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Fire and Refuge

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True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality. –Miles Neale

There was something a bit off when we drove into the parking lot of Blue Hill Trail at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. I saw prairie land, a big hill, and some scattered trees. I couldn’t identify what didn’t seem right. We readied ourselves for the four or five mile loop, then set out on the sandy trail. Almost at once I noticed the standing totem of a burnt tree—not unusual in any place we hike. But the colorful-for-Fall Sumac seedheads were much more delightful.

It was not long before we saw other burnt, dead tree trunks. Had there been a wildfire here? Most of the trees were Oak—White Oaks who had dropped their leaves and Red Oaks who were still adorned in their rust-colored finery.

From that point on, most every tree we saw had been damaged by fire. The big, beautiful Oaks were in various stages of decline—some were dead and fallen, others were dead and standing, and quite a few others were alive, but distorted in their growth. That’s what was off about my first impression—the trees no longer had a normal canopy for the size of the tree. Lower branches were gone, some limbs were dead, and the rest of the foliage was concentrated towards the top of the very tall trees. Survival seemed very uncertain for the standing, living dead.

The undergrowth, or I should say, the new growth since there wasn’t much ‘under’ left, was a combination of Hazelnuts, shrubby, multi-stemmed Red Oaks, Raspberries, and some Willows in marshy areas. The purple-stemmed Raspberries conveyed their color in sharp contrast to the brown landscape.

Hazelnuts—the actual nut—are usually long gone by this time of the year, eaten by deer, wild turkeys, squirrels, and pheasants. But the shrubs were so abundant in this area that many nuts remained, peeking out from their curled husks.

Autumn revealed an ‘unhidden’ nest in the bare branches that had earlier given protection and security to the hard-working bird.

Pocket Gopher mounds were everywhere. I wondered how they could build their burrows in such sandy soil without the walls collapsing all around them. Deer tracks were plentiful also, all along the trail. We joked about the trails being for humans or deer, and Chris noted they were just like us, taking the path of least resistance.

When would this come crashing down?

All 30,000+ acres of Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge is a combination of forest, prairie, lakes, and wetlands. It was established as a refuge in 1965 to protect and restore habitat in the St. Francis River Valley for migratory birds and other wildlife. During the months of March through August, most areas are closed to the public to allow the wildlife to breed and raise their young ones without human disturbance.

Two-thirds of the way through our hike we came to Buck Lake. More than a dozen Muskrat houses poked up from the marshy water and reeds.

On a mud bar in the middle of the lake, a family of Trumpeter Swans was busy with the business of preening and cleaning their feathers. Beyond the Swans was a flock of ducks feeding in the shallow water with ‘bottoms up.’

After the preening, Mother and Father Swan slid into the water and glided through the reeds, the wind messing their just-smoothed feathers.

The young cygnets followed their parents, their dusky gray feathers getting ruffled in the wind. They will migrate and winter as a family, and their parents will most likely return to this lake to nest again. Trumpeter Swans and Muskrats have a synergistic relationship—when Muskrat and Beaver populations increase, Swan populations also increase, as they use the tops of the dens for nesting sites.

Seven young Swans a swimming…

Beyond a Mullein patch was an evergreen forest, which I later learned was referred to as the Enchanted Forest.

It was a forest of Spruces—the first wholly Spruce forest I remember seeing. The trail wound through the towering trees. It was dark and quiet, so unlike the rest of the hike. It did seem enchanted!

We emerged from the forest with Blue Hill in our sights—the highest point in the refuge. Trees still showed their wounds, the lasting legacy of the destruction of fire.

With a little research after I was home, I discovered that Blue Hill had had ‘prescribed’ burns in 2009, 2015, and 2018. Prescribed burns are fires that are carefully planned to take into account temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction. They were being used to restore the Oak savanna by thinning non-native grasses and plants while promoting the health of native vegetation. They had protected the Enchanted Spruce Forest by how and where they set the fire. It sounds good in theory, and good practices were used, but something went wrong. They harmed the very trees they were trying to protect—the towering White Oaks. Fire will take the path of least resistance—most destructive forces will, whether of Nature or mankind. So how do we find refuge in the face of destruction? We can bury ourselves in the sand, not seeing, not listening, hoping for the best. (Though I bet there were plenty of roasted Pocket Gophers after the fire that decimated those trees.) We can run away in fear and busyness, not taking the time to ‘read the landscape’ and gather information. We can sit on our island of entitlement refusing to see the flames that are engulfing those around us. “True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality,” says Miles Neale, a Buddhist psychotherapist. It is a brilliant statement. Refuge is defined as a condition of being safe or sheltered from pursuit, danger, or trouble. To truly have refuge we need reality, the reality of facts, evidence, expertise, and truth, along with the reality of love and compassion that emanates from our spiritual beliefs. We don’t want to destroy the very things we are trying to protect. Fall into the refuge of reality.

The Storm is Blowing Down the Tent

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I pass my life in preventing the storm from blowing down the tent, and I drive in the pegs as fast as they are pulled up. –Abraham Lincoln

I’m a calm-the-storm kind of person. Actually, if I can avoid it, it’s even better. Is it middle child, peacemaker personality? Is it stoicism? Is it ‘my body is nervous enough I don’t need anymore ruckus’? Probably all three. If you have been impacted by trauma, particularly in childhood, you may know what I mean by ‘my body is nervous.’ It’s the activation of the sympathetic nervous system—the fight, flight, or freeze response. I’m good at the run and hide-you-don’t-see-me method…. But there are people who react to the same sympathetic nervous system activation by fighting. Fighting with words, fighting with fists, fighting with sticks and guns, fighting with orders. If they feel threatened in any way—and that’s what the sympathetic nervous system response is for: dealing with a threat to our lives—then they will ‘punch back harder.’ Most of the time that reaction happens not when our lives are literally threatened, but when we are emotionally threatened, when the belief system we have built up for our protection is questioned or menaced. We will fight, run, or hide. The fight people run headlong into the storm or just as likely, they create the storm. Their ‘nervousness,’ the sympathetic energy, is ‘controlled’ by fighting and jabbing and blaming, just as mine is by running away from the storm or hiding from it. There is storm damage by all three kinds of coping, but the damage done by the fighters can leave a wide path of destruction and wreckage.

Friday was hot and humid. A storm in the morning dropped over three inches of rain in a short amount of time. The heat boiled up during the day, the humidity saturated the air. By late afternoon, there was unrest—the wind was snappy and full of discontent, the birds seemed nervous, and the clouds were spitting drops of rain as we rode our bikes to the end of the road and back. A bit later, the weather man interrupted the national news of gloom with a tornado warning for an area south and west of us, then another area along the long line of red radar marching across Minnesota. As he spoke, five different areas of concern for tornadic activity boxed in the towns of central Minnesota, including us. As the storm got closer, stormwatcher Chris went outside. I went outside to see when I would have to insist that it was time to go to the basement. The clouds were dark and light and all shades in between, roiling in motion—the cold front was slamming into the hot, moisture-laden air of the day—and the fight was on.

The rain started pelting us, so we gathered our things and went down the stairs to the quiet basement. Radio warnings told all listeners to take cover. The threat was real, and our bodies responded as they should. Take cover, run and hide, stay safe in the storm.

It was a fast-moving storm. Soon it was over. No storm damage for us, just a few more inches of rain. Supper and more news of the threat to other people as the storm front bullied its way across the state. Then I noticed that everything looked yellowish outside, and when I saw the sky, I was drawn outside by the unusual clouds. Cottonball pouches filled the sky with an eerie yellow-greenish-orange as the sky cleared to the west and the setting sun cast its colors on the clouds. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.

These clouds are called Mammatus clouds, from the Latin word ‘mamma’ meaning ‘udder’ or ‘breast.’ They usually indicate a particularly strong storm. They are composed mainly of ice and formed by sinking air, unlike most clouds that are formed by rising air. The dark storm clouds were Cumulonimbus, meaning ‘heaped rainstorm.’ They form along a cold front and are capable of producing lightning, hail, and tornadoes.

Five minutes after I went back inside, Chris called me out again to see the color change to pink and blue. For hours after the storm, our world recovered with the colorful Mammatus clouds.

To the fighters, the runners, and the hiders out there, there is a better way to deal with the emotional threats that feel life-threatening but in truth are not. Our bodies are just stuck in the response that we learned from a threat that was real. The challenge is to re-teach our bodies how to respond more appropriately. We need to activate our parasympathetic nervous system—our rest, digest, and recover system. We need to take control by learning how to relax. Meditation, yoga, qigong, and walking in nature all move our body towards activating the parasympathetic system.

We are living in a chaotic world right now—a perfect storm of the threat to our health by Covid-19, of financial uncertainty and unemployment for millions and millions of people, of racial and human justice issues, of how we are going to vote. Our democracy is in disorder. This perfect storm is trying to blow down our tent; the pegs are dislodging from the ground. Grab a peg and drive it back into the ground. Drive it with science. Drive it with reason. Drive it with compassion. With the milk of human kindness, we can recover ourselves and our world.

The Exact Right Moment

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I’ve been holding on to a picture since May. It is a special photograph that I ran from the front of the house to the back of the house to snap after running to get my camera after standing up and glancing out the window at the exact right moment one morning. What are the chances?! Seriously, I love those moments so much. What I saw was a fox running across the front yard with something in her mouth. I ran to get my camera. I took the lens cap off on the run, turned it on, got to the window, pointed, and…she was gone around the side of the house. I ran to the back and got one picture of her before she slipped into the trees. She was beautiful…and elusive. I thank my lucky stars for encounters like that—even more so when I can manage to capture the moment with my camera. I have seen her four times this Spring and early Summer, out hunting for her kits, I imagine. One time was on my birthday, which is the second time in three years and at two different places that I have seen a fox on my birthday. What are the chances?! I held on to the picture to share at just the right time—so here is my serendipitous photo of the fox—please enjoy, smile, marvel, wonder, and thank your lucky stars that we are privileged to see such beauty!

Five months ago Chris and I walked across the Mississippi River on the thick ice, an experiment in comfort-busting. (go here) The River is a force in Minnesota as it flows from its source at Lake Itasca, diagonally through the central part of the state, down through the Twin Cities, then along the border with Wisconsin until it hands it off to Iowa. The power of the River is the same here as with any river that plays such a huge role in the life of a state. It is commerce, it is recreation, it is aesthetic. The force of the River comes from Mother Nature, however. It is mystical, spiritual, phenomenal. It is ever-flowing. On our bike ride this past weekend, we once again crossed over the River, this time on an old railroad bridge of bumpy, worn railroad ties. The River flowed swiftly and shallowly over rocks, as right behind us was a tall, cement dam and power plant built in 1924. The River is held up, blocked, checked, impeded, restricted, obstructed by the huge dam and controlled as to how much water is released over the dam at any given time. The spirits of the River mourn.

If you are a person who has worked on a farm, one who has ever done the physical work of chopping, de-heading, or hand spraying thistles, you know the ‘eye’ that comes from doing so. You get tuned in to seeing them as you walk the pasture or drive the field roads (or drive the public roads and look at the ditches.) The light purple flowers and prickly stems and leaves are ‘honed in on’ as the enemy, so to speak.

“A weed is a flower growing in the wrong place.” –George Washington Carver

On our bike ride, my thistle-trained eye spotted a patch of purple down the embankment from the bike trail by the River. There on a prickly thistle was a Great Spangled Fritillary drinking in the sweet nectar of that purple flower. The late afternoon sun shone on the pearl white spangles on the underside of its wings and on the lavender flowers, and the light cast a rosy hue on the legs of the butterfly. Beautiful!

“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life, you will have been all of these.” –George Washington Carver

George Washington Carver had a much deeper, broader, soulful definition of “how far you go in life” than the surface parameters of fame, power, and wealth. Reminds me of something Jesus would say or rather, did say in a number of ways. The spirit of each person is like a river, ever-flowing, the life force that we embody. It is uniquely special and rare. It is not our jobs in life to build dams that block, check, impede, restrict, obstruct, and control the moving life-force in other people. (And that has nothing to do with real and appropriate laws and consistent and responsible order that sustains a functioning community or a functioning individual.) People can hone in on whatever they were trained or believe to be ‘the enemy’—that has much more to say about the person than the perceived enemy. Thistles are on a spectrum from beautiful flower with life-giving nectar to enemy of a healthy, productive pasture. It is not an either/or issue, not right or wrong, not black or white. And like it or not, everything in this world lies on the same spectrum. We live in the long, gray area between the two extremes—or maybe I should say in the beautiful, rainbow colors of that spectrum. And that brings us back to beauty. Without a doubt, we are living through a tumultuous, difficult time, and yet, every day there are those beautiful, elusive moments that open our hearts and make us happy to be alive among God’s creation. Hold on to them. Smile, marvel, wonder, and thank your lucky stars, and then share them with the world.

Tattered

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If I were a butterfly, my wings would be tattered. It hasn’t been wind and rain but storms of other kinds that have wreaked havoc on my body and devastated my heart. Like the butterfly, the longer we live and the more life experiences we have, the greater the chances of being tattered.

Sometimes life is just plain hard for oh-so-many reasons that are out of our control—coronavirus, job loss and the cascade that comes from that, certain illnesses and losses of relationships. It feels like we are pushing against the status quo, defying gravity, carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders.

At times we get stuck and wonder how the heck we ended up in this place. ‘I did not sign up for this.’

Life can turn us in circles, bind us in the weeds, trip us up, even as we are working hard to do the right thing.

Then there are those times, thankfully rare, when we are immobilized, frozen, stuck in a web of confusion and uncertainty. We are cocooned. The life we have known is taken from us—we dissolve from the person we used to be….into….nothingness….for a while, at least. The grief and despair of being wretched out of our old life and long-held beliefs is a bottomless well—or so it seems at the time.

But there is a bottom. In fact, it is constructed for each one of us—it catches us from our seemingly fatal fall in the exact right way, often without our awareness. We are still flailing and desolate, fighting against the constraints of change.

Do not be afraid—you are on the right path. Don’t struggle against the struggle.

But what helps with the struggle? Good nutrition of body, heart and soul—food, love, and meaning.

Sunlight…

the heartbeat of Mother Nature…

beauty…

support for our well-being and growth…

and knowing we, like all of God’s creations, can get through tough times.

Where do beauty and respect abide? Struggle is a part of the human experience. It is not for nought. Struggle helps us learn. It refines our beliefs. It is an opportunity to better ourselves and our world. It is meant to be a reckoning of who we are and where we stand in this Earthly creation. So while struggle is deeply and profoundly personal—it is only ourselves who are peering down the deep, dark well of whatever is tearing apart our hearts and souls—it is also God’s call to us to reach beyond our personal reclamation. We are citizens of the community, the church, the state, the country, and the world. In reckoning and reclamation comes a responsibility to our fellow citizens—not responsibility for, but to—and to our Earth. We are not here to take, use, discard, abuse, and misuse the lives of other people or the resources of our planet. Our personal freedom is tempered by our collective responsibility. Therein lies beauty and respect. So let’s celebrate tattered wings, storms of struggle, and hard-won inner battles. Let’s reach out during this Covid time with food, love, and light. Let’s know deep in our bodies, hearts, and souls that like the old Oak tree, we can get through tough times and that there is a landing place from which to rebuild. Fly, though your wings be tattered.

A River of Trees

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It’s a topsy-turvy world right now—too much confusion and disorder—not only around the corona virus pandemic, which is overwhelming, to be sure, but in so many other ways. Some safely-isolated people wonder what all the fuss is about, while those on the ‘front lines,’ amid the illness and death, wonder how some people can be so cavalier. Certain states and populations are suffering with great numbers of death and job losses, while others are living their lives without much disruption at all. The political fighting is like a bad divorce—both sides think they’re right and blame the other for all the things gone wrong. Nobody wins.

In the midst of the chaos, as states were beginning to find their way to ‘opening,’ we quietly kept a heart-promise made when Chris’ brother died late last summer. We followed the Great River that flows near our house down to Cassville, Wisconsin, the tiny river town where Chris’ folks grew up and where the boys spent their summer vacations. A homecoming of sorts. We spent part of the day high above the Mississippi River at Nelson Dewey State Park. The park’s 756 acres were once part of Nelson Dewey’s large 2,000 acre agricultural estate. As a young man (age 35), he was elected as Wisconsin’s first governor when the state formed in 1848. But long before him, it was home to Native Americans. Two village sites and three groups of burial mounds have been found in the park. Holy ground.

Looking out over the Mississippi from the bluffs, I remarked it was like a river of trees. Long sandbar islands of trees with their newly sprouted leaves made for a topsy-turvy river. It was difficult to tell where the main channel flowed in the maze of water and trees.

We hiked along the bluff trail among Oak and Hickory trees. Wild Geraniums bloomed with their delicate lavender flowers.

We saw a surprise that may turn your stomach upside down—a very large Black Rat Snake! Chris had been thinking about snakes since this area has Timber Rattlesnakes (one of which he has the skin of from when he was a boy), and it was a perfect day for ‘sunning’ on the southwest-facing bluff. I wasn’t even thinking about snakes and was delighted to see such a beauty!

A restored prairie area along the bluff still had the fall remains of amber grasses and wildflower seedheads…

…though one prairie hilltop pushed aside the old for a new Spring sweep of Bird’s Foot Violets.

What’s in a name? Among the Bird’s Foot Violets were bright Hoary Puccoons.

From the hilltop prairie we veered away from the River…

and followed the old stone wall that had been built in the 1860’s around the Stonefield farm that Dewey planned and moved his family to in 1868.

Limestone outcroppings looked out over the deep valley of forest and River. Tough, windswept Cedar trees grew on the points…

and exquisite flowers clung to the rock edges and burst into bloom from a bed of stone.

Shooting Stars
Wild Columbines

An old Cedar, overlooking the River, looked like a Bonsai tree—it had been trimmed and pruned, bent and stunted, by the wind and weather over the decades. The stories it could tell.

A tree we don’t see in the wild as far north as we live, was in full bloom—the gorgeous Redbud tree. Spring is synonymous with Redbud trees for Chris—another homecoming of sorts for his tree-loving soul.

Going to Cassville for the weekend was a reminder that the topsy-turvy time we find ourselves in is nothing new or special. The history of the place tells the stories. Governor Dewey and his family lived on a spectacular farm overlooking the Great Mississippi River. But disaster struck in 1873 when their house burned down and later that year a nationwide financial panic affected his investments, and he lost Stonefield in 1878 to foreclosure. He also lost his marriage during those years. On a more personal note, when we looked at the graves of Chris’ Mom and Dad, we realized they were toddlers when the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic interrupted the lives of Americans and the world. Their families had weathered the pandemic with small children and much more primitive ways of living. The Veterans Memorial reminded us of all the men and women who had fought in wars over the centuries, many losing their lives by doing so. Chris’ Dad’s name carved in the black granite is a lasting memory of the sacrifices he and others endured to protect the world from the evils of fascism. And mostly we were reminded, as we close in on the incredible milestone of 100,000 deaths from Covid-19, that every death is personal and ripples out in waves to a myriad of people who were touched by that one, special person. Grief is as deep and wide and long as the Mississippi River. If I were to wish upon a shooting star, I would wish for each of us in this upside-down world to be a tree in this river of grief—to have strong roots embedded in holy ground, to have strong branches to hold the pain of others as it bends and stunts their lives, and to have a new growth of leaves that hold hope and renewal as a way forward. To be a homecoming of sorts.

Path of Redemption

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This is a story about devastation and beauty, inspired and patient change, art and surprises, and redemption. On Mother’s Day weekend, we skipped our usual morning routine in order to ‘beat the crowd’ at a nearby park—the park that was flooded by the Mississippi River just a month ago. We were curious as to whether the trails were open, if the water had receded, if things were ‘back to normal.’ We walked down the steep trail towards the River, but before we even got to the bottom land, a beautiful sight met us at the path—uniquely-shaped Dutchman’s Breeches wildflowers. The delicate white flowers covered the hillside as far as we could see!

The River was morning quiet, like softly rippled glass, back in the low restraints of its banks. The trees on the other side blushed with pinkish-red and Spring lime green and saw their reflections in the Mighty Mississippi. A few boats quietly trolled the morning water for the anticipated fishing opener weekend. Occasionally, a goose harshly honked a greeting that split the quiet air like a foghorn.

We walked through the woods that had morphed from flood waters to greenery. A small path led us back to the River, to a canoe camp with fire circle, picnic tables, and an outhouse without the house.

A messy tangle of Wild Grape vines that for years have been winding their way in and among a couple of trees, stood out on the leafless bank. It would be near impossible to make this happen, yet here it was. It looked like a piece of art, a sculpture of time and growth.

We backtracked to the main path. The exquisite beauty of a Nodding Trillium—large white curling petals, snowy white pistil, and purplish-pink-lined stamens surrounded by delicate green sepals and large, veined leaves—rose with certainty from the ground, from the ground that had been covered with water and debris just weeks ago.

The abundance of greenery and white flowers continued with large swaths of Wood Anemones interspersed with sedge grass.

Wild Blue Phlox and Wild Violets, in their delicate blue colors, were welcomed outliers in the sea of white blossoms.

Where the last of the flood waters had remained, the ground was still barren and gray, a stark reminder of the devastation of the flooding.

The flood water had washed away the soil around the rhizomes and roots of the Wild Ginger plants, showcasing the ground-level flowers that are usually hidden from view.

And despite the deluge of water, the flood plain was blooming! Growing and blooming in abundance! White Trout Lilies (don’t you love their name?) covered the woodland ground, fields of them among the trees. Ferns grew up like meerkats amid the Trout Lilies, their fiddleheads unfurling in orchestrated movement.

There were millions of spotted leaves and demure pink buds that mature and open to white, then curl back their petals as the sun moves across the sky, exposing the bright yellow stamens of the single-flowering plant. With nightfall, they close once again.

A flower-lined path of redemption wound through the woods where the gray torrent of devastation had taken up residence just weeks before. What if we had given up on this path? What if the gray water from our last visit had kept us away? We would have missed the incredible beauty of this morning, these flowers, these unfurling ferns and leaves.

As we walked the flower-flooded River peninsula, we slowly realized that this land we were walking on was built for this—the flooding was just a natural part of the seasonal evolution. In fact, perhaps the devastation of the flooding was exactly what the plants needed to thrive! We think of flooding as being devastating because we often place things in the wrong place—we build houses where they don’t belong, want fields where Mother Nature has had wetlands and floodplains for millennia (for a reason). Devastation, messiness, and pain precede the growth and flowering. The coronavirus pandemic is making a mess of our collective lives right now. We need to leave behind the idea of ‘back to normal.’ Redemption is the act of making something better. What have we placed in the wrong place? How do we rise from the debris with certainty and blossom into exquisite beauty?

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

No One is Exempt

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There is a collective suffering in the world right now. We can’t ignore it like we have conveniently done in the past—when the suffering didn’t affect us or threaten us or kill us or shut down our businesses or make us lose our jobs or change the way we lived our lives. But now…now all of those things are possible or happening. No one is exempt. Some are better off than others, but no one is exempt.

Suffering is personal, even as we do this together as a world. It hurts our bodies, our spirits, our resolve, our bank accounts, our hearts. In the throes of our personal suffering, we slip into survival mode—we become less social, more focused on ourselves. We may lash out at those around us—the very ones we love and adore who are standing up in the shaky boat with us. Or we may project our pain and suffering onto ‘them,’ the ‘others’—the ones making the ‘rules’ to try to keep us from dying, the media who are informing us, our neighbors who aren’t following the ‘rules,’ the ones who think, act, look, or believe differently than we do. ‘They’ are to blame for the pain.

Personal suffering feels like living all alone in a hermit hut in the wilderness—and the roof leaks when it rains—and the cold wind blows in through the cracks—and there’s barely room to lay down—and the food is scarce—and there are creatures lurking about outside and inside the tiny hut….

…and looking out, the world looks bleak and bare.

Chris and I hiked at Saint John’s Arboretum last weekend. We were not very far into our walk before I saw a sight that made my heart so happy—a cluster of Pasque flowers! Lavender sepals with delicate stripes, bright yellow stamens, soft, fuzzy stems to insulate them from the still-cold nights. Pasque flowers are the first prairie flowers to bloom; they signal the end of Winter, as they can bloom surrounded by snow. They are a sign of Spring and hope. (The word Pasque is derived from the Hebrew word for Passover.) So lovely!

Yellow and red-twigged Willows with yellow-flowering catkins burst into life around the lakes.

Red-winged blackbirds sang their joyous melody from their precarious perches on old Cattail stems.

Another early-blooming grassland plant is Prairie Smoke. I scarcely caught sight of the pinkish-red flower buds in the old and new growth of the prairie grasses.

The waterfowl birds were in the predictable, peaceful process of nest-building, mating, and raising a family. The seasonable cycle, the circle of Life. New life among the remains of last season’s life.

Canadian Geese
Trumpeter Swans
Blue-winged Teals

Trees at the Arboretum had just begun to bloom—the pinkish-red cloud of Maple tree blossoms…

…and the delicate yellow blooms on my favorite flexible little tree, Leatherwood!

No matter the length or harshness of Winter, when the warming sun of early Spring hits the bare, leaf-covered ground in the forest, the Spring Ephemerals burst into bloom! They grow, flower, and fade away quickly, but they are an important part of the ecosystem being the first food for pollinators.

Hepatica
Dutchman’s Breeches
Virginia Spring Beauty
Bloodroot

Life was coming to life again after a cold, seemingly lifeless Winter. It is the way of Mother Nature. The bleak and bare world was an illusion—the life force was hidden for a while, resting, quiet, gathering nutrients and strength, preparing itself for the growth and renewal of Spring.

Mother Nature brokers in miracles.

An acorn germinating to become an Oak tree

What if no one was to blame for the pain and suffering of this virus? Not China or Trump or Democrats or Republicans or immigrants or Pelosi or that woman governor or fill-in-the-blank. That’s not to say that no one has responsibility or that no one has made mistakes or even that no one hasn’t purposely tried to injure or subject another group of people to hardship. In leadership there is accountability, responsibility, and consequences. Blame is a useless act of projection based on trying to get rid of our own very real pain. Suffering is the illusion of a bleak and bare world. It is the winter of our lives. It is living in a hermit hut and hating every minute of our existence. It is lashing out at those we love and those we oppose. What if pain and suffering are actually harnessing our virtuous qualities to pull us away from the perils in the old life? What if we are resting, a needed rest, in order to burst into new growth? What if right beyond our suffering is a blooming, melodious, life-creating world? Nature is the harbinger of miracles. No one is exempt from the Grace.

The Connection of All Things

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“Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” –Martin Luther King, Jr., pastor and activist

“We are not only a part of the world, but we are the world….Everyone is connected to each other just like a single cell in the body is connected with every other cell through a network of nerves and flow of blood.” –Awdhesh Singh, engineer

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe. –John Muir, environmentalist

“Everything in the world is actually connected. That means even if we get separated, we’ll never be alone. –Ohtaka Shinobu, artist

From a young Japanese manga artist to an Indian engineer and leadership specialist to the iconic social justice minister to a nineteenth-century environmentalist, the theme of the connection of all things is the conclusion of their diverse experiences. This connection is pertinent in the physiology of our bodies as we strive to stay healthy while the coronavirus infects people across the world, and it is imperative in our global efforts to fight the destructive effects of climate change. Our bodies. Our environment. Health Day. Earth Day.

I have been rather obsessed lately about the lessons that are hanging like shiny red fruit from an Autumn apple tree—abundant, nourishing, and ours for the picking. Every one of us has unique and profound lessons that are being brought to the surface with our shelter-in-place, work-from-home, social-distancing lifestyle of the time-being. What do I really need? Who are the most important people in my life? What do I really want to do for the rest of my life? How can I be my healthiest self? It matters what we do to our bodies. Smoking, eating too much, drinking, junk food, not exercising—the list is too long. And the list of things that affect our bodies that we do not control is also long and overwhelming—air pollution, water quality, food chemicals, etc.

Lesson # 1: We have great control over what we put in and on our bodies. Start there. Do one small thing each day that makes our bodies better, healthier, happier.

Lesson # 2: Sleep is the great healer. So much of our health comes from getting enough sleep. It is when our body repairs itself, and we are efficient, amazing organisms when it comes to the function of repair—from the repair mechanisms of our DNA to the healing of wounds to the removal of toxins.

Lesson # 3: Movement helps with the first two lessons. Walk, bike, swim, do yoga, garden, run, etc. Fuel your body for movement, then sleep like a baby.

Lesson # 4: Figure out what is getting in the way of obtaining the first three lessons. This is the hard part. But it’s still within our control. Think about it. Write about it. Talk about it. Figure it out.

The same process can be used with our Earth. What is harming it? What will help it? Ironically—or maybe not—the Earth is getting a reprieve during this Covid-19 time. There’s less air pollution, the water is running cleaner and clearer, and there is less seismic activity. All things are connected. What we do to our Earth matters.

Lesson # 1: We have great control over who we put in as our leaders who make the decisions about protecting our health and protecting our Earth. Start there.

Lesson # 2: The health of our Earth comes from Nature. What does healthy soil look like for optimum growth of nutritious food? What does pristine air not have in it? How does Nature provide clean water? Nature is the great healer.

Lesson # 3: Earth Day is a movement that started 50 years ago. Let’s not go backwards. Let’s not lay on the couch and pretend that everything will be okay if we do nothing to change the current trends.

Lesson # 4: What is getting in the way of the first three lessons? This is the hard part. Think about it. Write about it. Talk about it. Vote about it. Figure it out.

So whether you are an artist, a preacher, an engineer, an environmentalist, a farmer, a teacher, a politician, a CEO, a student, or any other, we are all connected. The health of our bodies and the health of our planet are connected, not just in a physical way but also in a spiritual way. How do we overcome the obstacles, roadblocks, and barriers that get in the way of having healthy bodies and a healthy Earth? With Love. When we love something, we take good care of it. Love is the great healer.

Room to Grow Into Our Best Selves

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After a cold, snowy Winter, all I want is some warm sunshine, green leaves, and colorful flowers. Winter in the North hones our patience. Winter after the calendar proclaims Spring tries our patience, which is all a part of the honing process, I guess. We “can’t always get what (we) want,” as Mick Jagger sings.

Twelve days ago we did have a sunny, relatively warm day! Chris and I decided to hike down at the Mississippi River’s edge, because we hadn’t been there (seen it) since ice-out. We followed the trail down the hill—to a beautiful blue… River-flooded trail. I guess we won’t be going that way….

We turned around, walked back up the hill, and went a different way. I spotted what looked like a Penstemon growing its greenish-purple leaves through the brown leaf litter. There will be Spring flowers in this spot in the weeks to come!

But on the other side of the road was a gray swamp with a green swamp-log, like a huge alligator laying-in-wait in the water, in the shadows and reflections, in the Winter debris.

A real water creature hopped up onto the road to warm itself in the sunshine.

The boat landing road did get us down to the River. This was where we had walked across the ice just six weeks before. (Walking Across the Mississippi River)

Even though we weren’t where we wanted to be—on the trail, in the weather, in the Spring—we were in a much different place than we were just six weeks ago. Sometimes we forget how far we’ve come when it looks like we have a long way yet to go.

A lone Red Cedar tree, well-watered by the near-by River and unencumbered by any other tree in its proximity, had grown into a specimen tree. All the characteristics, all the best qualities of the Cedar were showcased in this tree. It had had room and nourishment to grow into its best self.

The trail from the boat ramp along the River was squishy, yet passable. By an old Oak stump, puff-ball fungi grew from the decaying roots. When I stepped on one, it disintegrated into near-nothingness. Poof!

Colorful Red-twigged Dogwoods grew on the bank of the River—Winter and early Spring are their times to shine.

Brave cool season plants who can tolerate the fluctuating temperatures of early Spring have started to pop up in the woods. The beginning of the season of miracles.

When the trail left the riverside, we hoped to find our way to another part of the Park. The trail was muddy, with low spots in the woods filled with water. But once again we were stopped by the flood waters when we encountered a bridge in troubled waters. We turned around and re-traced our steps all the way back to the boat dock road—the only way out.

A Poplar leaf had imprinted in the mud of the road.

Spring is slow to show its pretty face this year. There has not been much change in the twelve days since we walked that trail. The temperatures have been cold at night and marginal during the day. We’ve had a day or two of rejoicingly warm weather, but we’ve also had snow. The grass is a tinge greener, and there are some swollen tree buds. We continue to hone our patience. And we continue to hone our patience with Covid-19, as trying as that is. It looks like we have a long ways to go—and we may—but look at how far we’ve come in our knowledge of the virus and the navigation of the road ahead. Sometimes we have to backtrack or take a different way. We also have an opportunity to be like the Red Cedar tree—unencumbered, socially isolated, and able to grow into our best selves. We can tromp through the mud, be respectful of the flood waters (which will recede), and we can shine even when all around us seems bleak. Sometimes it takes the mud in order to see the Love.

Without a Map or an App

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In this stay-at-home/ social distancing/ unprecedented time of the Covid-19 pandemic, we find ourselves without a map or an app. How do we do this? Which way is the best way to go? Where do we end up if we follow this path? The unknown is unnerving. Even as the hope of Spring is pulling us out of the dark, bleak Winter, there is still bleakness all around—death, sickness, chaos, partisanship, job loss, fear, hunger, and more. We haven’t done this before! What are we supposed to do?!

Twelve days ago Chris and I drove west to Birch Lakes State Forest. We had been there once before, a number of years ago. The gate was closed at the entrance, as the unplowed, sandy road was still snowy in places and soggy in the rest. We parked by the sign, the only ones—the only human ones, that is—to inhabit the forest for the afternoon. Before we were even out of the car, we saw an eagle circling above our heads. They are so impressive and free—watching them fly takes me out of my earthly worries into the clear blue strata above.

The pond across the road was still ice-covered, the snowmobile tracks still visible, the trees in the forest still unadorned. As much as we want our beautiful, full-blown Spring, this is our Spring reality.

Before we left the car side, we heard a high-spirited screeching in the sky. Two hawks were singing and swooping in a joyful sky dance! The mated pair flew apart, then close together (one carrying a stick in its beak) with grace and energy for the Spring ritual of mating, nesting, and raising a family.

It was only when we saw a path and entered the forest that I remembered we didn’t have a map of the trails. No worries—even though we hadn’t hiked in this area before, I knew Birch Lake was at the end of the road, and we would find our way.

With the exception of a few Fir and Spruce trees, the landscape was brown and gray—until we walked a little farther and looked a little closer. I saw a bright red dollop in the brown leaves—one of the earliest, showiest fungi—the Scarlet Elf Cup.

Vibrant green Sedge grass looked unscathed by five months of being buried under snow.

Fungi was the star of the show in the brown woods, in color, texture, and form with expressive names like Turkey Tail, Oyster, and Artist’s Conk.

Lush green moss covered areas of trees, logs, and ground in impressive mini-scapes.

From the hardwood, deciduous forest we entered a quiet, moss-covered Spruce forest. The sun streaked through in an other-worldly way.

A number of times the trail diverged in the woods—which way to go? Where will it lead? I would choose one. The hills were steep in places, and the north faces still had quite a bit of snow. One lower area had a population of Leatherwood trees—short, almost shrub-like trees with pliable, yet strong branches. They bloom in early Spring with tiny yellow flowers before getting any leaves, but we were still a little too early to see them.

We found evidence of the non-human occupants of the forest—a clump of deer hair in a patch of snow mold and a deer rub where the bucks rub their antlers against a young tree.

The landscape looked bleak after the snow melt, but small signs of the hope of Spring could be found—the moss was flowering!

The ice was melting!

The water was flowing!

The geese were flying!

With no map, we navigated our way through the forest and ended up at Birch Lake. We walked back to the car in the soggy sand road marked occasionally by fresh deer tracks.

When we left the State Forest, we circled around Birch Lake by car, and we saw a huge, dark eagle’s nest in the distant trees. Our hike had begun and ended with an eagle—one high in the sky with his bird’s eye view and eagle eyes looking for food and the other sitting high in a tree with her nest of eggs or young ones.

The unknown doesn’t need to be unnerving—it can be an adventure. How do we do this? One day at a time with patience, faith, and love. Which way is the best way to go? Follow the signs (six feet apart) and maintain that inside sense of direction. Where do we end up if we follow this path? Expertise, knowledge, science, and history of past hard times will guide our path in this new time with the novel virus. What does a bird’s eye view show us about how we were living in the past, how we are living now, and how we want to choose to live in the future? This is our Spring reality—not how we’d like it to be, certainly not beautiful, definitely bleak in many ways, but there are small signs of hope everywhere when we look closely. No worries, dear people of our Earth, the process and the path will unfold. We will find our way.