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Threading the Needle

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This spring I participated in a Lenten book study at our church on conflict. The book was ‘Redeeming Conflict’ by Ann M. Garrido. As a conflict-averse person, it felt a little like stepping into the flame (okay, make that the fire). It was not at all comfortable or familiar to me, (but isn’t that what the Lenten season is supposed to be?) As a middle-child peacekeeper, I would much rather everybody just all get along, and then we wouldn’t even need this book or have these difficult conversations! The premise of the book is similar in that people may think there isn’t conflict in churches—that everybody all gets along in Christian love—but the author and the pastor who led our class knowingly pointed that out as a fallacy. Both also argued that conflict could be a ‘good thing!’ (Anybody else feeling uncomfortable?)

As a scientist, the subject of conflict was never on my list of classes. I readily believed that science is science is life—there are ideas (hypotheses), methods, protocols, experiments, data, results, and always those tentative conclusions with ‘further study is needed.’ There could be disagreement on the integrity of the hypothesis or the methodology, but it just meant that things needed to be honed and adjusted. And that there would always be more experiments! (I would like to acknowledge my naivete on conflict-free science with due respect to those of you who know that I am wrong about that.) As uncomfortable as the book topic was, it was also fascinating to me! I was stepping into a new universe of awareness. One of my favorite parts of the book was the idea that we tend to conflate the problem with the person we are having the problem with—the problem then becomes the other person or the other side, as in politics. Blame is a cheap and easy way to inflict pain and not take care of the issue. But we can step out of that by identifying the problem (which is often the hard part) and standing side by side with the person in unity to solve the problem. (I have shared this fascinating concept with a dozen people…and now all of you…in my enthusiasm that this should change the world!) But how do we thread that needle?

Last Sunday Chris and I went up to Crow Wing State Park by Brainerd. Most of the parks by major rivers in the state are still dealing with flooding, and when we checked the website, it said the south trails and the Red River Oxcart trail were impassable. We hadn’t been on the north trails for quite a while, so we set out to do that. We parked at the campground that had recently opened and headed north. The needle-like, green-as-can-be Sedge grass was blooming, as were the Bloodroots with their protective capes of curled leaves. Both are perennial pioneers of Spring.

After following the ridge for a ways, we began to descend the hill towards the Mississippi River….and found that our trail had ended in the floodwaters. This was a problem even the bridge couldn’t resolve.

We backtracked, then took a trail by the River that led to the boat launch. Another Spring pioneer, Prairie Buttercup, shone its little ray of sunshine in the brown leaf litter.

The River was full (of course, out of its banks), but the current had slowed from the fury of the tumultuous ice and snow melt. The puffy white clouds and the dark tree shadows were reflected on the water.

And then we got to the boat launch and parking lot. Both were full of water.

We backtracked again. We talked about how the River looked fairly calm, and suddenly Chris said, “Let’s walk out on that log.”

My first reaction was “You can do that” and then I looked more closely at the fallen tree the rushing water had unmoored.

At the base of the tree was a Garter snake stretched out in a patch of sunlight. The wind was cool from the northwest, so we were all enjoying the sun!

We tried another trail from the campground that connected to the Paul Bunyan State Bike Trail. We successfully navigated a low spot that had wetlands on either side. The Spring Peepers were singing loud and strong—it sounded like a million of them! But I could not spot a single one of the singers as I zoomed and scanned the marsh.

We hiked on the bike trail up on the ridge for a little while but knew we wouldn’t be able to loop around on the trail by the River, so once again we turned around. The valley below held the flood waters that spanned a half a mile or so from the bridge we couldn’t cross.

We took a trail that ran parallel to the flood waters to see how far we could go. Willow blossoms were perches for Red-winged Blackbirds, and trees that literally could not stand another flooding tipped and fell into the water.

Then in the brush of Willows, Red-twigged Dogwoods, and old, exploded Cattails, I saw the ‘eye of the needle’ embodied in a fallen log and its reflection. Anyone who has threaded lots of needles would recognize that shape.

The valley was vast when viewed from the reflections of the flood waters—it was another natural place that accepted the extra Spring water from the Mississippi River. I wondered how many places along the 2,340 miles of the Mighty Mississippi have been the overflow areas for all these millennia.

We hiked up the ridge cross-country to the campground when the trail became covered with water.

We drove to the south trails parking lot to see what the River was doing there. It is where the Crow Wing River meets the Mississippi River as they merge around the island of Crow Wing.

This convergence of high water from two rivers takes over the lowlands on the peninsula that is circled by the Red River Oxcart Trail. The trails were blocked in two directions, not far from the old townsite.

But the waters had receded from their highest mark, leaving behind a mat of debris.

So we headed for higher ground again, above the old townsite, above the flood waters, into a peaceful, sun-dappled pine forest. It seemed like a good place to stop and rest and breathe in the wonderful pine smell.

Threading the needle, besides the literal meaning, is defined as skillfully navigating between conflicting forces or interests; to find harmony or strike a balance; to find a path through opposing views. In football and other sports, it means throwing or hitting a ball through a narrow gap, all of which take an abundant amount of practice and dedication. On our hike, we were trying to find a path through the woods but were stymied in almost every direction by Mother Nature’s floodwaters. Even the bridge of connection had been washed away. Sometimes the power differential determines the path (and therein lies much of ‘the problem’). Conflict is the same way, despite my desire for fairness and mutual cooperation in identifying and solving a problem. Redeeming conflict may not work with those who have no desire for redemption. In facing the flood, we backtracked and tried again and again. We took the high ground to find peace for ourselves. We were happy with our day regardless of the setbacks. Redemption is the act of making something better or more acceptable. We can all do conflict better when we know better and dedicate ourselves to harmony. We can be perennial pioneers pushing towards a better life with our protective capes, sunny faces, and the ever powerful grace and mercy of God.

Chasing the Sun

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I bought a Sting album a number of years ago because of one song—“Soul Cake.” I loved the traditional instruments, the Celtic sound, and the inference that cake could be good for one’s soul—“Any good thing to make us all merry.” I had never listened to anything by Sting before that. The album contains some Christmas carols, but I never listen to it until after Christmas, in the gray days of January. It is titled, “If on a Winter’s Night…” and explores the deep feelings and thoughts that the cold, gray Winter brings to our doorsteps. This year, after Mary’s death, the song that catches my heart’s attention is “The Hounds of Winter.”

“Mercury falling, I rise from my bed, Collect my thoughts together, I have to hold my head; It seems that she’s gone And somehow I am pinned By the Hounds of Winter Howling in the wind.” –Sting

Our goal last weekend was to find some sun—the gray, cloudy days had persisted and resisted any positive forecasts that promised a peek of the happy-maker. “If we go north, we should have some sun by about one o’clock,” I strategized, looking at the weather app. So we packed snacks and snowshoes and headed north to Crow Wing State Park near Brainerd. When we pulled into the cleared parking lot, there were no signs of dispersing clouds, let alone a peek of sunshine. Still hopeful, we strapped on our snowshoes and followed the Red River Oxcart Trail along the Mississippi River.

We were not far along on the trail when I saw a sliding track in the snow. Alternating footprints were on either side of the slide—River Otters had been having some fun in the snow!

Not only was the sun nowhere to be found, the gray sky made the snow look gray—only the darker gray trees interrupted the gray expanse of our visual world. It was stark. It bordered on bleak. The hounds of Winter.

Another Otter slide etched through the snow and disappeared over the edge of the high River bank—that would be an exciting slide! I shoed through the deep snow to peer over the bank and saw his slide trail go all the way across the ice to the open ribbon of water.

Despite the lack of sun, it was a good day for snowshoeing. The temperature was in the low teens, and as long as we kept moving, we stayed warm but not sweaty.

Another Otter slide started on one side of the trail on a little hill, crossed our trail, then zoomed down the River embankment after a little hiccup with a snow-embedded branch. Otters slide on their chest and bellies, and when gravity doesn’t pull them along, they push themselves along with their hind feet.

We stopped for some water and a snack as we looked out over the frozen Mississippi River at Chippewa Lookout, then circled back towards the Old Crow Wing townsite where we had begun our hike.

A circle of Lichens

The history of this park includes the sites of three different mission churches, including one from the Catholic Church, where now stands a small, granite chapel. As we snowshoed past the outdoor alter, the words “Hail Mary, full of grace” came to my mind.

We never found the Sun. The gray Hounds of Winter found us. After the initial shock of a loved one’s death, grief can harry us, like Sting says “the Hounds of Winter, they harry me down.” Everyday life has a different feel, even as there are times when a day’s routine takes our mind away from the bleakness. There are even moments of joy that penetrate the grief like a ray of sunshine. Imagining the otters sliding in the snow gave me that ray of happiness. There is something to be said for living in the grief, in the stark grayness. For in the midst of the gray grief is the reason why we even feel that way—love. With each step forward, the grief is acknowledged and integrated into our being. With each step forward, the love is remembered and held up in gratitude.

That’s the Thing About Expectations

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I think me and my expectations need to break up. I have valiantly carried them with me for decades and decades—expectations for myself, my family, my friends, the teachers of my life, the service people in daily life, the political power-brokers, and just about everyone. And by expectations, I mean high ones, but most of the time, I would settle for decent. And still, I get disappointed.

This past weekend, I had high expectations for Mother Nature, too. We had signs of Fall here and there, but the majority of trees were still green, so I figured if we headed north, we would see some Autumn glory. Yes! We went up to Crow Wing State Park in the Brainerd area, and I fully expected to see a forest of beautifully-colored trees and plants. Umm, not okay. It didn’t look any different from those here at home. And sure enough, I felt disappointed.

The only thing I was even half way happy about when we arrived was that the Mississippi River water level was higher than the last time we were there. The last time, rocks poked up through the slow-moving water and the shoreline was sandy-muddy wide—I was so disheartened that I would not even take a picture of it. The drought had taken the ‘mighty’ out of the Mississippi.

Crow Wing River was a narrow channel of water where it flows around Crow Wing Island to meet the Mississippi. The tributary was doing its best to contribute, but the lack of rain up-river starved it of its normal current. Some recent rains had tempered the extreme drought conditions, but we were far from ‘back to normal.’ And that also partly explains the story of the trees—they had had a stressful summer. Their priority had been staying alive—and oftentimes, the endeavor is not pretty. Many leaves had dried up and turned brown from lack of moisture. We crunched through them on the trail. But the green of the trees did hold a slight golden hue, so perhaps it was also my entitled expectation that just got the time-line or the place wrong.

I complained for awhile (forgive me, Mother Nature), even as I noticed the more subtle signs of Fall. The perennial plants and grasses were different shades of Autumn—rust, burgundy, and orange—and they had all produced their varied and valuable seeds! The harvest abundance of Autumn seeds had formed and matured despite the constricting conditions of drought. The will to reproduce is strong.

As we walked and I noticed the pinking of Virginia Creeper on its way to brilliant crimson and the late-flowering spike of Mullein against a tall Oak, I realized that I had been wrong in my expectations. I had been arrogant to think that the forest of Crow Wing should be what I wanted it to be when I wanted it. I expressed my realization out loud to Chris, giving credence and appreciation to the ‘process’ of Autumn. We can’t just be present for the ‘glory.’

And soon, I began to see signs of the ‘glory!’ The sky had cleared to a brilliant azure blue with puffy balls of white clouds. An Ash tree stood like a tower of golden finery. A Red Oak had begun the transformation to its namesake color.

And a little Ironwood tree stood on the edge of a Pine forest like a princess among the royal elders, its skirt held out in a curtsy with dried seedheads for a crown.

Chris’ good snake-eye saw a slim little Red-bellied snake camouflaged among the rusty red Pine needles. That’s a treasure!

A Maple tree, in just the right sunny spot, displayed the colors of Fall—yellow, orange, and red—in the ‘process’ of winding down its chlorophyll production, of letting the summer leaves fall away, and of preparing for the season of Winter. It was doing what it needed to do.

The sun light and the shadows of the things that stand in its way, tell stories that flash into our brains and rest there until we are ready to take them out, hear them, see them, examine them. Expectations are part of those stories.

Disappointment can be the very real outcome of high expectations. It feels like a slap to the face or unexpectantly taking a hard fall. It stings, it’s surprising to our self-centered way of thinking, and it is a betrayal of sorts. That’s the thing about expectations. But just as I’m ready to throw in the towel on expectations so as not to experience disappointment, I become a referee between those high expectations and the results of letting go of them. There are reasons for rules, standards, protocol, doing things right, living up to our better angels, and wanting the best for others. It’s how the game of life is played. It’s how we mitigate chaos, produce results, ensure safety, and live with joy that comes from goodness. Last weekend I wanted the glory of Autumn on my timeline. What I got was a soul-smacking dose of disappointment and a subtle take-me-by-the-hand walk to humbleness. A lesson to temper my expectations? We carry the light and the shadows of our stories, and when we examine those stories, the old things fall away, including some expectations and disappointments. We embrace the process. We celebrate progress, even if that means stepping into winter. The light in our eyes and in our lives gets brighter.

The Things We Carry

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

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

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

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

bridge

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

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

over the edge

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

Fallen bird nest

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

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

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

open water

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

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

danger

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

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

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

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

The Face of the Water

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The face of the water, in time, became a wonderful book… and it was not a book to be read once and thrown aside, for it had a new story to tell every day. –Mark Twain

My face no longer has the roundness and smooth silkiness of youth. Gone is the brightness of eye and cheek that glowed in young adulthood. The perpetual optimism of my smiling lips has waned a bit, and my braces-straightened teeth have slipped back to some crookedness. The smile lines are etched into my skin, no longer disappearing with my smile, as are the worry lines between my brows. My face reveals the story of my life, unabashed by the sorrows and joys that have ravaged and lit up the cells of my countenance.

We went to Mark Twain’s river, though much farther north of his Hannibal, Missouri home, farther north than our home close to the same river, up to Crow Wing State Park. The last time we were there was mid-March, when Covid was beginning to shut things down, when snow was still piled around the picnic tables, and ice still covered the Mississippi. Now, the tannin-rich water reflected the blue of a clear summer sky, and lazy ripples formed the features of its face.

Speckled leaf-shadows lead to a rock in the River. It was just big enough to catch the river and add lines to the shore-bound water, reflecting agate-like on the face of the rock.

Wild Turkey tracks were dug into the wet sand alongside the human kind. What story do they tell?

Prairie grasses and wildflowers grew tall between the trail and the River, obscuring a good look at the Mississippi. We knew it was there. Glimpses of blue came through in the background. But the Indian Grass and purple Asters grabbed our attention.

We followed the Red River Oxcart Trail along the point of land the River curved around to Chippewa Lookout. Tall Pines framed the view of the Great River—until it disappeared around the bend. What lies beyond our sight? What does the next page tell us?

The water shows us a reflection of the grasses, the trees, and the sky; though it gives us a view of the environment, it is not ‘true’ to form. Wind and rain can distort the reflections—a re-telling of the story of the surrounding flora and firmament.

The face of the water is background to a wide array of characters, like Sneezeweed, Red Pines, Birch trees, and Ash. The characters grow and change and have stories of their own. Sneezeweed (Helenium autumnale) is an aster, a late summer- and fall-blooming plant who likes to grow in sunny swamps and beside water. The story of its common name? Its dried leaves were once used as ‘snuff’ and induced sneezing.

I never tire of the River—or the woods—or the prairie. Like Mark Twain said, it is not a book to be read once and tossed aside. It has a new story to tell every day, every hour even. We are the main character in our own stories. Many things distort or cover up the true chronicle of our lives; it’s hard to shake out the plot—the burdensome details and less relevant characters get in our way. Our reflections often do not show our true selves. In other words, our stories are messy. They obfuscate our purpose. And yet, isn’t that what a good book does? What if the writing, the reading, the living of the book of our lives is exactly the right thing, messes and all? What if our reflections are actually more beautiful than what we see? My face, with time, has many stories, many chapters. With time, I have accepted the lines, the less-than-perfectly-straight teeth, the worn look of my eyes. In fact, I love it now. I look at my face and appreciate the sorrows and joys that have left their marks, underlining and highlighting those impactful moments. With time, my face has become a wonderful book. I wonder what new story is on the next page?

A Picture of Calm and Quiet

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

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

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

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

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

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

The town of Crow Wing in the 1860’s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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