my mind would reset, and my soul would flicker back to life.

In those happy days when I found my husband, when I found Ruth, when I found motherhood, my joy was multiplied in all kinds of ways.  My roots grew down, and my branches grew up and out.  Later, in the hard days, I had lost my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, my bearings, my dreams—my branches were being torn from me and my long-held convictions were being up-rooted—and I found the wise, old Grandmother Cottonwood.

 

It’s been fifteen years today since Ruth died, and yet she lives on within me because of the many gifts she gave to me and to her whole family.  She gifted us with her laughter, her quiet strength, and her deep love.  I am ever so glad I found her.  I am grateful for finding Grandmother Cottonwood during my hard time, whose quiet, old strength and wise ways helped to heal my battered and broken soul and calmed my weary body.  I am grateful to my Mom, who expertly took these photographs of the beautiful old Cottonwood, since I am one hundred eighty miles from both of them.  At certain times in our lives we find people or trees or animals who save our souls during hard times and enhance our lives during happy times.  Welcome them cautiously, quietly, and graciously.

Earth, Teach Us on this Earth Day

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EARTH, TEACH ME

An Ute Prayer

Earth teach me quiet—as the grasses are still with new light.

Earth teach me suffering—as old stones suffer with memory.

Earth teach me humility—as blossoms are humble with beginning.

Earth teach me caring—as mothers nurture their young.

Earth teach me courage—as the tree that stands alone.

Earth teach me limitation—as the ant that crawls on the ground.

Earth teach me freedom—as the eagle that soars in the sky.

Earth teach me acceptance—as the leaves that die each fall.

Earth teach me renewal—as the seed that rises in the spring.

Earth teach me to forget myself—as melted snow forgets its life.

Earth teach me to remember kindness—as dry fields weep with rain.

Let the words of this beautiful prayer float around you as they are sung by this talented choir.

 

Earth Day is a special day to remember and celebrate all that is good and beneficial about our Earth.  We are the stewards of this Home to us all.  And just as caregivers to children or elders know, the cared-for also teach us in profound ways.  The Earth and all of Nature—our Mother Earth, our Mother Nature—can teach us qualities we need to know.  Are we receptive?  We can learn listening skills from the quiet of grasses in the morning light.  We can learn resilience from the suffering of our earth and rocks from exploitation and apply that to the heavy stones we carry of our burdensome memories.  Like a child, we can cultivate wonder and humility as we watch the miraculous unfolding of flowers.  We can learn responsibility and how to nurture vulnerable creations as we watch animal parents care for their young.  The solitude of a lone tree can offer us a model of courage and fortitude in the face of harsh conditions.  When we feel small and inadequate, we can remember how the ant lives with limitations, and in that reality, can actually perform great feats.  An eagle in the sky models freedom and possibilities.  We can learn acceptance and peace from the cycle of life.  There are yearly lessons of renewal and rejuvenation with each Spring.  We can learn about transformation and transcendence as we watch snow melt to water, water turn to vapor, vapor fall as rain.  And as that rain provides the very basic need of water to dry plant life, we can learn about kindness, philanthropy, and grace.  There, but by the grace of God, go I.  Imagine our world, our Earth, our lives if everyone learned these eleven lessons.  Happy Earth Day! 

April Fooled

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When I was younger, in those early thirties days when one begins to come out of the rather clueless, self-involved but necessary decade of fun and invincibility, I began to learn about myself.  I remember reading a book that described the actions and reasons for what the experts now call co-dependency.  I remember being excited to learn this information that made sense of my feelings and interactions with other people!  I immediately shared the good news with my best friend, ready to re-make our relationship into a better functioning, more equitable friendship.  I was fooled into thinking that information easily translates to action, that this change would be easy, that we both would want this to happen.  Instead, it was the beginning of the end of our long and lovely friendship—the very thing co-dependents dread the most.  And I was slammed with loss and devastation.

Since Spring officially arrived on the calendar, we have been fooled into thinking Winter was easily going to pass the baton to Spring.  Instead we have had single digit temperatures more like January and more snow than we have seen the whole rest of Winter.  After our post-Easter snow and the one after that, we warmed up this week and made progress towards Spring—at least in the first step of getting rid of the snow.  The deliberate, clipped tracks of a fox melted into a ground-baring trail that disappeared into brown grass.  Progress.

By Friday morning, the yard was more grass than snow.  Progress!

A flock of Juncos descended on the remains of sunflower seeds.  Were they fooled into heading North for their Spring mating and Summer living?

The weekend forecast was already warning us of another big snowstorm, bringing dreadful resignation that Mother Nature is in charge, no matter how badly we want Spring.  The early morning sky dawned red with warning.  The barometric pressure fell, inducing discomfort in joints and heads.  There was uneasiness in the air.

By afternoon, snow and sleet slammed into the house from the north northeast.  “Ha!  Fooled you!  Don’t even think about Spring,” roared Mother Nature.  Spring took two steps back towards Winter.

Wind howled through the night and through the next day, crescendoing in gusts to 64 mph.  What we believed about Spring was being challenged with might and resistance from the old, clingy, egoistic ways of Old Man Winter.

Sunday morning the wind was still blowing and the snow was still snowing.  The sidewalk I had shoveled yesterday was completely covered with a drift even bigger than the one before.  Snowflakes flung by the wind stung my face as I walked the dog in my full winter gear.

What to do?  Shovel the walk again.  Wait until the snow stops.  Shovel again.  Repeat if necessary. 

 

We have been April fooled.  We are starting our fourth week of Spring.  Snow should be gone.  Daffodils are usually blooming by this time.  Ice is usually off the lakes.  None of those things.  Instead we’ve had a three-day blizzard as we sit indoors eating humble pie.  I wish I could profess I was never fooled again after those painful early thirties, but the truth is I continued to be fooled by people, situations, and myself.  Most of us tend to take situations and people on good faith, with good intention, with hope and the benefit of the doubt, and that can lay the groundwork for the capacity for things to go wrong.  The good news is we keep learning about ourselves, and we make progress.  We take two steps forward, then one step back.  Sometimes we are flung back many steps by challenges from our old, clingy, egoistic selves and way of life.  Change is hard, and change is not linear.  Sometimes we drop the baton—again and again.  At times we wait for the snow to stop snowing and the wind to stop blowing, and then we try again.  So let’s lift our shovels to Progress!  Spring actually is on its way!  

Snow and Wildflowers

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“Aren’t you tired of taking pictures of snow?” asked my daughter Emily with a sigh, after I updated her with the snow and cold report from Central Minnesota.  While we were basking in sunshine and snow for Easter, she and Shawn were hiking through wildflowers in 70 degree temperatures in Texas.  “It is as it is,” I answered—even though it’s April, even though we had eight more inches of snow on Monday and Tuesday, even though we had single digit temps for three nights in a row this week.  “Besides, it’s pretty!” I exclaimed in true Minnesota form.

Texas Bluebonnets by Em Brake

Tuesday morning I woke up, rolled over, and looked out the window at the old Oak tree that was the subject of my first blog post four years ago.  257 blog posts and thousands of photographs later, I’m still not tired of taking pictures and writing about Nature in all her beauty and wisdom, snow or no snow.

The warm sunshine started to melt snow off the roof, and a marimba of icicles formed on the overhang.  

The only track through the fresh eight inches of snow on Wednesday morning was the Tamba trail made from her treks to the woods during the two days of snow.

Prickly Pear Cactus by Em Brake

On Thursday morning as the sun rose, a frosty mist rose from the ground, enveloping the trees.  Instantly, at two degrees F, frost built up on the branches right before my eyes!  It was a spectacular phenomenon!  Then, as the power of the sun burned through the mist, the frost fell from the trees.

Rose Prickly Poppy by Em Brake

Minnesota in early April versus Texas in early April.  1200 miles between us.  Both places have a plant that represents Hope at this time of year.  In Minnesota, the early-blooming Pussy Willow lets us know that Spring is on its way, in spite of the surrounding snow.

In Texas, where periods of drought are common, Hope is embodied in the Rain Lily.  It appears a few days after heavy rains in the eastern two-thirds of Texas, as if by magic.  The blossoms open slowly at dusk and through the night and are in full bloom by morning.

Rain Lily by Em Brake

 

‘It is as it is’ has no reference to the past.  Four years ago we had temperatures close to sixty degrees here in Minnesota.  It also has no reference to the future—the snow will melt in the next couple of weeks when we reach the forties and fifties and get ‘back to normal.’  ‘It is as it is’ embraces the present moment, the present day—whether windchills or wildflowers.  Mother Nature has one over on us—she is in control of the weather.  But ‘it is as it is’ does not imply that the choices, actions, and occurrences of the past has had no influence on the present situation or climate, and it certainly doesn’t indicate what will happen in the future.  The past lays the groundwork for the present.  The future is like a clean, fresh palette of snow—where will the tracks and trails go?  What kind of magic will appear?  What will bloom in the midst of struggles?  How can each of us imbue Hope in this world?

Come September, I will be asking Emily how she can stand another day of heat in the 100’s, and I expect she will answer, “It is as it is, Mom.”   

Holy Week is the Story of Our Lives

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This has been a wild week—a wild and holy week.  Wild because of the weather, with up and down temperatures, sunshine and snow, mud and ice.  Holy because it’s Holy week in the Christian religion.  Palm Sunday dawned with a peaceful, pastel sky—a sight to behold, one fit for a King.

Early Spring eases its way out of Winter with fits and starts—the promise is here, small signs are here, but in good standing, we cannot proclaim that Spring is here.  One morning, this small sign of Spring chirped and sang with exuberance from on high in the Linden tree.  A Starling is not known to be a pretty or interesting bird, but he was singing hosanna with joy!

The colorful Sunday morning sky heralded in a Monday morning snow.  Confusion swirled around the Spruce branches as the vine tried to reassure them.  Spring is here!  They did not believe. 

Tuesday warmed to 40 degrees with brilliant sunshine, and the sap was lifted up from the earth and flowed from a wound in the Maple tree.  Now this feels like Spring!

Wednesday was muddy and messy.  The warmth melted the new snow and chiseled away at the old piles.  Plans for the future garden were held in disbelief.

It’s too hard to imagine Spring and new life when the snow still clings to the north-facing hills.

Thursday’s rising sun shone through another colorful morning sky, foreshadowing another stormy day.  The pink light from the east reflected off the western hills.  Geese flew to the open part of the Sauk River for nourishment and companionship, washing their feet in the clear, cold water.

Friday morning’s sky was heavy and dark to the west, and I thought to myself, ‘It looks like snow.’  Soon the flakes started to fall, laying down an inch or so on the pavement as the warmed earth melted it away.  A Pileated Woodpecker crowed his distinctive call, flew to the base of one of the old Spruce trees, and proceeded to excavate a cavernous hole with his powerful beak.  He shouldn’t be destroying a live, formidable tree.

The afternoon looked normal, looked warm, but the wind picked up and felt damp and cold, betraying any thoughts of Spring.  When the sun sank and the day was done, the night sky was a strange purple-gray.

I heard the wind straining the house and trees overnight and heard ice hitting the windows.  A Winter chill settled over the house, over the land, over the Spring.  Saturday morning was cold with a wind chill of 1° F and three inches of snow.  The evergreen tree branches drooped with the burden of heavy, icy snow.  The blue sky taunted us to come outside to play, but everything else about the day held grief, disbelief, and suffering.  Spring, why have you forsaken us?

Easter morning dawned clear and cold.  The wind had calmed down.  The second blue moon of the year was setting in the west.

The sun rose blindingly bright; we were unable to look directly at its glory—even through the trees its power was undeniable.  The Cardinals were singing their Spring songs, and the sun created infinite sparkling diamonds in the snow.

 

It seems like all of Life is encompassed in Holy week.  Our exuberant joys and our deepest sorrows.  The days our hearts are troubled.  Our denial and disbelief in what is real, in what is happening before our eyes, in what we thought we strongly held in our hearts.  Holy week and our lives are wild with confusion, doubt, and suffering, along with devotion, love, and friendship.  It highlights the tender, vulnerable moments of our lives when we dare to kneel in servanthood, when we break the rules for justice and kindness, when we offer our dearest ones to another for safe-keeping, and when we call out to God in prayer.  It reveals the inconsistency and idiocy of power in the wrong hands and of deluded group-think that spreads like wildfire and destroys the Spirit of truth.  It gives us hope for the future, peace for the present, and reclamation for the past.  It gives us a way forward, a blueprint for transformation, and a belief in a bigger, more benevolent Way.  Holy Week is the story of our lives.  Peace and Love be with you.