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The Traveler

May 14, 2017 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I was a traveler when I was a kid. We had a low-slung, wood-sided Mercury station wagon—no dvd players or cup holders and if it had seat belts, we didn’t use them. Every summer the six of us would pack the car with a cooler of food, shared suitcases of clothes, a Johnny Cash eight-tack tape, and a little, brown, hard-shelled suitcase of coloring books, games, etc. to keep us kids occupied on the long trip from eastern Pennsylvania to eastern South Dakota. We traveled almost 1400 miles straight through with my Mom and Dad taking turns driving and sleeping. Most often we would leave on a Friday night and get to Grandma and Grandpa’s farm in the early light of Sunday morning. Occasionally on our trip we would stop at a truck stop for breakfast, but usually we ate at roadside rests with individual boxes of cold cereal (a once a year treat) and picnic meals of cold, fried chicken or sandwiches. It was a time to stretch our legs, run around, re-fuel, and talk and laugh together as a family.

Last week when I walked to the ponds and wetlands close to our house, I saw a bird that I had never seen before. It was some sort of shorebird with a long bill, white underbelly, streaked upperbody, and long, yellow-orange legs, which I later discovered were the basis for its name—Greater Yellowlegs! There is a similar, smaller Lesser Yellowlegs. Yellowlegs travel thousands of miles each year from their wintering areas in southern, coastal United States, Central America, and South America to their summer breeding grounds in sub-arctic forest bogs or muskegs of Alaska and Canada. I was lucky enough to see this Greater Yellowlegs on one of the rest stops on his long, migratory route.

Yellowlegs eat small fish, frogs, insects, snails, worms and occasionally seeds and berries.

The Yellowlegs was busy looking for food, walking through the shallow water, probing the mud for bites to eat. When he turned and saw me, he stopped. Then he continued to walk while bobbing his head and kicking his legs back, behavior indicating that an intruder was seen.

Yesterday, May 13th, was International Migratory Bird Day. It highlights the importance of safe, healthy sites along the migratory routes of the thousands of species that need places for rest and refueling. These rest-stops are critical for the survival of migratory birds.

The quiet, shallow lake was a perfect sanctuary for the Greater Yellowlegs to stop and rest during his long journey, and I’m fortunate to have seen him.

I felt like quite a traveler when I was a kid, especially compared to some of my classmates who had never been out of the county they grew up in, let alone the state! Those trips back to South Dakota each summer were memorable because of the excitement of traveling that long distance to see our relatives, to go back to our Home state. The Greater Yellowlegs have a winter home and a summer home with lots of traveling between the two. And whether for people or migratory birds, the rest stops along the way on our journeys are imperative for renewal, restoration, (sanity), and rejuvenation for the remainder of the trip and for Life ever after.

The Courtship of Spring—Love Letters to Us

April 30, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Courtship consists in a number of quiet attentions, not so pointed as to alarm, nor so vague as not to be understood. –Laurence Sterne

Downstairs there are two cardboard boxes full of hundreds of letters from our courtship—one marked Letters to Denise, the other, Letters to Chris. In this era of smartphones and other technology, who can even imagine such a thing!? We met one May night, one one-in-a-million chance meeting, one would-you-like-to-dance swirl around the dance floor. He was headed back home to Missouri from a northern fishing trip with his Dad, and I was out with my friend Patty talking about her upcoming wedding. He gave me his temporary fishing license with his name and address on it and said if I’d write to him, he would write back to me. So I did. That began our two-year, 400-miles-apart courtship.

Letters are slow—slow to be written with pencil or pen and slow to be delivered by the US Postal Service. But I still recall the excitement of opening the mailbox to find a letter from Chris, unsealing the envelope, reading his words and turning over the pieces of paper in discovery of this man. Many things we wrote about were mundane—the weather, what we ate for supper, what tv shows we watched. But letter by letter, slowly and surely, his character and values emerged. Most of the time when we did see one another in person, we stayed at our parents’ houses. I spent time washing dishes with his Mom, held the ladder for his Dad as he put up Christmas lights and told stories, met his four older brothers, their wives and children, and spent precious time with his sister. Chris went duck hunting with my Dad, brought gifts of plants for my Mom, and made my siblings laugh. Our courtship was slow and lovely and difficult and richly exciting as we anticipated each new discovery and the life we would have together.

The courtship of Spring is also the slow emerging of a wondrous season. Weeks after the calendar Spring, tiny, golden leaves unfold from a Ninebark shrub.

Rhubarb, the delicious, tart fruit of the North, is pushing its way up out of the ground…

…while seeds of abundant greens wait for warmer weather and germination.

Setbacks happen in even the best of courtships—we were smiling from the warmth until a wave of cold air moved in this week, icing over the birdbath and constricting the leaves and flowers that were intent on opening.

Even the bluebird, all poufed up from the cold, was wondering what had happened to Spring.

Setbacks are temporary, and early bloomers like Epimedium and Lilacs can tolerate the cold better than others.

Day by day, Spring reveals new surprises—blooming Vinca vine and fairyland Mayapples.

Ferns unfurl tête à tête…

…and Mourning Doves and other birds pair up in courtship.

Spring delivers a plethora of quiet, slow unfoldings as each tree and plant comes ‘back to life’ after a dormant winter, as each pair of birds and animals prepare for mating and raising young ones. The courtship cannot be one-sided—it takes the attention and appreciation of a beloved for the other to be seen and understood. Each Spring we are privy to thousands of tiny miracles right before our eyes. Do we see them? As we swirl around the dance floor of Earth, tête à tête with Spring and with the beloveds of our choosing, it behooves us to remember that courtships include more than just the pair. We are part of a family, a friend group, a community of like and unlike, and finally, a small part of the entire Whole. While in our mundanity, during our chilly setbacks and mistaken attentions that alarm, let us notice the quiet miracles, the revealing values and character, and the discoveries that let us know we’re on the right track, that’s there’s no turning back, that we’re all in this together.

Birds of a Feather

January 8, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

What if all the birds of the world looked and acted alike? How would this homogeneous population serve the earth? The winter birds bring activity, color, and beauty to the very coldest, bleakest part of our northern winters. With temperatures plunging below zero this week, our feeders filled with black oil sunflower seeds have been life-giving to the varied population of feathered and furred creatures.

I read a blog post recently that made me curious about how we perceive homogeneousness. Many are familiar with the term homogeneous from chemistry when substances are in the same phase or from geometry when angles are the same. Homogeneous is defined as ‘essentially alike.’ The writer of the blog post, in the most general definition, lives in a very homogeneous population, yet wrote with disdain about some of the people in his daily life who chose a different path from the writer. I thought, ‘Wow! If this person has disdain for people who are so ‘essentially alike’ him, it’s no wonder there is little tolerance for people who truly are different.’

Heterogeneous means ‘different in kind; unlike.’ The different kinds of birds and creatures who come to our bird feeders in the winter showcase the diversity of Nature. The Red-bellied Woodpecker flies to the feeder and scatters all the other birds who are feeding there. His black and white barred feathers and red cap make him one of the showiest birds. His diet of mostly insects is supplemented by the seeds he collects and stores in the bark of trees.

The intelligent Blue Jay is the only bird that will challenge the Red-bellied Woodpecker as the dominant feeder bird. His loud calls and large size intimidate the smaller birds. Blue Jays love acorns and have been shown to cache 3-5,000 acorns in one autumn. It is believed that Blue Jays helped spread the growth of oak trees after the glacial period.

Dark-eyed Juncos are small sparrows, mainly seed eaters who hop instead of walk. They eat off the ground, scratching through leaf litter and snow to find their food. They are snowbirds who retreat north to Canada in spring and summer.

Purple Finches live near coniferous trees, eat berries, fruit, and weed seeds and love black oil sunflower seeds. The males have a rosy colored head, breast and rump patch while the females are mostly brown.

This female Cardinal was having a bad crest day one very windy morning. Usually the crests of Cardinals and Blue Jays are raised as a sign of aggression and down while feeding, but the wind had other plans. Both male and female Cardinals are obsessed with defending their territory and will attack their own reflection in windows, thinking it’s another bird.

White-breasted Nuthatches eat mainly insects, but got their common name by storing large nuts and seeds in the crevices of tree bark, then whacking them with their bill to ‘hatch’ the seed out of it. They are often seen going sideways and upside down on the trunks of trees.

American Goldfinches are the only finch to molt twice a year, giving them a bright yellow feathered coat in the spring and summer and a dull, muted yellow coat in the fall and winter. Goldfinches are the strictest vegetarians and love thistle and aster seeds.

Curious and acrobatic Black-capped Chickadees flit to the feeder, grab a seed, and fly away to a branch to eat it or hide it for later. They can remember thousands of hiding places. Their namesake call of chickadee-dee-dee indicates a higher threat level with the more dee notes on the call.

The small Downy Woodpecker eats mainly insects, including many pest insects, but likes the suet cakes in the winter. Only the male has a red patch on the back of his head. Downy Woodpeckers don’t sing songs but drum loudly on wood and metal during courtship for the same purpose.

The birds share the feeders and seeds with the squirrels…

and rabbits, or maybe it is they that share with the birds.

What if all the birds were alike? What if all of us humans were alike? How would these homogeneous populations serve the world? My guess is….not very well. The blog writer scorned others who were in essence very similar to himself, which gave the impression that he wanted all others to act and believe like he did in order for them to be worthy. God created a diverse world of birds, creatures, plants, trees, and humans. All have a place at the table, a role to fulfill, and a job to do in the grand scheme that is not ours, but God’s. Perhaps we need a biannual molt of ideas to show our new colors. Fighting to defend ourselves and our territory is innate and at times, necessary, but too often we end up attacking the reflection of ourselves.

Gleanings from December—Threshold of the New

January 1, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. –Edmund Waller

I crossed the threshold into the white-steepled Lutheran church. The old, traditional sanctuary was simply and beautifully decorated for Christmas. In the small narthex was my Grandfather’s casket—rich, golden-hued wood, not fancy, just lovely, with a lining that had sheaves of wheat imprinted on it, and I thought to myself, “How perfect.” My father’s father was a small man, a farmer, born in a sod house in the Dakota Territory in 1884, before South Dakota became a state. I was in my second year of college, and this was the first death of someone close to me. He had lived at home until two or three days before his death, had received communion from his pastor in those twilight hours of his life, and slipped away in peace. He was 93 years old. It was a funeral of celebration, the most peaceful and almost joyful funeral I have ever attended.

Nine years and two days after his death, I gave birth to our first daughter, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.

My sweet Grandma Irene died after a lengthy stay in a nursing home at the age of 94. She was a teacher and a farmer’s wife. She cared about people more than anyone I have ever known. She was a great cook, a dedicated artist, and had a wonderful laugh. The funeral was held in the Lutheran church where Chris and I were married, and it was joyfully decorated with a large tree, wreaths, and banners.

Twenty-one years before that day, I had given birth to our second daughter, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.

My Dad died a year and five days ago. He was a cowboy, mechanic, and builder. I found out about his death as I stood in our Minnesota home amidst the smell of the fir tree, the sparking lights, the greenery, and the nativity scenes.

Twenty-three years minus two days before his death, I gave birth to our son, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.

So…December. The last two weeks of December have always been beautiful, busy, bustling, and bright. As the years have passed, and the kids are gone from the nest and loved ones are gone from this earth, it has also been bittersweet. It is a time of transition, from the old year to the new—in birthday years and calendar years. December was a month of crazy weather transitions with snow, ice, rain, and bitter cold. Blue skies and frosty days painted the landscape with diamonds of ice crystals.

Twilight thresholds of a sundog sunset—like three suns setting…

…and a full-moon rising, nestled in the pine and spruce boughs.

A bright spot in December was the annual blooming of the Christmas cactus. My plant is a cutting from the very large, old Christmas cactus that belonged to my great-grandma Anna on my Mom’s side of the family. It was passed down to Anna’s daughter Edith, with cuttings to my Mom and then to me.

The winter birds returned to the feeders, their daily feeding times a joyous and energetic ritual—the epitome of living in the moment.

The end of a month, the end of a year, the beginning of a new month, the beginning of a new year. We’re standing on the threshold—looking back at the old in all its certainty, looking forward to the new with anticipation and wonder. Like those days of loss when the world would never be the same without our loved ones, and we looked forward with sorrow and trepidation. Like those glorious birth days, when our world turned upside down and we didn’t know what lay in store for us, but we looked forward with excitement, joy, and love. Nature offers us those threshold times every day with each twilight—the day coming to an end at dusk with the setting of the sun and a new day dawning as the sun rises. Seasons and years slowly and consistently transition, remaining steadfast as we cross the threshold marked by the calendar. The threads that tie the old with the new are many—the love of our families, the expression of our talents, the DNA that links us, and even the generations-old Christmas cactus that blooms each December. These threads give us the courage to step forward through the threshold with hope and determination. We can be like the feeding birds and show up in our present moment with joy and energy. The Latin word for threshold is ‘limen’, the root word for liminal space and liminality. David Guyor defines threshold or liminal space as ” the place or the experience where we are getting ourselves ready to move across the limits of what we were into what we are to be.” Sometimes those thresholds are thrust upon us and we are blindsided, and our recovery and action are slow and self-protecting; other times we stand at the threshold of our choosing with determination and power. Gather up the threads from the past that serve and sustain us and let them carry us across the liminal space into what we are to be. Happy New Year!

The Greatest of These is Love

November 14, 2016 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It’s been a confusing week. Welcome to Life, right? Luckily, every day of our lives isn’t so confusing, but looking back on my decades, there were definitely weeks, months, even some years that fall into that category. And then there’s wanting and working hard for something that means the world to you….and not getting it. That’s when things get personal. After about two and a half years into my graduate schooling, my adviser decided to build his business and not have students anymore. In order to finish my PhD, I was forced to change departments and get a new adviser. I moved into a department in chaos–the offices, labs and classrooms had been moved out of their building in order for repairs to be done. When I met with the new professors, I asked if I should shadow their lab manager and other graduate student to learn the ropes of the new lab. They laughed and said of each woman, “She doesn’t know anything.” As uncomfortable as I felt at the time, I didn’t know how foreshadowing that statement was to be. I should have turned around and run the other way. We make choices, to the best of our abilities, and then feel obligated, committed, stuck, maybe, like we don’t have another choice, considering all the the circumstances. Four years later, my coursework was completed, my research was almost finished, there was a new department head, my ‘new’ adviser had left, the professor I asked to help me finish said he didn’t have the time for me, my parents-in-law had both died, two of our three kids had left for college, and I was a total wreck. Somehow, I managed to find an ally, and we tried to get that PhD to happen, but I was broken in every sense of the word. How could this be happening? This shouldn’t be happening. My sense of ‘rightness’ in the world was shattered.

Beyond the confusing political week, I also had a crazy blog week. Chris had noticed a hawk in a tree outside of our yard. I could barely get a picture of it, but a few minutes later, it flew to the top of the cut-off spruce in the yard with a red squirrel in its talons.

We live in a place surrounded by trees, and I assumed it was a young Cooper’s Hawk who eats mainly birds, but also hunts for chipmunks, rabbits, mice and squirrels. Cooper’s Hawks have a large head, broad shoulders, and long, rounded tails. The juveniles are brown with a streaked brown breast and yellow eyes. (The pictures of the young Cooper’s had streaking all the way up to their necks without that white bib. Oh, well, juveniles are variable.)

The young hawk looked down at this prey as he squeezed it to death with his strong talons.

Cooper’s Hawks live and hunt in the woods and are skillful fliers with short wings and long tails. (His tail doesn’t seem as long as the other Cooper I saw.)

He was a beautiful hawk, and it was crazy that I got a picture of him with his prey!

After a minute or two, he looked around, and then flew away with the squirrel.

Yesterday, as I looked at the hawk websites again, I realized that my hawk was more likely a juvenile Red-tailed Hawk. But Red-tails usually hunt in open land, not in tree cover. I had assumed because of our location that it was a Cooper’s Hawk, even though his tail was shorter and he had a white bib. Confusing. What I thought to be true, what I assumed to be true, even with nagging evidence to the contrary, wasn’t true. Granted, the coloring was very similar between the two—it was not a cut-and-dried decision.

Evidence. Assumptions. Facts. Opinions. Wishes and wants. The choices we make are a large knot of all of these things. We often see and dismiss evidence of what’s to come, yet on some level, often with our gut instinct, we absolutely know the truth. But it’s not a cut-and-dried decision. And then there are the things we work hard at and hold dear–the things we will fight for, the things that sustain us, the things we build our lives upon. When those foundations are threatened, we feel attacked and justify our actions of attacking others. It’s personal. We wonder how this can be happening, we proclaim this should not be happening. My sense of ‘rightness’ in the world took another hit last week, and policy wasn’t the reason. I can certainly see both sides of the policy issues, and there is truth on both sides and lots of gray area in between. That’s what politics is all about. My hit came when the bully won, when fear and hateful language won. We teach our children not to make fun of the disabled kid, not to call others names that are different from them, not to be a bully. If we hold that standard for our children, why in heaven’s name wouldn’t we hold that basic standard for our president? I may be idealistic, but I am no longer naive. I know that sometimes the predator wins, that non-ethical things happen in unintentional and in deliberate ways, that many people don’t have the same standards as me, that some will ‘win’ at any cost and lay their head on the pillow at night and sleep soundly. Last week my gut felt sick and I had trouble sleeping. I did a lot of thinking and took in very little media. And here’s what I know: I know that words are important. I know that decency, understanding, and civility are cornerstones of our American values. I know that most of our ancestors were immigrants. I know that I love my LGBT friends and family members. I know that all women are strong and beautiful in so, so many ways. I know that Love, Faith, Hope, Mercy, and Goodness matter. And I know that the greatest of these is Love.

Camouflage and Curiosity

November 6, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

One of our childhood games, as with most people I would guess, was hide and seek. Living in the country with four children in the family, it was the perfect get-outside-and-run activity with just enough ‘players’ to make it fun and last for a while, at least. I remember that giddy excitement after the designated person started counting—‘Where should I hide?!’ Or being the counter at the large pear tree, which I did slowly and deliberately, and finally yelling, ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ The seeking and the hiding both had an element of anticipation and surprise and would most often end in laughter, with only occasional arguments and crying. Yet I remember one morning when hide and seek wasn’t a fun game. When I woke up, I noticed my younger sister wasn’t in her bed, which was unusual. I went downstairs, but she was not eating breakfast or watching tv. I went back upstairs to look in her room, check under the bed, and look into my other sleeping siblings’ rooms. I felt the panic rising in my body. I couldn’t find her. I don’t even remember if it was summer, a weekend, or if my mom and dad were home or at work. After much frantic searching, I found her sleeping on the floor behind the couch. I was so incredibly relieved that I had found her, and she was safe. I know I asked her why she was there, and I know she had a reason that had made perfect sense to her at the time—but I can’t remember what it was.

Hiding is a survival mechanism for many animals in the wild. Camouflage by color—a rattlesnake or tree frog, and by shape—a walking stick or katydid, are common ways for animals to blend in with their environment in order to hide from predators. While driving along the gravel road at St. Croix State Park last month, we saw little creatures dart across the road and disappear into the foliage. ‘What was that?!’ I asked Chris. We slowed down and once again caught sight of one by the road but lost track of it when it moved into the woods. Finally a couple of them stopped, and we stopped, and I could get a picture of the Ruffed Grouse! They were so camouflaged with the surrounding environment that the camera had a difficult time focusing on anything!

These chicken-like birds with short legs and a crest of feathers are non-migratory, live in heavily forested areas, and forage for seeds and insects on the forest floor.

In spring, the males’ mating display includes a black ruff of neck feathers and fan-shaped tail feathers. Most notably, they stand on a log or rock and make a booming ‘drumming’ sound with the movement of their wings.

In winter, Ruffed Grouse eat buds of deciduous trees, roost in soft snowbanks for protection, and grow projections on their toes that act as snowshoes! The bird in the back of the photo has the crest of feathers up on his head.

Another woodland animal that uses camouflage is the white-tailed deer. The adult coat color blends in with the surrounding environment, and very young fawns with their white spots, hide in the brush while their mothers forage for food. Another characteristic of deer is their curiosity. As we hiked along a grassy road in the forest at St. Croix State Park, I looked up to see these three looking at us!

We stopped when we saw them, and I started taking pictures. The fawns were so cute and curious–it makes me smile every time I see these pictures!

They stood looking at us with bright eyes and attentive ears as long as we stayed still.

But when we began to walk slowly toward them, their ears flicked one way then another, and they looked around with wariness…

and soon scampered off into the woods.

Hide and seek. Camouflage and curiosity. Our mammalian brains are wired to ensure our safety. We take in cues from the external environment, just like the deer, and decide what is important, threatening, or dangerous. Most of this is accomplished without our conscious brain ‘knowing.’ This part of our brain is also where our emotions reside, which explains why I remember certain emotionally charged things about trying to find my sister but completely can’t recall other details surrounding it. I’m sure most of us can remember times in our lives when we just wanted to blend into the environment and not be seen or times when we wanted to run and hide—that is our brains working to keep us safe. Luckily, we also have a highly developed cerebral cortex that gives us the ability to learn, attach meaning, do abstract thinking, plan, predict, imagine, and choose, all within a sense of time, context, and empathy. Our brains are amazing! Within the confines of a safe place, our innate curiosity is unleashed, and we seek to learn about ourselves and the world around us. Childhood games and play are the training grounds for our minds and bodies for learning how to cope with our daily challenges. From our safe place, with curiosity, courage, and caring, we can yell, ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ and be prepared for whatever comes around the corner.

Gleanings from October—A Reflection

October 30, 2016 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

There have been days in my life when a glorious mixture of Light and Love from a combination of earthly wonder and heavenly grace has shone upon me. The brightest of them all were the days in which I married my partner for life and I bore our three children. Each of those days is etched in my body, mind, and soul as a reflection of everything that is good and holy. Each of those days included mundane tasks, messy happenings, and marvelous emotions.

October is a reflection of those kinds of days—bright and beautiful, colorful and chaotic, yet peaceful and priceless! It seems like October days pass by too quickly, as the vibrant-colored leaves fall and dry to brown, and the warm days fade to cool nights. Maples of all species are the shining stars of autumn color in our yard…

and in the woods at St. John’s Arboretum, where a Sunday hike on the trail is like walking through a grand, gilded cathedral.

The stillness of the beautiful Lake Sagatagan reflected the autumn colors and housed a community of lily pads with only the stems remaining of their exquisite flowers.

The reflection in a pond along the trail seemed sharper and more realistic than the actual trees in the woods…

until the focus changed to the individual leaves floating on the stained glass water.

Our destination for our Sunday hike at Saint John’s was Stella Maris chapel which sits on an island-like peninsula across Lake ‘Sag’ from the campus. Stella Maris is Latin for ‘Star of the Sea’ and ‘Our Lady Star of the Sea’ is an ancient title for the Blessed Virgin Mary. The original chapel was built in 1872 but was struck by lightning and burnt down in 1903. It was rebuilt in 1915 and has had three renovations since that time.

The beautiful stained-glass star window and pregnant Mary statue simply adorn the inside of the chapel.

Moving on through October, another celestial body displayed its beauty—the full moon.

A hazy reflection of the Sun’s light illuminates the darkness.

And then a foggy morning diminished visibility and gave the changing leaves a muted glow. Such a changeable month this October!

A clear, crisp night frosted the blades of grass and tipped the outlines of fallen leaves with white.

The bright sunlight soon melted away the frost and shone on these robins who grabbed a bite of crabapples.

By the end of the month, the gloriously colored leaves are gone, and the silhouettes of the trees are lined against gray skies. We move into our late fall landscape.

October reflections of light, color, and brilliance are gone before we are ready for them to leave. Once again we are reminded that Nature’s time schedule doesn’t bend to our wishes and wants. But those days of illumination stay with us and quietly and stealthily renovate our hearts. We build our lives with the stones we have available to us, and sometimes the fires of life tear down those walls in order for us to rebuild something new and better, all while retaining what is good and holy. At any given moment, we believe we see the reflections of our lives clearly—but what happens when we change the focus? Hindsight has a way of honing in on what matters most and of illuminating the flaws of our thoughts and actions. And the best thing we can forgivingly say to ourselves is ‘Live and Learn.’ We move into a new landscape of life, our eyes see differently, and we receive new wonders from our earth and new graces from the heavens.

A Yard Full of Beautiful Bluebirds

October 12, 2016 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.

—Mahatma Gandhi

There have been times in my life when I wondered if I would ever be happy again. Those were struggling times, deep and dark times in my soul. I couldn’t wish, pray, think, or act my way out of the darkness. So I just went through it–like those long tunnels under the mountains on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. No matter how much you want to see the light or maybe want to turn around, you can’t—you just have to move forward and travel through it.

I thought the Bluebirds had left our place and migrated south–I hadn’t seen them for quite a while. And then Friday I noticed the yard was full of them! They perched and swooped and chirped like a playground full of children! Bluebirds of Happiness!

They were probably gathering up for migration, filling up on their fall diet of sumac and chokecherry seeds–after a summer of eating insects.

I was amused by how this little guy looked all around from his perch on the Maple tree right outside our window.

A male and female flew to an inverted tub to drink the rainwater that had accumulated in the little troughs. What beautiful birds!

Most Eastern Bluebirds migrate some distance to the south, but not all of them. Researchers are not sure why some stay in the northern climate during the harsh, cold winter. I wonder if their winters are as bleak as my struggling times were. But struggling times are learning times, a vast and precious rearrangement of our thoughts, words, and actions, all precipitated through the troughs of our feelings. We drink them up, and they sustain us. Aristotle wrote, “Happiness depends upon ourselves.” Not what other people do, not with how much stuff we have, not with who wins the election. Alignment to harmony equals happiness. A yard full of beautiful Bluebirds is just icing on the cake!

Gleanings from July–Animal Behavior

July 31, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Animals have always been such an important part of my life. When I was very young, we had a menagerie of farm animals–Holstein dairy cows, a black Mustang horse, chickens, cats, dogs, pigs, and sheep. Later in my growing up years we had a rabbit, ducks, cats, dogs, and horses. (I tend to leave out the hamster who I did not like–he was too squishy and mouse-like.) Horses were the best; I loved everything about them–brushing their dusty coats and tangley tails, feeding them sweet feed and fragrant hay, saddling and riding them through fields and woods, and even cleaning out and shaking fresh straw into their stalls.

July has not only been a month of flowers, but one of animals, too. The young Bluebirds who fledged the nest have been swooping to the ground to pick up insects, then quickly flying back up to tree branches, just like their parents.

The chattering House Wrens are on their second brood of young ones and spend most of the day hunting for insects for the hungry houseful. (See my post of wren babies fledging from the nest.)

When I was weeding the garden one day, a Leopard frog leaped out from under the kale and hid in the grass.

Have you ever seen your reflection in the eye of a frog?

Mother turkeys and their young broods have been wandering through the yard and woods, scratching and pecking for food.

A call from Chris one morning alerted me to come check out a field close to his work. I pulled into a field driveway, walked across the road, and saw a large community of Sand Hill Cranes! There were about forty in all, gleaning the kernels from the grain field.

Sandhill cranes mate for life, choosing their partners based on spring mating dancing displays. They live for twenty years or longer.

The young ones stay with their parents through the winter and separate the following spring, but can take up to seven years to choose a mate.

A pair of sentries closest to me, but still on the far side of the field, started making alarm calls as they watched me.

The others slowly began gathering and walking along the edge of the field.

This photograph of beautiful bird behavior, after the sentries sounded the ‘beware’ call, illustrates a variety of responses. The one in the middle is ‘shaking it off,’ the two adults in the back right seem to be discussing the problem–“what do you think–is that figure holding the black box really a threat?” and the young ones in the front are following directions–“walk to your left.”

I was fortunate to witness another display of articulate animal behavior in our front yard the other day. I saw a doe with her fawn grazing along the edge of our yard. (Look at the line of spots on either side of the spine.)

The doe stayed in much the same spot, and I hoped she wasn’t munching on the hazelnuts Chris recently planted. She was as sleek and healthy-looking as I’ve ever seen a deer, so she must have been eating nutritious food. (Hmm, some of our hostas had been eaten down to the stems…)

The fawn wandered out in front of the doe.

Soon he ventured out into the mowed part of the lawn, bucked, and kicked up his heels.

With cautious curiosity, he walked to the crabapple tree and nibbled on a few leaves.

Suddenly, something scared him, and he ran as fast as he could back to his mom! Immediately she started licking him. He stood close to her and continued to graze as she licked his back, reassuring him that he was okay. After a few minutes of that, he slowly pulled away to wander on his own again.

Then they slipped back into the woods.

I have learned many things about myself and life from all the animals over the years. Anyone who has ever been astride a horse that is spooked by something, knows in his/her body what the fight or flight response feels like. Consequently, one learns how to soothe the horse and let him know that he’s okay. If you have seen a mother cat caring for her kittens–nursing them, hunting for them, cleaning them, keeping them safely hidden when small, and teaching them to be on their own–then you know what parenting entails. We often forget that we are one of the many animal species and that we have much in common with them. So watch closely in the presence of animals–we can see the reflection of ourselves in their eyes.

Sorrow in the Wind*

June 25, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I hear the soft wind sighing, in every bush and tree. The sound of my heart crying, when you are far from me.

When we’re apart, my darlin’, there’s sorrow in the wind. When we’re apart my darlin’, sweet sorrow in the wind.

*Sorrow in the Wind, written by American folk singer/songwriter Jean Ritchie, was recorded by Emmylou Harris on her Grammy winning album ‘Blue Kentucky Girl.’ Harmonies by Cheryl and Sharon White, simple guitar picking, and the cries of violin emote the very essence of the song. The word sorrow means distress, misery, and regret associated with loss, grief, disappointment, and sympathy for another’s suffering.

Many of us who have lived with animals know that our mammal friends feel sorrow when a special person or companion is gone from their lives. What about birds? I think we know less about this; however, from watching birds build intricate nests, fiercely protect their eggs and nests, and tirelessly provide food for the tiny young ones, I would guess that in some way, they know the sorrow of loss.

One of our bluebird nesting boxes was occupied by a Tree Swallow. She is a young female, as her plumage is mostly brown and not the iridescent blue and green of a mature bird. She flew from the nest and perched on a near-by tree branch when I took a peek into her house.

What a surprise when I looked in! The nest was lined with feathers of all sizes–my guess is they were goose and swan feathers from the River and wetland areas not far from our hill. Five blush white eggs nestled in the softness.

She cautiously returned to her nest when I moved far enough away.

Two days later, the evidence of a raid spilled from the nesting box.

The nest was torn up, broken egg shells were stuck to feathers and grass, and feathers were on the ground. I don’t know who raided her nest or why. But I felt sadness for her. She had carefully crafted her first amazing feather nest and had laid and warmed the beautiful little eggs.

And then suddenly, they were destroyed. Expectation and hope were dashed.

Nature has its ugly side. Perhaps the raider was the red squirrel who had chewed away at the hole of the nesting box earlier in the season. Maybe it was the aggressive House Wren that has since moved into the nesting box. Perhaps the young swallow couldn’t defend herself and her eggs as well as a mature bird. Who knows? Violence in Nature is often related to hunger and food, territory, or mating.

There’s sorrow in the wind in our world, too. The horror of forty-nine dead and many seriously injured people from the Orlando shooting just two weeks ago is still fresh in our minds and hearts. Dashed hopes and expectations. Destroyed lives. Not to mention the children and staff of Sandy Hook, the co-workers of San Bernardino, students and faculty at Virginia Tech, and the thousands of others who were killed at military bases, colleges, places of employment, and homes. And with each person killed there is a rippling circle of distress, loss, fear and grief among the family, friends, co-workers, first responders, and even bystanders. I hope we are all feeling deep sorrow. I hope we can feel not just sympathy, but empathy for those who are suffering. What if it were our child, our husband, our wife, father, mother, or loved one? The sound of our hearts crying should transform our daily lives to spread love, not hate, to practice patience, not annoyance, to commit to self reflection and peace, not blame and violence. Only then will the sweetness of the sorrow be revealed in the resurrection of faith, hope, and love.

Listen to Sorrow in the Wind

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