Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Worth the Wait
I remember being nine months pregnant with our first child…and waiting. Patiently waiting. It had been a relatively easy pregnancy, and I was still feeling well. My last day at work was my due date. One week went by…still waiting. Everything was ready—except for the baby apparently. Another week went by, and the doctor began the induction. Nothing. He reluctantly gave me another week…for waiting.
I feel like we are doing the same thing with Spring this year. We are waiting; a learned patience is holding the reins in an easy, yet expectant way. Like the baby, there is no doubt that Spring is coming. All the signs are here. We are so close! It is time. Of course, we need to clarify the definition of Spring—what it is that makes us think Spring is finally here. I think most would say that we need leaves on the trees and some early-blooming flowers to finally breathe a sigh of relief that Old Man Winter will no longer be knocking unexpectedly at our door. And while the trees are still winter-esque in their bare silhouettes, there is evidence that our waiting time is soon over! Each branch has swollen leaf and/or flower buds. Perennials are pushing their way up through Fall’s leaf litter. Brown is still the predominate color—but not for long! Delivery time is nigh!
Three weeks after her due date, the doctor informed us that one way or another, we would have this baby—today. No more waiting. Mother Nature is on the precipice of the birth of Spring, in all its glory. Once the birthing process begins and progresses, there’s no stopping it! But wait—for just one moment—think about all the biological processes that are taking place while we wait, the things we don’t see, the marvels of pregnancy and development. Therein lies the reason for our learned patience, the reason for the waiting, the reason why we are not the ones in charge of the timeline. Things are happening while we wait. Soon enough, we will forget about the anxious waiting and the pain of birth when we hold our miracle baby. Soon enough, we forget about the cold and snow and brownness of Winter when the green and sweetness of Spring suffuses our senses. With a nod and a prayer to the Power that is greater than all of us, we breathe in the delicious smell of new baby or new Spring and let out a sigh of recognition that indeed, it was worth the wait.
Hug a Tree, Plant a Tree—Your Body Will Thank You
National Arbor Day was Friday. It is a day that passes unnoticed by most people, I would guess. I would hate to speculate how many people do not even know what the word ‘arbor’ means. Would more people pay attention if we called it National Tree Day? Trees are important for many reasons, but their most fundamental process is to take CO2 (carbon dioxide) out of the air for use and storage and to release O2 (oxygen) back into the air—for us to breathe. That alone should have us hugging trees, planting trees, and celebrating trees every day, with every breath we take. They are literally life to us.
Trees have been the lifeblood for Chris for forty-five years now—daily interactions that go far beyond the benevolent exchange of gases. They are a part of our family—they are grown, planted, cared for, protected, and loved. Four years ago I wrote about watching/helping him plant a tree, and I thought I would share part of that post:
My dear husband Chris has been planting trees for over forty years–this flowering dogwood in front of the Odessa First United Methodist Church is just one of thousands that are the legacy of his hands and spade.
Watching him plant a large tree is a study in precision and ease and of sweat and dirt. He places the tree, then cuts a circle around it with his sharp spade. He moves the tree aside and expertly skims the sod from the circle. His foot steps the spade into the soil with a satisfying sound, and he lays that spadeful neatly beside the hole. He continues to step, lift, step, lift, step, lift–making it look easy, even as the sweat starts rolling off his face and arms. A sharp clunking sound and a jarring vibration in his hands indicate a rock, and with additional finesse and muscle, he removes it from the neat, straight-sided hole. With the handle of his spade, he measures the correct depth so the tree is not planted too deeply or too high. The width is one and a half times the diameter of the root ball. He gently rolls the tree into the hole, cuts the twine and unpins the burlap from the root ball, kneeling in the dirt he just overturned. By now his shirt is wet with sweat, and his cap and belt are dark-stained with the salty moisture. The tree is in its place, and with a vertical, cutting motion with the spade, he tamps the soil into the hole to anchor the roots in their new home. His ‘helper’ (me) turns on the water hose and trickles water as he tamps, and soon the hole is filled with dirt and water. The sod is chunked into strips and lined around the hole, and the bermed crater is soaked with a slow stream of water.
Chris has planted trees of every kind and size in four states, has grown them from seed, has pruned them, watered them, moved them, cared for them, and reluctantly cut them down. He has planted trees to memorialize people who have died and to celebrate people who are alive. He’s a tree man through and through.
So Arbor Day for us is like ‘Eat Some Healthy Food Day’ or ‘Take a Deep Breath Day’—we do it every day with little thought and with much thought. Trees are such an important, integral part of our lives—they sustain us at the most basic level of biology and at the highest stratum of spirit. And they do that for all of us, even when we are not aware.
We wander our woods and yard with excitement each Spring, noticing each tree, examining them for rabbit, deer, or winter wind damage. Some don’t make it through the winter (or the drought or whatever the challenge), but healthy color and expectant buds of new growth are signs that all is well. Others rally from the damage with Spring rains and warm temperatures, and they carry the scars through the rest of their lives. As I walked our yard this Arbor Day, I wondered how many trees Chris has planted on our one plus acre in our eleven years here. I stopped counting at one hundred. That was without counting most of the small Oaks that he grew from seed or most of the shrubs that are just starting to get their leaves or any of the trees on the wooded hillside. Here are just a few:
I know I’m kind of preaching to the choir—anyone who reads my blog already appreciates trees and all the other amazing flora and fauna of Nature. But at this time on our planet, this becomes more than a matter of appreciation. Planting trees is one of the most effective ways in which we can stave off the detrimental effects of climate change. The Nature Conservancy has pledged to plant one billion trees, and Microsoft will match your donation up to $50,000. The Arbor Day Foundation has a new ‘The Time for Trees Initiative’ to plant 100 million trees by 2022. If you sign up to support The Arbor Day Foundation, you will receive ten free trees to plant on your own. Few people can make the personal difference of actually growing and planting many thousands of trees like Chris has, but all of us can make a difference by being aware of the importance of trees, by donating to organizations that plant trees, and by planting and caring for more trees in our own lives. It truly does affect the most basic level of our biology and the highest stratum of our spirits.
Earth Day, (Re)Birth Day, Worth Day
On this Easter Day and Earth Day Eve, I am struggling with writing about this convergence of really important things. What is ‘worth-it’ to us as individuals, as businesses, as a country? What values are we willing to throw under the bus to get our way for power or money or whatever reason we deem important? Why do we even celebrate Easter, Birthdays, Earth Day, church days, Spring days? We don’t celebrate for the sake of celebrating—we celebrate to honor the underlying message or value of each of those days.
We have a number of friends who have or soon will be celebrating the Birth Days of their children or grandchildren. What a glorious event to witness the birth of a new human being! But just as magnificent is witnessing the growth and development of every person, no matter their age. We never stop being worthy of being celebrated.
The Re-Birth Day of Easter is celebrated today by Christians around the world. Just when things look bleak and dark, when hope seems lost, when things do not go as they should or as planned, there is a transformation that startles us from gloom and despair to light and joy. Transformation of that magnitude deserves celebration!
Earth Day is a reminder of all the glorious, life-giving gifts that our Earth offers to us every moment of every day. It is a time when we examine what is worthwhile in our daily lives. How much worth do I place on being able to breathe clean air? Is it important to have clean water to drink, to fish in, to swim in, and for our ocean animals to live in? Should companies be allowed to emit whatever they want into the air and water, even when it is known to be harmful? What things can we do to mitigate the extreme financial, emotional, and collateral hardships that occur due to frequent extreme weather events? What is the real cost of the destruction of the rain forest? How can I make a difference? For over forty years, Earth Day has been a reminder to us of these and other questions.
The April full moon or “Pink moon” shone bright on Holy Thursday and Good Friday/Passover. It is called “Pink moon” after early-blooming Wild Ground Phlox and other pink flowers that symbolize the start of Spring. Just as ‘blue moon’ and ‘blood moon’ don’t indicate the color of the moon on the given months, the Pink Moon doesn’t represent its color. But clouds and lighting captured a pink glow nonetheless.
I like how the moon illuminated the pine needles as it ‘passed by.’
We are charged with being stewards of our Earth—caretakers of the water, air, and land. At times I feel despair that these resources are being used and abused with little thought for the world that our children and grandchildren will inherit. If we deem them worthy for our own selves, then, as caretakers, it is imperative that we make sure they will be available in the future. Celebrations are a time to honor and acknowledge the gifts of a new life, a developing, maturing life, the core values of a religious or spiritual life, and the very essence and sustenance of all our lives from the Earth. I challenge you to be an illuminating presence, full of goodness and mercy, as you pass by the people and places in your world.
In the Midst of the Storm
Everyone was getting ready for it. The news people said it was another bomb cyclone headed for the upper Midwest. Who even knew what a bomb cyclone was? Why is this new term in our vocabulary, much less twice in a month’s time? Snow removal equipment that had been optimistically ‘put away’ for the season was dragged back out. Parents were expecting yet another snow day off of school. How many does that make? April 10th was the day of preparation. The birds and animals knew something was up. Lots of feeding, flurry, and frenzy. By late afternoon, the snow had begun to fall, and cancellations were being announced for just about everything for the next day.
Early in the morning of April 11th, the wind came up with a rage. It whistled through windows, forced itself through cracks in the house, moved the heat out and replaced it with a cold draft. Good thing it was April and not January. We had some inches of snow overnight that promptly got rearranged with the northeast wind. I was surprised how many birds were out trying to feed in the storm. The suet cake feeder was flung from side to side, its protective roof askew, but a Red-breasted woodpecker and a large Pileated woodpecker clung to its mesh sides.
I marveled at how long they both swung there, holding on and grabbing bites of fat and seed. Finally the Pileated woodpecker rested on the off-wind side of the Maple tree. What an incredible and unusual bird!
Dead branches and pine cones dislodged from the trees and tumbled across the yard. A White Pine branch planted itself, and the snow filled in around it.
Dark-eyed Juncos and Sparrows braved the wind to eat seeds that had blown from the feeders. They faced into the wind and only occasionally did I see one tumble across the snow.
A couple took refuge behind and under a Spirea shrub to conserve some energy and eat in peace.
At mid-morning, we had thunder and lightning and bits of hail that pelted the windows. Every type of precipitation fell that day—snow, rain, sleet, and hail, and all with the accompaniment of the fierce wind.
Early afternoon the sky and snow turned an eerie yellowish-brown color. Along with all the debris that had blown off the trees, there was now a layer of reddish-brown dirt covering the snow. Later I learned the dust was blown all the way from Texas on this cyclone of a wind.
It was hard to tell how much snow/precipitation we had that day with all the changes in state. It’s one of those things we usually take a silly pride in keeping track of—knowing how much snow or rain, how cold or hot it is on any given day. It records our days in a very concrete way—each of us our own scientist. But on this day, it didn’t even matter. It was a Spring mess we just wanted to get over in order to get to the Spring we desired.
By Friday morning, the winds had calmed down, but the snow continued. The critters continued to feed and scratch and sing—a Spring feeding with all the singing—a difference worth noting.
Along with the singing was the unmistakable sign of the imminent and unstoppable Spring—the swollen, red flower buds of the Maple tree.
After the storm, AccuWeather announced that we did not just survive a bomb cyclone—it was a ‘monster storm’ and a ‘powerhouse blizzard’—but technically did not qualify as a bomb cyclone. The pressure needs to drop 24 millibars over 24 hours of time to be considered a bomb cyclone—this one only dropped by 20 millibars. So…there…we…go. We were out of the woods on the backside of the storm. Technicalities aside, the storm was real. If it looks like, sounds like, and feels like a bomb cyclone, then so be it. In weather, we are fortunate to have meteorologists studying and forecasting what’s to come. Science is real. If only we had such forecasters for our own lives. We could get ready. We could prepare ourselves. We could make plans, stock up, let go, and drag out whatever equipment we would need for the upcoming upheaval. Instead we are caught in the raging wind, sometimes tumbled around; we hang on, find some peace, do what we have to do. We plant ourselves in a new reality and let the chips fall where they may. We are battered, yet brave. In the midst of the storm, there is singing—along with an imminent pull towards the future. It is a difference worth noting.
The Sentry Awaiting Spring
It seemed like no one lived here over the long frigid months of Winter—the ice and feet of snow covered the moving, living, reflecting body of water. I know for certain there were frogs of various sorts, turtles with their colorful, hard-shelled homes carried on their backs, crayfish, and densely-furred, rat-tailed muskrats buried under mud and stick homes in hibernation mode. Life was here, but like the trees and so many things in Nature, it was dormant. Awaiting Spring.
Anxious to find a temporary home, perhaps a place to build a nest, mate, lay a clutch of eggs, and raise a feathered family, migrating waterfowl found this little lake. It seemed desirable, even with the ice still covering large portions of the water. Small, thin-billed Hooded Mergansers with fan-shaped, collapsible crests courted the few females with their elegant plumage and royal carriage.
A pair of Mallards, clumsy and large compared to the Mergansers, trooped across the ice and dipped into a frigid pool that opened like a dark streak in the white frozenness. Despite their clumsiness, there are so many things I appreciate about the Mallards—the male’s iridescent green head, the curled tail feathers, and the sturdy, orange legs and webbed feet.
I wonder what it was about this place that enticed these ducks and geese to stop, to rest, and to explore. It is a quiet place beside a dead-end road, surrounded by beautiful Birch and Oak trees. It has vines of Bittersweet and petite shrubs of Wild Roses.
All seemed content in the awakening homeplace except for one Canadian goose. He/she seemed to be the sentry, the one on guard, the eyes and ears of the group. The Sentry squawked in alarm and nervously swam towards the others as I walked closer. The others gave no cares at all as they swam through the reeds and dipped their heads under water to pull up a tasty green shoot.
The Sentry scrambled onto the ice, perhaps for a better vantage point. He paced back and forth, talking, scolding, watching, and worrying.
Is this the place to make a summer home? To raise a family? Are there hidden dangers?
It pays to be watchful, to know the signs of danger, particularly if one is susceptible, like to the potent berries of Poison Ivy that seem benign without the triad of shiny green leaves seen in summer.
Finally the Sentry slipped back into the water and was joined by the other geese, and calm returned to the swimmers. My presence no longer seemed like a threat. Maybe this is a good place. Perhaps Spring is leading us to where we need to go. There is hope in the Willows.
There are parts of most of us in the North that hibernate in the dark, cold, snowy months of Winter. Some whose internal lights shine strong with abundant energy and youthful vigor can move through Winter just as they do the rest of the year. They are beacons to the rest of us. Otherwise, the shift that occurs in Spring ignites a dormant flame, compelling us to move towards an awakening of sorts. Like the ducks and geese, the hibernating creatures under the mud, and the trees and plants all around, energy is quickened. Daylight and warmer temperatures turn on genetic programming and instincts. It’s time to find a summer home, to mate, to raise a family. We need the sentries of the world to be watchful, to keep the others safe, to protect those who do not know or see the dangers that may be lurking around us. And then we move in the living, reflecting, motioning water towards the soft willow flowers of a hopeful Spring.
UnSnowed
When we lived on our little farmstead in Missouri in our younger years, we had a trencher come and dig in a water line. The machine slices into the earth making a narrow but deep gash in which to lay the water pipe so it doesn’t freeze. Once the pipe was in place, there was a slight mound of extra dirt in a line across the field. After a rain, Chris and Emily walked along the cut path. Emily noticed a beautiful, blush-colored spear point laying on top of the soil. Unearthed by machine and rain. After all that time.
In the last three weeks, we have become unsnowed. After what seemed like a long, snowy winter (not really so long as many others), the culprit has mostly disappeared in a short amount of time. Just when we think that things we don’t like and time move slowly! Change does not often adhere to our time schedule. As a snow-lover, it is leaving too quickly for me—even as the cold temps this weekend have slowed the loss and even as a part of me desires the warmth and greenth of Spring. In my fickleness, I miss the bright snow-light of the morning. After all that time.
From our last ten-inch snowstorm to unsnowed—just three weeks in time.
I discovered some green Pachysandra in the unsnowing—our eyes and memories ‘forget’ what lies underneath the real and compelling recent past.
Where did the snow go? With the frost still in the ground, the melted snow made its way down the hill to the River. The high water just about touched the old railroad bridge as ice floes and foam bubbled from the dam.
In places, it was hard to distinguish the foam from the snow.
The old mill dam was covered by a dark, smooth sheet of water that crashed over the short drop-off into a frenzy of voluminous, white-capped churning.
We caught sight of an approaching ice floe that had been dislodged from the upstream lakes and sent on its northern trek towards the Mississippi.
It was rather mesmerizing to watch the floating ice draw near the dam, change course in the current, and break into pieces as gravity and churning water broke the tenuous bonds and instantly changed the state of ice to the state of water and vapor.
Upstream more blocks of deconstruction floated quietly by, unsuspecting of the turmoil that lay ahead.
A short ways upstream, past one more highway bridge, a boat ramp accepted excess water, just as all the lower-lying areas of all these Midwest flooded rivers have done. There is no choice in the matter.
High above the River on the bluff, where the tips of the Spruce trees rise above the Oaks, is where we live, where the snow melted, where the water ran from.
An evening silhouette of Alder cones and catkins stood beside the River, against the golden-hued trees on the opposite shore.
Squiggly, golden reflections of winter-weary trees shone on the water, bypassing the blunting, matte ice still clinging to the shore. It is time to see ourselves again.
Snow has ruled our lives for the last three and a half months—there is no choice in the matter if you live in Minnesota. (Only three and a half months—not six, for those who believe our winters are unreasonable.) It is not unusual or unexpected. Seasons unfold in unmistakable ways. And now the snow is (almost) gone. We have been unsnowed.
With longer life comes the opportunities to change our states. I have been undone, unnerved, undecided, and uncomfortable. I have felt unworthy, unsettled, unsafe, and unaccepted. Events and issues in my life have been unexplainable, unbearable, unforeseen, and unfair. And I have also lived my life with unwavering hope, unceasing love, unbridled joy, and unmitigated faith. What happens within us when things are unspoken, unresolved, untenable, and unbalanced? What happens within us when we become unburdened, untangled, unmasked, and unafraid? The state of our mind and body changes. Our eyes and memories can forget the recent or distant past, and we can unearth the treasure of who we are. We can see ourselves again. After all that time.
The Mess is Real
It’s been kind of a tough week. One of those weeks when there seems to be an ice dam blocking the normal flow of life, flooding places I don’t want to be flooded with things I don’t want to deal with—it’s been a reflection of what’s been happening in physical time in the upper Midwest. My heart goes out to all who are dealing with the literal ice dams and floods—the damage is extensive; the mess is real.
Meanwhile, on our hill high above the River, Spring has arrived in a calm, quiet form. The warmish days and cold nights have slowed the snow melt after the rapid accumulation of rain and melting snow that have unleashed the fury to the south of us. We are beginning to see the ground.
With melting of the snow comes a revelation of the debris of Winter. Piles of sunflower and safflower seed hulls mound on the ground under the bird feeders as the snow disappears from the layers of Winter.
The Fall-raked lawn is now scattered with pinecones, sticks, and pine needles that Winter’s harsh snows and winds dislodged from the high branches of the mature trees.
The garden is considerably less filled with snow than a week ago but still quite a ways from Spring planting.
The deer have left some debris in their Winter pathways—we just watch our step and wait to see what grows in that fertilized space.
But the Spring stirring has started in the Maple trees! Flower buds have emerged from the branches, poised for exuberant activity to come. On the warm, sunny afternoons, sap is flowing, darkening the bark as the upward flow leaks out and flows back down.
Beneath the snow, there are millions of blades of green grass arising from dormancy, getting ready to carpet the world with life.
The patio is emerging from mounds of snow, the sun-warmed rocks being the first to push back the snow.
The remains of Fall still decorate the background of snow but will soon be lost in the riotous, new green growth of Spring.
Fall, Winter, and the potential of Spring collide in this first week of the Vernal Equinox.
With each day, the grass patches are getting larger, and the snow patches are shrinking. We prepared for Winter by getting everything cleaned up, tidy, and put away. But even in the dormancy, lots of things happen, and some of them are messy. In other words, we have to clean up after Winter, too. What of this dormancy and incubation time of Winter for us? I think this time of quiescence is actually a gathering of old, fall-like ideas and beliefs that rumble around under the insulation of our consciousness. What is uncovered come Spring? It’s kind of messy. It creates blockages in the flow of our ‘normal’ living. New ideas spring forth and flood the way we once thought or planned. We see the ground (thank goodness), but the seeds are not yet sown. I will watch my step. I feel poised for exuberant activity to come.
Unfinished Business
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
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
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.
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