Winter Archives - Page 3 of 11

Trekking Through Trauma

February 28, 2021 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

If you have ever been through therapy, you know there is not a line drawn down the middle of your life with good things on one side and bad things on the other. And I say ‘through therapy,’ not ‘in therapy,’ as ‘in therapy’ implies that you can be ‘out of therapy.’ When I was going ‘through therapy’ after a spiritual crisis, it felt like I was going through one of those old-fashioned wringers on an old tub washer—my old life was being crushed, wrung out, flattened. I felt like the energy and purpose of what I thought life was all about was being snuffed out of me. There was no ‘in therapy’ then returning to ‘normal life’ when I left a session—it affected every aspect of my life and left me exhausted, crumpled, and changed.

Having a very strong line of demarcation between right and wrong when I was young was a coping mechanism for me to feel like the world was orderly. It helped me feel more safe, more in control. Things were easier to sort—either you’re with me or against me, it’s good or it’s bad, it’s black or it’s white. And I was the arbitrator of those judgements. My world view was narrow. That worked for a while. But as I got older, there were things that clashed with my categories. If I love this person, how can I vanquish this part of their life to the ‘bad category?’ Wait, the person I voted for did what?! That’s not acceptable. If this action helps one person and harms many others, what does that mean? Things weren’t an easy call anymore. Things were confusing. The huge gray area between black and white opened up my narrow world and threw me for a loop.

In order to process the gray area of our larger lives we must process the black, white, and gray areas of our own personal lives. The line of demarcation was strong down the middle of my own life, in my own head and heart. I rejected parts of myself. I made up stories in my head to try to make sense of my categories. I embraced the actions and people that made me feel like my point of view was the ‘right’ one. I ignored my individual desires, then projected those grievances onto others. How could they?! Not how could I not? So going through therapy exposed all of those thoughts, feelings, and actions that I grew up with. It showed me that I very smartly did those things to feel safe and to feel some control. It opened up different ways of thinking and different possibilities. My life through therapy became a giant puzzle, not a bin of good or bad. Each reaching back into my past retrieved a piece of the puzzle that clicked into place. Oh, yes, that makes sense. Holy cow—yes! Oh, no, really? Such sadness. Parts of my present life fit perfectly with the pieces that I had assembled from my past. The picture of my life was coming together—it was finally beginning to make sense. And it was my life, with all the good, bad, indifferent, compelling, benign, happy, grief-filled, hard, and satisfying parts of my life—all in the big picture of who I am.

That was almost fifteen years ago. Therapy never ends. Once you go through it, it tends to stay with you. You ask the questions to yourself. You try to figure out if any of the puzzle pieces were in the wrong place, even if they looked like they fit back then. The past year, no, make that two or more years, has kind of messed up my puzzle again. I have a ton of questions about our world, about the divide in our country—that black and white divide, about the actions of elected leaders, about people making up stories to fit the wished-for narrative in their head and heart. Believe me, I get it. But it has shaken my sense of safety and rightness. So I do what I have always done when I feel shaken or lost or scared or upset—I get outside. Mother Nature soothes me. My world becomes bigger than the mess that scares me as I immerse myself in the small details of the Life that intrinsically holds the seeds of creation. I find things that make me happy.

From shadow to potential and creativity. Like butterflies.

Why would anyone choose therapy that seems so hard and harrowing? Not everyone who chooses is in the midst of a crisis like I was, but at the time, I just needed some relief from the pain of the crisis. I didn’t know how hard the journey of relief was going to be. But even in the midst of the difficulty, there was relief as well as exhaustion in the artesian well of tears that flowed from my eyes. There was relief when another puzzle piece clicked together where before there was a numb emptiness. There was relief in developing an awareness of myself where before there was an outsized fear of what could happen. There was also an immense sense of holiness I felt during the process and certainly looking back at it. It was hard, holy work. God was with me then just as God was with me during my young years when fear controlled my narrative. The harrowing trek was worth it. The crisis was there for a reason. It pushed me to action, it pushed me to truth, it pushed me to awareness. I didn’t have to reject any pieces of myself or of my life anymore. The black and white sorting bins were gone. And with that reconciliation came more order, more control of my life, and more safety—all of the things I yearned for when I was young. My adversity led me towards fruition. It’s not like I have arrived—I’m still on the journey. Things can still shake me and make me want to go back to hiding in fear. But Nature helps me breathe deep relaxing breaths again. She shows me how shadows can become butterflies. How curiosity partners with knowledge and truth. How treasures can show up on our doorstep in routine life and when we least expect but need them the most. Nature shows us how Goodness is restored.

The Things We Carry

February 21, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Texans are carrying a heavy load this week. Four or five inches of snow, even some ice, does not in and of itself make a crisis. The crisis comes with lack of expectation and preparation. Even warnings—empirical and/or logical—of something possibly happening are often ignored when we don’t or cannot wrap our minds around them. Our brains love the same wired routes our neurons provide for thoughts and feelings that occur over and over again. A pandemic killing half a million people in a year—no way! Mask-wearing the whole world over—are you crazy?! A rioting mob trying to stop the confirmation of a new president in our Capitol—that’s not going to happen! A deep-freeze in Texas—get real! The past year has attempted to re-wire our brains.

So our daughter Emily found herself carrying buckets full of snow into the house to dump into the bathtub. It’s what one does when no water flows from the taps. Luckily she has had experience living in the wilderness where electricity is the lightning and running water is a river. But she humorously disdained her pioneer life in urban Austin—that’s not what is expected, not what she was prepared for in that environment. Not what any of them were prepared for. It begs the question: What are we personally and we as an entity of this country willing to carry? And why?

I carried a backpack on our snowshoe hike at Crow Wing State Park at the end of January. I had realized on a previous outing that I became much more dehydrated while snowshoeing than hiking, so packed some water and a snack for each of us. We also had a place to carry added or subtracted layers of clothing, depending on the weather. The road to the campground was unplowed and barricaded by a pile of snow, so we made our tracks through the flurry of white. The campground was a snow-ghost-town, returning to the forest for the season.

Part of the trail followed the Mississippi River, and we traipsed across a wooden bridge that spanned a ravine that led to the River. That was certainly easier than trekking down and up the ravine in our snowshoes.

We saw a very large Oak tree by the River that had an old beaver wound on it. Other trees in the area had been taken down by beaver, but what an ambitious attempt on this Oak many years ago! Right above the old wound was a new wound made by a Pileated woodpecker. All living creations carry their hurts and their wounds.

Deer tracks led to a steep precipice high above the River…and went over the edge, down the embankment, and crossed the River. I was amazed a deer would choose such a steep path, but perhaps it was being chased. We do extraordinary things when we need to.

A newly fallen nest, last year’s home for some bird family, would not be seen in the brown leafy litter of Fall, but it stood out in sharp contrast to the white, sparkling snow crystals of Winter. Unseen or highly visible often depends on the background, the exposure, and the deemed value.

As I looked at the nest in the snow, my eyes lifted upwards to the treetops where a squirrel’s nest stood out against the sky-blue sky. The home of the sky-bird was on the ground, and the home of the ground-squirrel was in the sky. Sometimes it’s a topsy-turvy world.

We continued along the River, heating our bodies with exertion in the teens-cold chill.

A dark stripe beyond an island revealed the River wasn’t completely frozen over despite most areas with foot-thick ice. Not expected. Dangerous. I hope the deer didn’t barrel across the ice and fall through the crack.

Our single-file trail opened up to a wide road used by snowmobilers. A road that can carry many people.

As we circled back to the campground, we passed through a low-land, a wet-land, a frozen swampy area. The leafless branches of a Hawthorn shrub exposed the sharp thorns that are usually camouflaged with foliage. Along with our wounds, we also carry barbs that we use for protection, but that can inflict harm, either consciously or unconsciously.

Back at the campground, we stopped for a water and snack break. I had felt my energy waning and my throat getting dry on the previous leg of the trail. I was glad that I had prepared for that and carried supplies with us. With water and a granola bar to renew my strength, we snowshoed back to the car.

What are we willing to carry and what makes us, compels us to do so? As parents, as mothers, we literally carry our children for many years. For most parents, whatever burden that may bring is worth it. Worth the energy, worth the time, worth the money, worth the wounds. There is an instinct we share with many creatures to protect, care for, and love our offspring. Add to that intention, education, societal norms, and creativity and child-rearing becomes an honor, an art-form, the work of our lives, and a means of growth like no other.

What are we willing to carry for others? For family members, for friends, for community members, and for strangers? What compels us to do so? Bridges make carrying burdens easier. How do we prepare and build bridges? What things that we carry are we willing to put down? Our thorns? Our wall of defense? Our prejudices?

Our brains like safety. Crises threaten that safety. Creativity and data allow us to anticipate crisis. Preparation ameliorates crisis, and intelligent and caring responses can help restore that sense of safety in a topsy-turvy world. Emily and the rest of the Texans will weather this storm, but just like the host of other crises that have plagued us this past year, we could have done better. The signs were there. The theory and the data were there. We could have been better prepared. Let’s rewire our brains.

The River Becomes a Road

February 14, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

There have been a number of times in my life when things are moving along quite smoothly, when all of sudden I am pulled up short. Stopped in my tracks. Now what? Now what the holy heck do I do?

I have a 1924 photo of my Grandmother dressed in trousers and a wide-brimmed hat standing in front of a large horse-drawn wagon that was loaded with all the family possessions. They were moving from North Dakota back to South Dakota. Imagine packing up your entire household into a wagon pulled by horses or oxen and traveling across the prairie! Many times when I see the Mississippi River, I think about the pioneers who traveled across the country in their covered wagons and were stopped in their tracks by the sight of the Great River. Now what do we do?

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I wrote the words above three weeks ago—and then, I got stopped in my tracks. The administrative side of my website was being all sorts of crazy—not saving my writing, not importing photographs, not sending messages to the web host. Now what the heck do I do?! Since I couldn’t finish my post, I did the only other thing that made sense at the moment—I made cookies! Lol! But the irony was not lost on me. My title ran through my mind again and again—the river becomes the road, the river becomes the road. Just as I was stopped in my tracks, I got a notice that it had been seven years since I had signed up for my website. Seven years. Nearly 400 posts. Was this obstacle trying to tell me something? Was this the end of the road? Was it time to settle on this side of the River and forget the crossing?

It was the frosty day we hiked at Bend in the River park, looking from the high bluff out over the River ice, that I noticed the tracks crossing the River. The deer and the fox are the first ones to venture across the ice. How do they know when it’s thick enough to hold them? How do they know when it’s safe?

Two days later and with a tip from a neighbor who had drilled through the ice to actually check how thick it was, we decided to snowshoe on the River.

We were not the first humans to do so. Numerous snowmobile tracks ran along the shore, even through some areas that had turned to slush after flirting with the warm side of thirty-two degrees.

There were fat-tire bike tracks on the River road. Someone had snowshoed before us. Someone had walked with their dog.

Animal tracks left the three-season safety of the Riverside trail at Mississippi River Regional park to follow the River road or cross to the other side. It was strange to see the river-side of the embankment where the constant flow of the water cuts into the bank leaving eroded soil, exposed roots, and leaning trees. A different perspective. One of more understanding.

The farther we walked, the more tracks we saw! Cross-country ski tracks joined the motorized, the meandering, and the measured tracks of all the other creatures. It was a busy road of ice and snow.

What is the allure of the other side? What entices us to re-group, plan, wait, and work to overcome obstacles when we are pulled up short and stopped in our tracks?

At Crow Wing State Park, forty-five miles up-river, there is a marker commemorating the Red River Oxcart Trail and the place where the fur traders crossed the Mississippi River. Perhaps it wasn’t so deep there, perhaps the River wasn’t quite as wide as it is today, perhaps they carried load after load of rocks to make an underwater road of sorts. At other places along the Mississippi River, before ferries and bridges, the settlers had to unload the wagons, take them apart, and canoe the contents and parts across the river and reassemble and reload on the other side. With obstacles, we are forced to look at things from a different perspective. And yet we ask, “How do we know it’s safe?” And yet we acknowledge, “We want to get to the other side.” Here in the North, the Winter ice can become the road. The obstacle becomes the pathway.

John C. Parish, in 1920, wrote about early traders and pioneers that “Rivers proved to be an unfailing source of trouble.” The rivers of our lives prove to be the same. Just when things are moving along quite smoothly, we are pulled up short. But there is usually a golden tree enticing us onward, despite the obstacles—hope for a better life, a different perspective for understanding, faith that what we do matters. And the very obstacle holds the key to the solution. The river becomes a road. Life is that complicated, and life is that holy.

The Heavens Were Weeping

January 17, 2021 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

As we entered the first full week of the New Year, a fog had fallen on us. It is usually the coldest period of Winter, but normal was nowhere in sight. We were under the influence of an inversion, when cool air is trapped under a layer of warm air. Fog is often present, and with freezing temperatures and no wind, soft rime ice formed on most everything.

It continued for days, through the week of the horrific Capitol riots. It is an uneasy time during an inversion, defined as ‘a reversal of order and function.’ It is a time when air quality plummets, pollution increases, and health problems can be exacerbated. The fog was so pervasive that the frost stayed on the trees all day long, another unusual occurrence. Three days after the riot, we walked at Bend in the River park through a world of ice. It was as if the heavens were weeping—so many saints and souls shedding tears on us Earthly humans. It was a convergence of physical science and soul-stirring spirituality, which is to say, like most every single day of our existence. Most days we are oblivious to that physical–spiritual convergence, but this display of fog and ice in the wake of the week’s tragedies tied the two together with a binding twine and a flourished bow.

And so I accepted the incredibly beautiful ice as the weeping of those souls, those angels of heaven who have overcome evil and division, lies and distortion, hatred and violence. I embraced that beautiful ice as a balm of prayer and blessing from the souls who see all and know Truth.

It is a prayer for those who blend in with those around them…

and for those who stand out in a crowd.

For those in the foreground, seen and awed, for those in the background, tall and unwavering, and for those in the unremarkable middle who go unnoticed.

There is a blessing for busyness that can obscure the simplicity and satisfaction of ‘doing nothing.’

A prayer for our leaders in positions of power and stature that aged wisdom and ethics guide their decisions.

An abundance of blessings for those who work tirelessly to uphold our laws, keep us healthy and safe, teach and take care of our children.

A prayer for equality, equanimity, and acceptance for all who seem different from us.

Blessings for those who walk the line and uphold the guardrails of our society…

and for those whose voices bravely speak out in righteousness against power and partisan pressure.

A prayer for those who stand tall in the principles of goodness and in the mysteries of spiritual life…

and for those who fall from those principles.

Blessings for those who forge their own trails—may they be protected.

Special prayers for our representatives whose ideologies differ that they will remember their oaths, their altruistic purpose, and the concepts of community and compromise.

Blessings on the ecosystems of our natural world—may they be restored and protected, and may each of us be blessed stewards of God’s creation.

And finally, a prayer for clear-sightedness for what’s ahead.

Despite the fog, the differences, and the destruction, may these blessings and bridges of ice bring us to a place of respect, responsibility, accountability, and decency. Lord, hear our prayers.

Like a Lightning Bolt

January 10, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Like a lightning bolt piercing a tree, there are times in our lives when something happens that cuts right through us. It’s a shock. It’s unbelievable, even when we see it with our own eyes or hear it with our own ears. Our brains cannot catch up to what our senses are telling us and will not comprehend the unfathomable. Wednesday was one of those times.

The Space Shuttle Challenger explosion was one of those times. The Oklahoma City bombing was one of those times. 9-11 was one of those times. Those moments in history that shock our very systems. Disbelief. Horror. Sadness. Anger. Questions of how could this happen? What went wrong? How could a person do this? Who is accountable for such atrocities?

When lightning strikes, the tremendous electrical energy seeks the path of least resistance. Since trees are tall and contain sap and moisture, they are better conductors than the surrounding air. Water in the cells boil and produce steam. The steam causes the cells to explode, which can crack the bark, strip the bark off the tree, or even blow the tree apart. As the energy goes into the roots and dissipates into the ground, it may injure the roots, even if the trunk of the tree looks undamaged. Some trees survive; others die. It depends on how extensive the damage is to the whole tree.

Energy. Unfathomably hot, boiling energy. Damage. Injuries. Death. We had a lightning strike on our Capitol, on our Congress men and women, and on the very workings of our democracy. How could this happen? What went wrong? Who is accountable?

Unresolved trauma has the boiling energy of lightning. It wants to strike something; it wants to dissipate the horrible energy and feelings that build up in a person who has had to live with the aftermath of trauma or the ongoing realities of it. Unresolved trauma is destructive—it runs the show, particularly when a person is in a high-stress situation. It torches the reasoning part of our brains. I have compassion for those who have been traumatized. I mourn the fact that our system does not prioritize medical and psychological care for those who need it. Our citizens are hurting, and their very real grievances are being exploited by one who has a huge hole in his heart and whose personal trauma is being played out on a nation.

The lightning energy dissipates into the ground. Earth is the healing endpoint, the ‘container’ for the colossal amount of energy discharged from a strike of lightning. There are ways to discharge lightning energy and traumatic energy without the collateral damage done to the tree or to a person, their family, or to society as a whole. Valuable or vulnerable trees can be fitted with lightning protection systems that dilute and slowly release the electrical charge into the ground. The same premise is used for traumatic energy. The excessive and destructive energy of trauma can be dissipated slowly and safely with the help of a trained professional and/or with personal practices that include deep breathing, body practices like yoga or qigong, and meditation—a slowing of the racing, reactive mind. And of course, we can practice ‘grounding’—touching or lying on the Earth, allowing our excess energy and our overwhelming feelings to dissipate into the healing container of Mother Earth.

Looking at Wednesday through a trauma-informed lens, I see many, many hurting people. Hurt people react, blame, and hurt other people. Trauma causes us to ‘lose our minds.’ It is incumbent on each person to take responsibility for their own feelings, even those buried in trauma, and for their own actions.

For more information on trauma: ACEs or Adverse Childhood Experiences are traumatizing events that can be carried into adulthood if not processed at the time they occurred. https://developingchild.harvard.edu/resources/aces-and-toxic-stress-frequently-asked-questions/

For more information on how the body releases trauma: Dr. Peter Levine is a pioneer in the study of how our bodies hold on to trauma and how it can be released. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8582180-in-an-unspoken-voice

We and Wood

January 3, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I have a tendency to hold on to things. Not so much in the sense that I will be able to use a certain item at a future time or for a future project but as a snapshot of what my life was like at a particular time. I kept a blow-up orange that my Dad brought back from Florida for each of us kids when he was driving truck cross-country. I have a piece of rock from the outcropping where Chris proposed to me. I have priceless pictures and tiny clay sculptures from when the kids were little. They are all in boxes now, tucked away from sight and mind on a daily basis. But they are there if I want to revisit those times. Holding something in my hand that represents a certain time in my life gives physical reality to the past.

At this time of year with the passing of an old year to a new one, we each get to decide what to keep from the past and what to purge. It is not a stretch to say that everyone was glad to see 2020 go. What a crazy, chaotic, Covid year. But we can’t just throw it all out and pretend it didn’t happen. There were memorable, deeply moving moments that should be remembered and cherished. There were a myriad of important lessons to be learned. But what about the garbage, the refuse, and the rubbish of the past year? What about the things that have hurt us, held us back, or no longer nourish our life? Burn them. Literally or figuratively or both, send them into the flames of a fire.

We spent a number of our New Year’s hours building and tending a fire. It was a still day, a perfect fire day when the smoke ascends straight up to the sky. There was no shifting and moving to keep the smoke out of our eyes. We were clear-sighted and clear-headed. The trees around us still held their embellishments of fluffy snow—their holiday season decorations.

Old discarded needles fell among the vibrant green ones that sustain the tree. And a seed-containing cone had started the process of drying and opening for the dispersal of the next generation. Past, present, and future.

Fire, like any element of Nature, can be life-giving or destructive. There needs to be parameters, limits, containments, and safe practices in order for it to be life-giving. Fire becomes destructive in the hands of a maniac who has no regard for rules or for others. Power of any kind, like fire, can move from helpful to harmful to catastrophic in the blink of an eye.

There cannot be fire without fuel. Chris’ summer clean-up work has given us a stack of fuel—brush for kindling and branches and logs for sustaining a warm Winter fire.

Burning wood is a multi-step chemical reaction—wood + oxygen + heat = carbon dioxide + water + ash (simplified). It is a transformative process where molecules are broken down and new molecules are formed. Heat and light are produced from the chemical reaction. But most importantly, all the atoms are conserved. Nothing disappears or is ‘wasted’—it is just rearranged. Something new is formed from the old.

(Fun fact: flames are ‘pointed’ because of gravity and subsequent pressure differences.)

Our New Year’s fire, complete with a visit from a wise, wonderful friend, was a multi-layered transformative process. Warmth and light were produced as we and wood were transforming. So while we each get to decide what to keep and what to purge at any time in our lives, we always carry our past, our present, and our future. Some of us like to hold the material, realistic, factual items of our past; others throw them away. It is understandable that we want to purge the hurts and pain, the disappointments and soul-searing experiences that burden us, and the utter garbage that lies in the wake of destructive power. But nothing is wasted. Cherish the memorable moments. Learn the lessons that need to be learned. Use the fire, use the chemical reaction, use the contained power of transformation to break it down, rearrange, and build it into something new and life-giving. Fuel your fire with love.

A Circle of Warmth

December 27, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

I was standing at the front door talking to Emily on the phone when I saw a flash of rusty-red walk through the prairie grass in front of the Cedars. He sat down like the canine that he is as I rushed to end the phone call to get my camera. When I returned to the window, he had snuggled into a little ball in the cozy grass.

It was a chilly and extremely windy morning, and everything about it foretold the blizzard the weather people were warning us about. There was a deep, damp chill, the kind that creeps into your bones no matter how many layers you pull on. The clouds were gray and low-hanging, pregnant with moisture. The wind blew with a fierceness that reminds us mere mortals that we are not in control of everything like we wish to be.

I opened the front door to get a better shot, but the colliding warm and cold air condensed to a fog on the storm door. He opened his eyes to watch me but didn’t move from his circle of warmth.

I thought to myself that this was hygge for a fox, for a wild creature that is always ‘in the elements.’ It was a cozy little space out of the howling wind where he could rest. Hygge (hue-guh) is a Danish and Norwegian word for a feeling or moment of coziness. It is an ‘everyday’ thing, not contrived or fanciful, but special nonetheless. My Danish and Norwegian grandmothers could magically create a kitchen table full of baked goods and delectable treats when we would stop by for a visit. It was ‘just a little lunch’ according to them, but it was a special feast to me, a cozy moment in time and memory.

In an attempt to hygge ourselves for the blizzard, Chris and I made a list and went to the store before the snow was supposed to start. I thought for sure our departure would spook the fox into running away, but the small ball of fur stayed curled in the grass. And when we returned, he was still there but had moved a foot or so into more coverage.

Every once in a while he would look up when he heard a car or the neighbor’s barking dog, but for the most part, it was a time for a Winter’s nap.

At some point, he turned around, curling in the other direction with his back to the wind and the impending snow.

The snow accumulated on his warm fur, then melted, and he licked the moisture off like a cat or dog would after coming in from the wet weather.

The little fox napped and rested in his cozy spot for over three hours, and just as I happened to see him come to the spot that day, I also happened to see him leave. The rest of the day was snowy and blowy with the temperature dropping into single digits with below zero wind chills. I wondered where he found his next cozy sleeping place.

The next morning, Christmas Eve morning, was clear and bright. We didn’t get as much snow as forecasted or as places to our south and east. But I spent a couple hours shoveling the drifts that had blown around the house and up the driveway.

I noticed the fox had returned, walking through the yard…

through the prairie grasses…

to the place under the Cedar trees and had curled up again for a little nap in the sunshine. Perhaps this time he watched me, a form of everyday, ordinary togetherness, even when we are not aware.

Hygge has a number of possible etymological origins. It may come from the Old Norse word ‘hygga’ which means ‘to comfort,’ which may also be the origin for ‘hugge’—to embrace or hug. It could come from ‘hyggja’ which means ‘to think.’ The Danish meaning of hygge is ‘to give courage, comfort, and joy.’ Like a hug does. Like watching a sleeping fox does. Like a Grandmother’s magical, delectable ‘little lunch’ does. In this special, magical holiday season, may we think of others–goodwill towards men. May we give comfort and joy. May we each have an everyday, ordinary circle of warmth—hygge—everyday, yet special nonetheless.

A Picture of Calm and Quiet

March 15, 2020 by Denise Brake 8 Comments

Yesterday Chris and I had a mission: to explore strange new lands, to seek out new sites and old civilizations, and to boldly go where no coronavirus has gone before (us). We headed north to Crow Wing State Park near Brainerd, Minnesota. We actually had been to this park in August of 2014 for a short camp-out and hike. We chose a trail we hadn’t been on before, and of course everything looks different in Winter! The Red River Oxcart Trail follows the Mississippi River as it bends around this peninsula of beautiful forested land.

There was no walking across the Mississippi River like we had done a couple of weeks ago. Ice still covered most of the River, but a couple of ribbons of dark, flowing, open water burgeoned forth towards Spring and St. Paul.

This site is the confluence of the Crow Wing and Mississippi rivers. The Crow Wing River splits before entering the Mississippi, creating an island in the shape of a wing. Early French explorer accounts had translated the name into Crow Wing. This area of land had long been a favored hunting and meeting place for the Dakota and Ojibwe nations, and it became a famous fur trading location.

The snow on the trail had been snowshoed and walked, so the path was packed down and rough. The snow pack to the sides were mostly hard enough for us to walk on, but every once in a while our foot would break through the surface snow and sink in to almost a foot deep.

We walked between the ice-covered River and the forest of towering Pines and ancient Oaks. It was exquisitely beautiful.

We came to a clearing where we learned we were walking on a boardwalk of the old town road. This was the site of the old village of Crow Wing where the fur trading post had developed into the foremost trade, travel, and political center of the region. By the 1860’s, it was hostel and home to over 600 people, with stores, warehouses, saloons, hotels, and churches.

Fur trader and developer Clement Beaulieu and his wife Elizabeth built this house on the hill in 1849. The booming town of Crow Wing began its decline in the 1870’s when the railroad crossing was built up-river where the town of Brainerd grew. The Beaulieu house was moved in 1880 and occupied until the 1980’s, when it was donated to the Minnesota DNR, moved back to its original location, and restored to its original design.

We continued along the Red River Oxcart trail and came to the place where the oxcarts would ford the River. At that time, cargo was brought from the north by oxcart, then transferred to wagons for the rest of the trip to St. Paul and vice versa.

Our trail brought us around the peninsula to Chippewa Lookout, then into a Pine forest.

The forest and the River beyond were a picture of calm and quiet. The sun and hiking had warmed us from the original chill at the beginning of the trail. The last two hours had felt like we were explorers in the wilderness…

…so I was surprised when we suddenly saw a stone chapel in a clearing! The Father Pierz Chapel, named after the first Catholic missionary of the area, is now in its third or fourth iteration from the log structure that was his first church.

For our late lunch, we sidled into the snow-enveloped picnic table, careful not to slide on the ice beneath our feet, and munched our veggies, nuts, and fruit. It had been a good day.

For over two hours we had hiked the woods without seeing anyone else. Thoughts of the burgeoning Covid 19 virus and its wake of disruption and destruction evaporated from our minds. There is a whole world beyond disease, the stock market, panic hoarding, and anxiety that waits for us to explore. Nature offers us a calm and quiet place to rest our fears and jitters—seek it out. This, as in any other time, is when a confluence of knowledge (both past and present) and compassion can create an island of security. Go boldly with those virtues. Nourish yourself. Say a prayer. Walk the walk. Mission accomplished.

A Sure Sign

March 8, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Have you ever looked back at a season or a year and wondered how you got through it? I’ve had a few of those times in my life. A number of things had happened in this last year, when I felt like I was at the bottom of a dog pile on a football field where heavy body after heavy body slammed down on me and crushed my body and spirit. I was trying to hold on to the ball, but at times I couldn’t even tell where the ball was, whose hand was on it, or if I would breathe again.

I’m not sure my eyes had even opened yet when I heard it—the sound of Spring. As the day was just beginning to show the pale faintness of light, I heard birds chirping. I love waking to that glorious sound after the silent winter. It is a sure sign that Spring is on its way. Even though we had blustery snow showers that first singing day, the next day was sunny and in the forties. The snow melt continued in earnest.

The sun is noticeably stronger and higher in the sky now, and even on days below freezing, it dissolves the snow away from the driveway.

It’s not a pretty time of year as all the dirt and grime crusts on top of the melting snow, but there is that promise of green grass.

As the snow melts, I’m always intrigued to see the evidence of all the little creatures who spend their winter under the snow. They must be happy to see the sun, too!

The circles of warmth around the trees show that it’s time to wake up from the cold hibernation of Winter.

A female Downy Woodpecker flitted from tree to tree. Like me, she may be thinking “I made it through Winter!”

There was even a puddle of water in the birdbath for the birds, as Nature’s ice and snow sculpture melted.

We still have a ways to go…

That was Friday. The weekend has been warm and sunny. The snow banks have pulled farther away from the driveway and trees. The snow has softened and hardened at the same time—softened the frigid, rigid architecture that held the trillions of snow crystals together in a Winter palace and hardened the snow pack by compressing the air pockets and sinking the snow.

Spring is in the air, in the birds, in the snow, and in me. Looking back, I wonder how I made it through, how I got out from under the snow pile of heaviness. Looking back, there were circles of warmth from people who helped me on a certain day at a certain time, and that warmth sustained me for a few more days. One day at a time, one hour at a time, if need be. But I also realize that somehow I did manage to hang on to the ball—like the benevolent hand of God who believes in us all, helped me do so. The Spring will come. The birds will sing again. The grass will turn green. I still have a ways to go, but I see the Sun, I hear the birds, I am waking up, and I can breathe again.

Stars of the Earth

March 1, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

The other night we walked home from a neighbor’s house in the late-night hour of eleven o’clock. It had been a deliciously fun evening with supper and a competitive card game with our friends. I was tired and ready for bed and could hardly believe Chris was still awake considering how early he rose that morning (and all mornings.) It was cold—around nine degrees—and clear. We walked like cats stalking a mouse on the icy patches—slow and sure-footed, ready for defensive action if our feet were to slip. Besides the few and far-between street lights, there was little light pollution, and the stars were absolutely brilliant! After our footing was more secure, I walked with my eyes to the sky which was a tad bit disorienting in the darkness, but the tired, late-hour time and nose-biting temperature discouraged us from stopping. There is something about a dark sky full of bright stars. Even while walking I noticed how far to the west Orion had slid in the late-Winter sky. The moon was just a sliver of light, a team-player allowing the others to shine. There is a great sense of calm when in the presence and awareness of the Universe.

Are not flowers the stars of the earth? –Clara Lucas Balfour

Winter is long in Minnesota even when it’s a normal year. Snow has covered the ground since before Thanksgiving, a fact that I love, actually. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. But even as much as I love cold and snow, as Winter wanes my mind wanders to Spring….and to flowers. There is something about the green earth full of bright flowers. There is something about having some bright flowers in the house in the midst of Winter and snow! For Valentine’s Day, Chris brought home a pot of mini-Daffodils.

And just as the yellow-gold blossoms had dried to paper-thin permanence, the grocery store displayed buckets of pretty pink Tulips with an eye-catching sale. I wrapped them in plastic and warm air to get them to the car and to the house in the cold.

I’ve been feeling the dichotomy of transitions—the excitement and looking forward to what is to come, right alongside the sadness and looking back at what was left behind. Whichever one is most dominant depends on the day. Nobody gets through a transition of any kind without this present day wrestling of feelings about the future and the past, though some are more aware of it than others. Sometimes it is only with hindsight and insight that we look back at a transition and realize just how difficult it was for us.But the wrestling is good—the work of it gets us to where we need to be. What helps in the meantime? A comfortable and relaxed evening with friends. A walk in the crisp, dark night under a symphony of stars. A bouquet of Earth’s stars that delights our senses and whispers hope and promise of the future. The calm of the Universe—the way it’s supposed to be.

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