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Walking Across the Mississippi River

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On the spectrum of safety, I know I fall on the ‘safety first’ side. The implication of safety first is not only for that person individually but also for all persons who may be impacted by the situation. On the other side of the spectrum is the risk-taker—gamblers, innovators, extreme sports and ‘roll-of-the-dice’ people. Often their risk-taking is centered on themselves—rarely do they consider the consequences of their actions on those around them, particularly those who are most vulnerable.

Our son worked for Will Steger at Steger Wilderness Center one summer in Ely, Minnesota. Steger is an arctic explorer, educator, and author who has witnessed the effects of climate change on the arctic regions. He has dog-sledded to the North Pole, across Greenland, and across Antarctica. He also does yearly solo expeditions in Northern Minnesota and Canada—the last two years have been in the Barren Lands in northern Canada. Did I mention he’s over seventy years old? Clearly a risk-taker in my mind. And yet, I heard him a couple years ago in an interview about his ice-out trip in early spring, when the weather is warming, the ice is melting, and he is navigating that dangerous terrain—he said that he is not a risk-taker. He said that he is in prime physical condition with sharp mental acuity when on these solo expeditions. He is experienced, prepared, educated, and working for a purpose beyond himself, and therefore, he does not take risks—for he clearly understands the consequences.

Yesterday morning Chris and I went to Bend in the River Regional Park. We had been there a year ago in October on a warm, fall day. Yesterday was warm (for late February), sunny, and calm. We walked the trail from the old farmplace along the top of the bluff above the Mississippi River.

The River was covered in ice and snow, but I never once thought about walking out on it because it just seemed too….dangerous. After all, it was a big river—a big river that was flowing freely below the dam a couple miles away.

At one of the overlooks on the bluff, we talked to a guy who was on a solo hike from across the River—wait, what? He had started his hike at the Mississippi River County Park which is on the opposite side of the Mississippi from Bend in the River Park. I had questions! He said the ice was solid and safe, that he lived nearby and many times had snowmobiled down the River in years past but now enjoyed walking it.

After he walked on, I told Chris maybe we should do it! If he made it across the ice just fine, we should be fine, too!

So we left the bluff trail and went down to the River’s edge. I wasn’t comforted by what I saw: ice collars around the trees that had broken away from the rest of the frozen water and streams of running water that were flowing under the ice into the Big River. I began to doubt our decision.

But we tentatively walked on and found the footprints of the solo hiker. We stepped out onto the River.

It was easy walking in the inch or so of snow that covered the ice—the rest of our deep snow must have incorporated into the ice as it formed. We weren’t the only creatures that had crossed the River.

The ice felt solid and safe—we saw no heaves or cracks or thin spots—just a tree stump that interrupted the white expanse between the banks. But it was still kind of freaky knowing we were walking across the Mississippi River.

There was only one place where the sun had melted away the snow cover to reveal the ice below it. I wondered how thick it was…

My safety-first mentality didn’t even entertain the thought of walking across the River, but after we talked to the man who had done it, who had experience with the River and its ice, it became the highlight of our day. We still reassured ourselves about the eighteen below zero night we had earlier in the week and how just last night was five degrees. (Surely we will be okay.) Like Will, we were not treading on thin ice, we weren’t gambling with our lives, we weren’t out on a limb or playing with fire. Will Steger has had amazing, incredible adventures in his life and has educated the rest of us with his knowledge, experience, and purpose. As we walk on into our own adventures, it behooves us to listen to those who have walked before us, to those who know first-hand the struggles, perils, and pathways, and to those who have a vision larger than themselves, including for those who are most vulnerable. Walk on!

A Circle of Trees

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In January, in the darkest, coldest days of Winter, I attended an event at our church entitled ‘Summoning the Light with Song: Community Singing Experience.’ We sat in a circle of chairs at the front of the sanctuary. Our song leader sang a line, and we repeated it; again and again we sang back what she sang. On some songs we sang different words and parts. Others were sung as a round after we learned the basics. It was a simple, pure way of singing, and I was surprised how beautiful it sounded in such a short amount of time and practice.

I’ve been summoning the light in a different way since our move—in a circle of trees in our backyard. Even in the bright light of midday, the sun stretches to peek above the trees as it arcs low in the southern sky. I bundle up and place an old green Army blanket on the freezing metal chair. When the sun is just right, it hits my face, the only circle of exposed skin that even has a chance of converting those golden rays into Vitamin D.

At the center of the circle of trees is a fire circle—the only fire we’ve had so far was on Christmas Day after we moved truckloads of boxes and miscellaneous garage things.

While sunshine is the ultimate ‘cherry on the top’ of my day, the more sustainable and reliable givers are the trees. Most are Pines, some are Spruces, a few are Cedars, with a couple of deciduous trees thrown in. I sit in the circle of trees, sometimes with sunlight, sometimes with snowflakes, and soak in their goodness.

After sitting in the tree circle today, I remembered an old CD we had gotten when the kids were little that was called “A Circle is Cast.” I dug it out and listened to it. It was communal singing from a group named Libana—similar to the songs we had sung at the church event! The title song ‘A Circle is Cast’ repeated and harmonized with the words ‘a circle is cast again and again and again…’ Think about the circles in our lives—our circle of friends and family, the circle of a football huddle deciding what play to run, reading a book to a circle of preschoolers, a meeting of the minds in a circle around a conference table, and playing games in a circle—cards, board games, and Duck, Duck, Goose.

Circles represent stability and safety. Each ‘point’ in the circle has a job or responsibility to the other ‘points’ in the circle.

Sometimes there is a fail in the circle. One of the larger Pines in the circle of trees has died.

It must have been in the last year—there are still dry, brown pine needles and dark cones clinging to the branches. The loss is evident; the dead remains are a poignant reminder of what once was. Mourning for a member of the circle. So there is a wobbling of the once-safe circle—it holds together with the other ‘points,’ but there is a hitch, a limp, a miss because of the loss.

But at the base of the dead tree, there are replacements growing! The old tree had spread its seeds years ago, and the offspring will take their place in the circle.

Like throwing a lasso, we cast a circle again and again in our lives. We desire a stable circle around us—points of light that have our backs, that not only do us no harm, but protect us from harm and breathe life into our wounded selves when the world seems against us. The good thing about a circle is that no one point, no one member has the responsibility for the strength and stability of the whole–-one only has to do their part. The burden is shared. There is a synergy that emerges from the circle—in other words, there is more strength and power from the group as a whole than the added parts of the individuals. That’s science. And that’s spirituality. I sit in my circle of trees—they give me oxygen, essential oils that emanate from the needles and resins, the stability of deep roots, the uplifting songs of wind and birds in their branches, and a life force that is unexplainable and undeniable. I have cast my circle—again.

Lombardy Poplars and the Lombardi Trophy

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Battles are won in the hearts of men. –Vince Lombardi

When we looked at our new place, the first thing I noticed was all the trees surrounding the open yard. The second thing I noticed was the tall, slender Lombardy Poplars spaced evenly against a backdrop of evergreens. I wondered why someone had chosen to plant them. Of course I was seeing them at their worst—dry, faded brown leaves clung to the weedy branches of the columnar trees. They do not have the beautiful Winter silhouette of Oaks, Maples, or practically any other deciduous tree. In fact, they are on the ugly side. I know why people plant them—they are fast growing (up to six feet/ year), so they make a screen or windbreak in the shortest possible time. Lombardy Poplars are native to Northern Italy—one can imagine them looking stylish alongside a villa in the rolling countryside. In central Minnesota, alongside the Pines and Spruces, they look out-of-place. They also have a terrible resume—they are short-lived, often only 15 years, they are susceptible to pests and diseases, they have shallow, spreading roots, and they are messy. The weak wood breaks easily, the male tree produces abundant pollen, the female tree produces cottony seeds that blow around, and they send out suckers that are hard to get rid of. So every morning when I eat my breakfast, I look out the window at the specimens of my prejudice. Their elegant name and origin don’t rescue them from my dislike.

Last weekend we hit the road to Kansas City. The Kansas City Chiefs were in the Super Bowl for the first time in fifty years! The excitement and anticipation exploded throughout the City and region. Two super fans in our family were anxious to be among the ‘sea of red.’ We left in the frosty morning. It had snowed an inch or two overnight, and the trees and fence lines were outlined with that delicate layer of new snow.

Iowa had less snow, but at a certain point, the sky and land blended into one, and the farm places looked like floating islands in the frosty, foggy air.

We made it to Missouri as dusk was beginning to envelop the countryside.

The next morning, in Kansas City, it was shocking to see the sun and green grass!

The Chiefs played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I in 1967, but lost to the Packers and their coach Vince Lombardi. In Super Bowl IV, the Chiefs beat the Vikings and brought home the championship trophy. It wasn’t until the following year, in 1970, when the trophy was named the Vince Lombardi Trophy in honor of the coach who had won the first two Super Bowls and who had recently died from cancer. There were many years in the following decades when the Chiefs fought their way into the playoffs, but the championship game eluded them—until this year! With the great coach Andy Reid and the incredible talent of the young Patrick Mahomes, the Chiefs won the Super Bowl in an amazing comeback in the last minutes of the game. Kansas City Chiefs fans were ecstatic! Fifty years of waiting.

So what does the Lombardy Poplar tree and the Lombardi Trophy have to do with one another? Only the similarity of their names—and the fact that both have been on my mind these last weeks. The Lombardy Poplars don’t belong to us—we are not the decision-makers on their place in the world. I co-exist along with them, messy or not, ugly or not, worthy-in-my-mind or not. It’s humbling. Coach Reid and young Mahomes didn’t win the Super Bowl for themselves—they both have big hearts and a keen sense of history—they won it for the team, for the Hunt family, for all the other players in the previous fifty years, and for the dedicated fans who cheer them on every Sunday. It’s humbling and incredibly powerful. Hail to the Chiefs and to those with big, humble hearts!

When the Past Processes You

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Last week I wrote about processing the Old things, the past things that I have stored in boxes for years—difficult for me to do, but necessary and freeing in its own way. But it was nothing compared to what happened when the Old things of the past processed me. Moving has always been a double-edged sword for me—on the one hand, I anticipate the excitement of a new place to discover and explore. A starting over, in a way. On the other hand, I could hardly bear to leave the old place. Each house, each place was a sanctuary for me—it was a place of safety (although that was challenged a number of times for various reasons), a place of comfort, a place I loved. So even when I was all-in on the move, it was hard. The boxing-up process was the most difficult—until the final, final, final time of walking out the door. There have been people in my life who have pushed me at those times—Chris of course, my Mom, a couple good friends, my daughter Emily this time—who box up the remaining things despite my protests and urge me out the door. Even as I desperately cling to the door jambs.

On the surface, I try to reason with myself, going between the pros and cons. With each pro-moving point, I rebut with “But how can I leave these…sunsets…

…these sunrises out my beautiful screened-in porch…

…my animal friends?

All of those surface rebuts are valid and tender and real, and they also reveal a glimpse into the essence of why this is so very hard for me. This time, this move, this boxing time was different. It was ugly and raw and wildly animalistic. I couldn’t bear to pack up my things, especially the special things, and I wouldn’t let anyone else touch them. Emily came to help me, and I resisted every move she made. I came un-done if she or Chris packed up anything without my permission. I instantly flew into a whirlwind of rage and panic: I yelled, I cried old, difficult tears, I stomped my feet, I wailed like a wounded animal. It was scaring the heck out of all of us. There had been weeks, maybe months—it was all such a blur—of tears that flowed from some artesian well of the Universe, for no one person could possibly produce so many tears, could they? And it all came to a head when my dear daughter was here to help. Every day had multiple episodes of this unreasonable behavior, and once I had control of the situation again, I was able to calm down and resume our work. And then the tantrum would happen again. Finally, after I don’t know how many exhausting days of this, we took a lunch break, and as I sat very still at the table, the tears quietly streamed down my face, still. Emily—God bless her patience and maturity—asked me what was going on. In that moment, I finally knew. I managed to finally speak the words, “I feel exactly like I did when I was in first grade, when we moved away from South Dakota.” The Past had been processing me. I talked about how difficult our life had been in the year and a half before the move, how I didn’t want to leave the farm, how I couldn’t bear to leave my animal friends—the cows, chickens, kittens, dogs, and the big, black horse, how I didn’t want to leave my grandparents, how I loved the sandbox and the weeping willow tree. I talked about how out-of-my-control it all felt, and how the boxes swallowed up all of the familiar, safe, loved things and took them into a truck to a new, unfamiliar place. And with that realization and that space and time from my loving daughter and husband, and with those words, the panic began to abate. There were a few more episodes in the next couple of days, but the fury of them had passed—and then they were gone. I was an adult once again. The process of moving moved on.

Recalibrating From the Old to the New

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Out with the old, in with the new. It’s literally true when it comes to time—2019 ended and was out of here at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. The new year had arrived. Some people live their lives with that mantra in a myriad of ways—old clothes out, new clothes in; old furniture out, new furniture in; old relationships out, new relationships in. But what happens when the old things don’t go out before the new things come in—or more importantly, what happens when a person moves on to the new thing without processing the old? An easy example is the mail—the new mail comes in to that place on the cupboard or table. Organized people process the mail—junk goes in the trash can or recycling, bills go on the desk, magazines go on the coffee table where they will be seen and read, etc. Not-so-organized people soon get a pile where things get buried at the bottom, bills can get lost until past the due date, and magazines don’t get read.

I know about piles. (I’m organized about certain things and not-so about others.) I know about getting rid of the old (and keeping it), and I’m not that enticed with the newest, shiniest ‘new’ thing. Time (and maybe mail) is the only consistent flow of old and new in my life. But when the old year ended, we did something big—we moved from our old home. When the new year began, the new decade began, we were living in a new place. We didn’t time it that way, but it happened that way. The pull of ideas started long ago—those questions: what would it be like if…, I wonder if that would work…, how would it feel if we did this…? Questions can be ignored, especially if they make a person uncomfortable. But Life can get more insistent. So I started to de-clutter—we needed to do it anyway, I reasoned. I read Marie Kondo’s book—does it bring me joy? Don’t forget to thank the things that had served me well. Ugh. I wasn’t very good at it. I was nostalgic about so many things—about all the art projects the kids and I had done together when they and their curious, creative, beautiful minds had brought me so much joy during my stay-at-home years, about the papers and projects and awards they earned during their school years as they grew into these amazing people, and about all the work I had done in grad school—boxes and boxes of research articles I had read, papers I had written, and data I had gathered. The Old was staring me in the face after being tucked away in boxes since our last move. Paralyzing.

There is a ton of research out there about why our brains and bodies react as they do. Being ‘paralyzed’ comes from the ‘freeze’ aspect of ‘fight, flight, or freeze’ in the trauma response—we all (including most animals) tend to react primarily by one of those aspects when something seems overwhelming to us. But what to do with that…. I was fortunate to have some important people around me who could help me look at the big, paralyzing Old stuff in a different way. But it wasn’t easy. I balked. I cried. I resisted. I rationalized. With time and grace, understanding and encouragement from those around me, I was able to look at the Old stuff, determine what it represented to me, accept that those qualities and memories existed even without the stuff, and let it go. As the move materialized, I ran out of time to process it all, and I was determined to do more of that work once we moved.

There was another aspect of the move that needed processing—leaving all the beautiful trees and perennials that we had planted. I had the urge to take pictures of each specific one, bragging about how big it had grown, how beautiful its branches were…and I even started to do so…

Each one had a story and a timeline and a beautiful quality and an imperfection—and we loved them—and there were hundreds of them that we had planted after all the work of removing the horrible Buckthorn. With Chris’ expertise and love of growing trees and perennials, with his hard and dedicated work with the Buckthorn puller, and with my patience and tenacity for pulling weeds, we had created an oasis among the Oaks. Did I mention how much we loved them? Yet under the arc of time, that flow of old to new, year after year, we were reminded that we had done this before. We had cleared and planted and weeded and pruned and created four beautiful places in three different states in our life together. It’s what we do, it’s a big part of who we are. I also realized that I have told the stories and shared the photos of our amazing plant family over the last six years with this blog. You have shared in our love of this great, green Earth.

A friend of mine has a book that I read cover to cover when I was in the midst of confronting the Old —Ten Poems to Say Goodbye by Roger Housden. Housden wrote about poet Jack Gilbert and his love for Santorini, Greece—“Santorini as Gilbert knew it entered not only his eyes but his sinews, his very cells, like anything we have loved. It is alive in him still, not just in memory, but in his being…” Chris and I carry our Old places—the trees and plants, the houses, the people we have loved—in our cells and sinews, in our very being.

Unfinished Business

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Remember that childhood game used to decide who gets to do something or more often who doesn’t have to do something? Rock, paper, scissors? Count to three while pounding one fist in your other hand and on the third count you make a scissors, rock, or paper sign. Paper covers rock, scissors cut paper, rock crushes scissors. That’s what our mid-March weather has been like! If we had hopeful thoughts of Spring, Mother Nature crushed those ideas last weekend with a storm that dumped ten inches of snow on our accumulated heap. Winter has some unfinished business.

The snow was wet and heavy and smothered the evergreens with its power. Branches bowed to the ground, broke from the trunk, and got stuck in the snow.

The heavy hand of Winter was not letting go of its reign without one last(?) battle.

Three days later, Spring’s rains, backed by a whoosh of just-warm-enough temperatures, cut through the snow like a warm knife through butter. The rains came, and the snow melted.

The official beginning of Spring is Wednesday, and she means business. Though pushed back, she will not be denied. Snow and ice are no match for the liquid warmth of her rain.

We’ve had a ceasefire in the last couple of days in the battle between Winter’s unfinished business and Spring’s compelling unveiling. The temperatures have ducked down below freezing again, slowing the melting and flooding while laying booby traps of slick, icy patches. Beware of where you step.

But we have another player in this battle of the seasons—the power of the Sun who has returned to our hemisphere to play. Sun covers all with a renewed power. He works on the snow even with Winter in control of the temperatures. Sol joins hands with Spring to move us forward. He reveals the dirt of Winter that was somehow unseen in these months of snowy beauty. The fireball excites the dormant current of energy stored in every tree and shrub, and the warmth of that energy melts a ring around each trunk.

The melting snow reveals another season with a smidgen of unfinished business. Autumn leaves are sandwiched between layers of snow, skeleton-like in their loss of chlorophyll and organic matter. Perhaps Winter moves along their decay, so when the green grass takes over in a flush of Spring, the old leaves will finally be integrated into the soil, completing that part of the cycle once again.

We still have plenty of snow and a fair amount of time where the battle of Winter and Spring plays out. It is familiar and necessary. It is the way of Mother Nature, with unfinished business from each season slowly and surely becoming integrated into the earth. How do we handle our unfinished business? There are pieces of our past that seamlessly integrate into who we are as a person, other pieces are up for examination and debate, and still others are hidden, denied, or ignored—the past that won’t let go of us—our unfinished business. How do we know it’s unfinished? It still affects us—nightmares, illnesses, insomnia, overreactions, projections, and repetitions of similar events like accidents, to name a few. These pieces need to be brought into the light of day, questioned, listened to, and accepted. It is the most loving thing we can do for ourselves. Bit by bit, story by story, day by day, tear by tear, the finishing happens. It becomes integrated—it dissolves into our souls, minds, and bodies—completing that part of the cycle in order to feed our next season of life.

On the Path to Being a Good Neighbor

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Chris and I bought our first place when we were in our late twenties. We had a young baby, two horses, a number of cats, and lots of energy. Our place included an old farmhouse, an even older-looking barn, a cellar, an outhouse, a dirt-floored garage, and twenty acres. It was perfect to us, and with youthful enthusiasm we set about to build a new corral and put up new pasture fence for the horses. At the back of our property lived an old man—he was a small little man made more so when his wife spoke to him with a big, disapproving voice. At one time, he had some cattle back in a pasture behind us, so there was an old woven wire fence that ran along the back border. Therein lay our dilemma. When the property was surveyed before we bought it, the survey pole marking our land was four or five feet on the neighbor’s side of the old fence. Where should we set the sturdy corner post for our new fence? I remember we asked the realtor what we should do, and she advised us to put the post on the surveyed corner of our property. So we dug our deep hole with a post-hole digger, careful to keep the whole post on our corner of the property. We tamped in the dirt and congratulated ourselves on how sturdy it was! We set the brace post and called it a day. Not long afterwards we noticed the neighbor had cut the top off our big, sturdy post! And we got a very official letter in the mail from a lawyer for our neighbor saying we were trespassing on his property, and there would be dire consequences if we did not remove the post and stay off his land! I was upset and confused by this turn of events—we were conscientiously trying to do the right thing, and we had already made an enemy of our new neighbor.

A couple weeks and a number of snows ago, I strapped on snowshoes for a walk in the delicious sun and cold. It was one of those boldly invigorating days. The snow was light and fluffy, and I sank a number of inches with each step I took.

But I was not the first one out in the new snow! Some little creature, perhaps a mouse, made his way from the wild plum tree to nowhere! He either went under the snow, made his way back on his exact same tracks, or was plucked from the snow from above.

The tracks under the bird feeders left evidence of a busy night.

Where do rabbits live in Winter? In a palatial snow-covered brush pile!

There are plenty of brush-pile igloos for everyone.

The downside of having housing for rabbits is their restaurant choice! They know how to make enemies with the man of the house.

By far the most abundant tracks were from the deer. They foraged through the woods, pawed at the snow, nibbled at branches, and bedded down under cedar trees—their every move etched in the snow.

My snowshoeing destination was the granite rock overlook that was a rest stop decades ago as part of the highway system. It overlooks the Sauk River as it runs into the Chain of Lakes. Only the deer and I were spectators at this time of year.

On my way back, my snowshoe prints blended in with the deer prints—I was the one traveling on their territory.

Back in the yard, shadows from allium flower stalks darkened the snow.

Feather prints in the snow allude to the capture of another little rodent. Snow tracks show the movement and activity of the creatures that roam around our yard and the woods.

As young, naive kids on the first place we owned, we thought we were doing the right thing. As the old established neighbor, he felt we were trespassing on his land. As it turned out, we backed down and built our fence on our side of his fence—not on the survey line. The posts we put in remained in his unused pasture, a symbol to us both of the questions of what it means to be a good neighbor and what constitutes land ownership. We also got schooled by him about being a good neighbor when our hay field had a hearty bunch of Canadian thistles growing in it. Thistle seeds care nothing for fence lines. (To be fair to us, we had left them at the request of the county after they had released beneficial insects to combat thistles.) As I snowshoed to the overlook, I trespassed on an abandoned lot and on an easement deeded to another before getting to public land. The cross-country runners and a bevy of high-schoolers do the same when the weather is nice. The deer path has been used by others for decades before we moved here. Deer, rabbits, and other wildlife come and go as they please—they care nothing for property lines either. And though Chris curses the critters who destroy his young trees, we know that we live with them as neighbors. Who is encroaching upon who? It’s a good thing when we can stand tall in our integrity and look carefully at our shadows, those buried hurts and disappointments that we disown in ourselves and often project onto others. With sweeping certainty, we judge them unfit. Too often others pay for our wounds. On this journey of life, we learn what we didn’t know before—about ourselves, others, and the world. We can hope our transgressions are forgiven, we can pray to forgive those who trespass against us, and we can learn to be good neighbors.

Snow and Steel

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Don’t curse the weather. –Anna Andersen

This may not be a very popular stance in lieu of the last two months—but I’m not unhappy with Winter. I think we are exactly where we should be. In fact, I’m pretty happy with it! The previous two winters were dismal in the snow department, and I do admit that I was a little whiny about that at the time. This is Minnesota, the North! We normally have extreme cold and plenty of snow—it’s what we sign up for when we live here. That being said, I also live with a person who daily gets up super early, drives through snow to get to more snow, to move the snow, to sweep the snow, to shovel the snow, to put down ice melt, to take the complaints about snow and ice, and comes home—to more snow. He is not very happy with our record-breaking February snowfall. He’s ready for it to be gone. His mood does not improve when I tell him how beautiful it is!

Friday we had more snow—the lightest, prettiest, fluffiest snow with a crisp, cold temperature. Hello to March!

I kind of like to shovel—there is a soothing rhythm to it. Push the snow, lift, throw, pivot, walk back, push, lift, throw, pivot, walk, repeat again and again. It’s aerobic and strength-training all in one. It takes an hour or two to do our driveway, depending on how much snow is there. Friday evening while the snow was still falling, it was so silent, the flakes muffling the sounds. I was startled by a car going by, suddenly right there, with no approaching sound. Shoveling can be a meditative movement, a silent communing with Nature—if you let it.

We have paths through the snow—to the compost bin and to the bird feeders. The paths are packed with snow, and an occasional wrong step sinks me thigh-high, filling boots of any size with cold snow.

The garden is full of snow—up to the top of the fence. Snow is a good insulator—we had lost some perennials in the last couple of years because of frigid temperatures and too little snow. It also provides needed moisture for the soil and plants for the coming growing season. The down side is the deer and rabbits have little to eat except for trees and shrubs that are above the snow line.

Spring and summer do seem far away when the signs of summer—the canoe and patio—are buried in snow. But there is a rhythm of activity and rest that the seasons force upon us.

The bank of snow by the house occurs when we ‘rake the roof.’ We haven’t done it in years, but when we have this much snow, it helps prevent ice dams from occurring and possible water damage inside the house. It’s a hard job—the rake is long-handled and unwieldy, and one has to stand and walk in deep snow while pulling the snow off the roof. Not much meditative magic in this job.

A couple of other jobs that we undertake with this much snow is clearing snow in front of the mailbox so the delivery person can get close enough to put the mail in the box. The snow plow piles the snow around the mailbox—and we shovel or snowblow it away. We are also asked to shovel the snow away from the fire hydrant in order to have the hydrant available to fire fighters if they should need it at our house.

In a way, snow is magical—if the temperature is just warm enough, the moisture falls as rain. With below-freezing temps, these miraculous crystals form and gently fall from the sky! Snow can be light or heavy, soft or hard, dangerous or fun. And in a couple of weeks, it will melt and be gone!

My Grandma Anna sometimes chided my Dad to not curse the weather—that weather was the source of their livelihood. She didn’t downplay the hardship that weather can bring—and back then, she knew about hardship. But she knew the same weather that brought too much snow or rain, or not enough, was the same that brought sunshine needed for crops to grow, the breeze to dry the wet soil, and once again, rain to nourish the plants. She was wise and steadfast in her faith. Winter and snow can temper us, teach us prudence, propel us to do things we don’t really want to do, and remind us that Nature is not here to do our bidding. There is a season for everything—even the hard things. To temper steel is to improve its hardness and elasticity by rounds of heating and cooling. Perhaps that’s what the seasons—the heat of summer and the cold of winter—do for us. Hard hearts soften, soft hearts toughen, good judgement overcomes selfish wants, and unfounded fear and restriction give way to peace and openness. Like steel, we become more resilient. Like Nature, we become closer to God.

The Enchanted Rock

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And so we climbed the Rock—the Enchanted, intriguing Rock. As we climbed, we left behind the sandy soil and evergreen Live Oak trees; the trail was a solid rock beneath our feet. We could pick our own path, like scampering mountain goats, exploring the rugged terrain. Island ecosystems of Prickly Pear and grasses defied the reality of growing on solid rock.

When we turned around, we could see how far we had already come, and the way to the top looked deceptively close in the bare expanse of rock.

The wind became so strong it took our breath away. It was hard to hear anyone talking, and we used our heavy adult-sized bodies to anchor us to the rock with each footstep. We wondered how a child would even be able to walk without being blown away. The steep upward climb was made harder with the incessant push of the wind, and sometimes we sat or lay on the rock just to get a bit of relief from the gale.

It was like a moonscape on the huge dome—craters and cracks and crevices, and there was a sense of just how ancient this rock-of-a-planet Earth is that we live on. Humbling.

As we neared the top, weathering pits filled with the previous night’s rainfall glimmered in the sunlight. The footprint-like craters have spawned myths about eternally wandering ghosts, but in reality, they are the probable reason for the ethereal glow on a moonlit night, which induced someone to name it ‘Enchanted Rock.’

The larger weathering pits that retain water for weeks are called vernal pools. These delicate ecosystems are pioneer communities that contain minute plants and animals that will develop over time into an oasis of life. Tiny fairy shrimp are found and studied here, and a moss-like plant named rock quillwort is unique to this environment.

As bits of soil, seeds, and small creatures build up in the vernal pools, over time it transforms into a little island of life—willows, grasses, yucca, and prickly pear cactus—shelter and food for wildlife who live on the Rock.

The view from the top of the Rock was stunning in all directions!

The geographical high point was marked by an official survey seal, and we marked our climb with an official high point selfie!

We walked toward a pile of huge boulders on the northeast side where there was a cave. We were below the summit enough to be out of the strongest wind. Two lizards were warming themselves on the south-facing rock—a Texas Spiny Lizard and a camouflaged Crevice Spiny Lizard. What cool creatures!

Some of us climbed into the cave—not to the crawl-on-your-hands-and-knees part—but through to a secret garden area where a couple of wind-swept, twisted-trunk trees grew.

After climbing out of the secret garden—and a few moments when I thought I may be stuck on Enchanted Rock for eternity—we began our descent.

We chose a different side of the rock to hike down—an area with huge cracks and large boulders scattered in random spots.

The dome of Little Rock shows the exfoliation caused by expansion and contraction of the rocks and how broken chunks of rocks slide down the side of the dome.

A rift of amber bluegrass and one of green, grew in the nearly vertical cracks as we climbed down Enchanted Rock.

Down from the dome, down to foliage, down to Earth.

Even though we didn’t see the vernal pools of water glowing in the moonlight, I understand why this place is called Enchanted Rock. It was unlike any place I had ever been before; it had a grounded, solid feel of ancient wisdom at the same time as an other-worldly, ethereal feel of life-affirming Spirit. The wind with all its power was mesmerizing. The sunshine sublime. The patches of plants growing on rock, enthralling. It is a place to base our lives on—the quest for body-regulating grounding wisdom and for exquisite, joy-filled Spirit. The challenging trek to the top of the Rock was individually fulfilling and profoundly enhanced by our experiencing it together. The very real yin and yang of our lives—these opposite forces that are complementary and interdependent. Our interconnected earthly-divine lives living on an enchanted rock.

For the first part of our Enchanted Rock adventure, go to At the Foot of the Rock.

At the Foot of the Rock

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I can see the light of a clear blue morning/ I can see the light of a brand new day/ I can see the light of a clear blue morning/ And everything’s gonna be all right/ It’s gonna be okay –Dolly Parton

There’s something to be said for being able to clearly see what lies before you, what your task is, even what path you will choose. The first time I heard about Enchanted Rock in the Hill Country of Texas was when our daughter Emily worked at The Outdoor School in Marble Falls. It sounded, well, enchanting—a huge dome of granite rock that bubbled up as magma a billion years ago, then slowly began eroding. It is a place that humans have camped at and called home for more than 12,000 years. There are stories and legends of spirits and sacred spaces from explorers and Native Americans and of how the mammoth rock glitters on clear nights with ‘ghost fires.’ I wanted to see it, and I wanted to climb to the top. Enchanted Rock is a small visual part of a huge underground area of granite called a batholith that covers one hundred square miles, so even what is unbelievably large is small compared to what lies unseen below it. The pink granite dome rises 425 feet above the base elevation of the park—like climbing stairs of a thirty to forty story building, and the people at the top looked like ants from our vantage point. Before climbing the granite dome, we explored around the other environments at the base of the rock—the floodplain, Mesquite grassland, and Oak woodland. It had rained the night before, so the shallow creek-bed was flowing with clear water and home to a great-looking snake.

Like all the places we had visited in Texas, I was amazed at how the prickly pear cactus occupied such diverse environments and how some of the trees still wore their green leaves.

One of the unusual sights for me was a ball of green Mistletoe in a bare tree. The tradition of kissing under the Mistletoe began with the ancient Greeks, as the evergreen plant with its shining white berries symbolized fertility. Now it has become a tradition/decoration of the Christmas season. It is a parasitic plant that sends its roots into the wood of a branch and usurps water and nutrients from the tree. A heavy infestation of Mistletoe can cause dying of branches or death of a tree.

Another plant that is sometimes thought to be a parasite is Ball Moss, seen as the gray balls in the Oak trees below. They are actually epiphytes—plants that live on other plants, but absorb water and nutrients through their leaves from the air. These ‘air plants’ anchor themselves to the bark of a tree with tendrils. Some arborists believe the tendrils can strangle a branch, and eventually kill a tree, but it is very common to see a tree full of Ball Moss with their pokey seed pod stalks. ( I like how the Prickly Pears poked their ‘heads’ out of the grass in this picture.)

Yucca plants with their tall stalks of seed pods grow among the Prickly Pears, grasses, and rocks.

In fitting attire for our after-Christmas hike was the colorful fruit of the Desert Christmas Cactus, sometimes called Pencil Cactus because of the slender leaves.

In the millions of years of erosion, exfoliation of layers of rocks has tumbled down the side of the dome into piles at the foot of Enchanted Rock.

Miniature ecosystems form on and below the rocks where moisture is a bit more abundant…

…and where tiny, viney yellow-flowering plants survive in a crack between rocks, perhaps blooming in response to the recent rain.

The ecosystem at the foot of E-Rock is hard and harsh with the masses of granite rocks and cacti, and yet at the same time, there is a softness and flexibility in the flowing water, the swaying grasses, and the carpets of delicate moss that cover the rocks in the floodplain.

This impressive granite rock, with its long history of geological wonder and spiritual acclaim, attracts people to stand at the foot of the rock in awe of what lies before them. There are times in our lives when we stand in such awe looking forward in our lives—at graduations, at weddings, at funerals, at the births of children, and then again when those children leave the nest. What we see at those times is small compared to what lies unseen in the life-altering tasks before us. Perhaps naivete and enthusiasm are the glasses we need to look through in order to propel us through the droughts, the prickly places, and the hard times. Dolly sings about those long, hard nights, the long hard fights, and the “clinging vines that had me bound.” The largest and most enchanting rock that lies before us is not anything that happens in our external world, but that which happens within us. It’s time to explore. It’s time to face the daunting task of noticing the stories and legends we carry in our hearts. It’s time to eradicate the parasitic thoughts that are killing our souls. There’s something to be said for being able to clearly see what lies before you, what your task is, even what path you will choose. And through it all, we look forward to seeing the light of a clear blue morning and a brand new day. Everything’s gonna be all right. It’s gonna be okay.