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The Day the Sun Stands Still

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The first thing to greet us as we pulled into Wild River State Park was a most unusual sign! “Please, BRAKE FOR SNAKES.” Nobody would need to tell us to do so—we Brakes are a snake-loving family, especially our son Aaron. You could say, “Brakes for snakes” and be perfectly correct!

Chris and I were going camping on the Summer Solstice for the first time, just the two of us, in over three decades. It was an experiment. Did we remember how to do this? Could we do it? Would we want to do this again? And most importantly, could we sleep?! Since it was a Monday, the campground had plenty of available spots; we checked in, parked in our campsite, and headed out to hike after a brief rain shower.

We hiked along the Old Logging Trail, a paved bike/walking trail, to the Visitor Center where we had our picnic lunch, looked out over the trees to catch a glimpse of the wild St. Croix River, and learned how Vice President Walter Mondale had worked tirelessly to protect the natural resources of Minnesota and the United States, including the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act in 1968 that helped preserve this river. We left the paved trail and walked toward the River after discovering a colorful and unique Chicken of the Woods mushroom.

The trail dropped from the ridge through fern-covered hillsides and milkweed patches teeming with butterflies. There is something exquisitely beautiful about the fair pink and green ball of about-to-bloom buds of the Common Milkweed flower.

The trail turned and followed the River for over a mile and a half and would bring us back to the campground. The St. Croix River is a large river originating in northwest Wisconsin and creating the boundary for Minnesota and Wisconsin for 130 miles of the River.

King of this part of the River is an Eastern Kingbird. The genus-species name is Tyrannus tyrannus, an indication of his territorial behavior. He will harass crows, hawks, even Great Blue Herons who ‘intrude’ on his territory.

The ‘backwaters’ of the St. Croix were interesting little ecosystems of sometimes stagnant water, beaver activity, damsel and dragonflies, and pretty patches of Forget-me-nots.

Black-Winged Damselfly
White Tail Dragonfly

We heard the distinct ‘talking’ of an eagle to its young ones. Looking up, I could barely see the nest, but then discovered who was doing the ‘talking.’ It was an old-looking eagle—pale eyes and rather disheveled feathers—who has seen many more humans than humans who have seen him.

St. Croix River was used as a means of moving logs from the northern forests to the mills during the logging era in the late 1800’s. A pile-driven dam was constructed at this site in 1890, so logs could be let through at an even pace, after they had experienced numerous, humungous log jams that halted production at the mills. The last ‘log drive’ was in 1912, and the dam was removed in 1955.

When we returned to the campground, a deer was wandering through the trees between the campsites with no cares about the people wandering through. I practically had to shoo it from the door of the outhouse when I went there…where I was greeted with a sign and warning about other visitors.

Okay—fair warning. We set up our humble campsite and settled in for the longest day of the year. As the sun disappeared behind the trees around our campsite, I decided that I wanted to get a picture of the sunset on the Summer Solstice. We drove to an observation deck that overlooked the Amador Prairie—after stopping for the deer that were crossing the road.

The prairie was full of deer looking this way and that way, running, leaping, and grazing.

The sun was still shining so brightly on the horizon that I could barely look at it, so I found other things to look at while we waited for the sun to set. The almost full moon was already high in the sky; a couple of bucks with velveted antlers roamed the edge of the woods.

The purple flowers of a tendrilled Vetchling(?) picked up the purple color in the sundrenched spears of Bluestem grass. It takes a long time for the sun to set on the longest day of the year. I was over taking pictures of deer. I lounged against the boards while looking to the west into the bright orb of sun. I joked to Chris, “Where’s that bear when you need him?!” Not two minutes later, as he looked over my shoulder, he very matter-of-factly said, “There’s a bear over there.” What?@! I turned and looked at a very dark, moving object way over by the trees.

Sure enough, there was my bear!

But it wasn’t a ‘he’ and it wasn’t just one. It was a mama bear with two little cubs bounding along with her, mostly hidden in the tall grass.

Solstice is derived from the Latin words sol meaning ‘sun’ and sistere meaning ‘to stand still.’ On this day, the North Pole is tipped directly towards the sun, making it seem like the sun is standing still.

We didn’t see any snakes that day, but we experienced the exquisitely beautiful about-to-bloom season of summer. Or are we more like the Swedes who celebrate the Solstice as midsummer, the height of the warm, sunshiny season? However it falls, the longest day does hold some magic worth noting. The magic of empty-nest experimenting with pre-children pastimes. The magic of flowers and butterflies, birds and dragonflies, wild rivers and sweeping prairies. But most of all, for me that day, the magic of seeing my first bears in the wild—just when I needed them.

Nature’s Art Museum and the Art of Aging

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It’s a mystery to me how I can be as old as I am. I never think about my face having lines and sun spots; it’s just the opposite. From the inside, I’m pretty sure my face is only forty—a young forty, I’m thinking—so that’s a great set-up for some dismay and disappointment when I look in the mirror! Aging is a humorous mystery that we all endure when we are lucky enough to do so.

In celebration of my turning another year older (almost four weeks ago now), Chris and I hiked at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park. It was a beautiful, blue-sky day, warm but not too hot, with a breeze that made shade-dwelling just about perfect. We went to the bog boardwalk first—the Touch the Earth Trail. (I love that name.) I get a thrill seeing the blooming plants that inhabit the bog, and the mystical, long-stemmed Cottongrass was as spectacular as when I first saw it! What an unusual, awesome plant!

I was expecting to see a bed of white-blooming Labrador Tea in the bog (or bog azaleas, as I call them), but only a few were blooming. We had had a freeze those two nights before Memorial Day, so I thought that must be the reason. There were other signs that frost had damaged the mosses and leaves of other plants.

There is nary an insect as mystical as a dragonfly—their gossamer wings, their large, compound eyes, their quick, multi-directional flight, and how they light upon some object in peaceful repose.

Another insect crawling up a dead tree that his relatives likely caused the demise of—a Western Sculptured Pine Borer—had his own air of mystery and flair. With large copper-speckled eyes, artfully segmented legs, and textured, metallic and black body, the Pine Borer shimmered in the sunlight.

Large, vase-shaped Cinnamon Ferns were abundant in the bog. The fertile fronds are the namesake, like cinnamon sticks among the green.

Wild Blueberries were setting fruit, though I imagine the fruit buds were also nipped by the freeze, as fruit was scarce.

We drove to a parking area for a trail we hadn’t been on before that was described as hilly and rough terrain. I was surprised by how damp the trail was in areas, considering how drought-like our Spring had been. Soon we were in thick woods on a little-used trail, the undergrowth brushing our legs and arms as we walked through. I resigned myself to the fact that we were picking up ticks and vowed to enjoy the trail and deal with them later. It’s always a bit of a challenge to ‘watch’ my feet on a rocky or rooty trail and to watch for beautiful things around me, but I have gotten fairly good at it. So I was lucky enough to see this beautiful creature looking at us from behind a tree! His velvet-covered antlers were in the growth stage, when the fuzzy-looking skin supplies blood, oxygen, and nutrients to quickly grow the antlers for another season. When fully grown, depending on genetics, health, and age of the buck, the antlers harden, and the velvet is shed with the help of rubbing action on trees. We stood and looked at one another, both of us curious about the other.

The trail brought us to a wetland area that opened up in the middle of the forest. Crows cawed from the top of a dead tree, the self-appointed sentries for the woodland creatures. A board walk elevated our feet above the Wild Calla water plants and was a table for a crayfish-eating animal who didn’t clean up his leftovers.

Another dragonfly posed in the sunlight amidst the art of logs, sedge grass, duckweed, Wild Callas, and moss. We were in a museum of Nature’s Art.

We circled around the wetland on the trail that kept us guessing whether we were on the trail! Soon our elevated vantage point allowed us to see open water reflecting green vegetation and blue sky. An open waterway through the wetland plants and chewed trees indicated that we were visiting the home of a beaver family.

We passed a stately Pine that had a large, old wound scratched head-high into the bark. Dried amber droplets of sap had oozed from the wound, like healing tears to a wounded soul. They glistened in the sunlight.

Another board ferried us across a black, icky-looking swamp. A closer look revealed decaying leaves, Maple seeds, and a thick mat of green slime algae.

At the farthest point on the loop trail was a backpacking campsite overlooking the White Water Lily-covered pond. A breeze evaporated the heat and sweat we had generated to get there as we took a water and rest break. A pair of rusty-headed Trumpeter Swans flew in and settled into their peaceful, secluded home.

Back on the trail, we walked through Oak, Maple, and Birch trees until we came to a Tamarack bog. The wispy soft needles and craggy branches create an other-worldly effect in the bumpy bog, along with the bunches of four-foot-high ferns.

Deep in the bog, I caught sight of something red-colored. I left the trail and walked closer to get a better look. At one point I stepped from the firm forest floor into the squishy bog. I pulled my foot back from the wetness. The bog maintains its boundaries to protect the highly specialized plants and delicate ecosystem of sphagnum peat moss. From my dry footing, I zoomed in to see dark reddish-purple flowers with long stems and nodding heads. They were all pointed away from me, though I was able to get a slight sideways shot of one that showed a bright yellow center. What were these amazing flowers?! I had never seen anything like them before! I circled around the bog, hoping to see ‘the other side’ of the flower…but I never could. They were so deep into the center of the bog that I could not see more than their dark red backs.

It wasn’t until I was home with access to the computer that I discovered the amazing flower was that of a Purple Pitcher Plant, a carnivorous plant that grows in the acidic bog. The rain-catching ‘pitcher’ of the plant attracts flies, ants, spiders, and moths that drown in the water and are ‘digested’ by a certain species of mosquito and midge along with bacteria. The plant is able to use the digested nutrients to grow.

The edge of the bog was scattered with ferns, club mosses, and an occasional Pink Lady’s Slipper, a hardy orchid pollinated by bumblebees.

Another wetland flower that graced the early June trails was the Northern Blueflag Iris with their long, spear-like leaves and paper-thin lavender flower petals. They begin as dark purple conical buds, open to exquisite light-purple variegated blossoms, then curl and wither in the progression of age—the lifeline of us and all of Nature.

It was a happy birthday for me—I had discovered a ‘new’ flower and an amazing bog. I watched an elegant pair of swans and exchanged curious glances with a deer. I saw a black swamp and pristine white water lilies. I witnessed the progression and mystery of life and admired Nature’s art museum. My June birth flower is the Rose, and I appreciate and embrace the wild version for my flower. After our hike, we had a picnic by the roses alongside the Rum River. And even though I removed dozens of crawling ticks while we sat there, another mystical, magical dragonfly lighted on a stick nearby.

The mystery of aging—how we feel on the inside, how we look on the outside—spares no one lucky enough to struggle with their young-old identity. We grow with expectations—sky-high dreams and naïve aspirations. We are fresh, innocent, deep-colored buds of humans. We open to reality—our whole-hearted beautiful selves, shiny objects that can destroy, wounds that heal with amber tears forever embedded in our hearts, discoveries of muck and beauty. And then we fade, we wrinkle, and we attain a level of understanding that is only possible after staring into the wild eyes of Life. And through it all, we are the curators of Nature’s art museum. We choose how to look at, how to ‘see’ the world around us. If we’re lucky, we discover new things, we respect portraits of pain, we appreciate images of awesome beauty, and we imitate the mystery and magic of dragonflies.

When I Wasn’t Looking

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How much does the internet rule our lives? What would we actually do without it for a day, a week, or a month? (Maybe I should back that up to an hour also.) Even those of us old enough to remember that we had full, awesome lives before the internet, get caught up in the necessity of it. Like when we weren’t looking, it sort of took over our lives. This post began in my head more than a week ago and ended a week ago when I could not open my webpage to upload pictures and write. Not enough power or signal, or there was interference or disturbance. Whatever.

After Paul’s memorial service over Labor Day and sweet times of relaxation and mourning-tempered fun with the Brake family, we headed home to Minnesota. Our wrecked hearts were a little less wrecked, bandaged over with hugs, precious memories, and laughter. The healing had begun.

On the trip home, we stopped for a walk and a break at Sakatah Lake State Park near Waterville, Minnesota. It was a nourishing detour around the rush-hour Cities traffic. The first thing I noticed when we started walking were dark, leaping little toads all over the place. It had rained quite a bit while we were gone (and much of the summer), so the frog and toad populations were booming.

Upper Sakatah Lake was full to the rim and evidence of flooding was everywhere. Trees along the shore had toppled into the water, and debris was high in the lower spots. This area was named Sakatah by the Wahpekute tribe of the Dakota Nation. It means “the sights and sounds of children playing on the hill,” and sometimes translated to “Singing Hills.” Don’t you love that!?

Looking out over the lake, the most striking view was to the east where Double-crested Cormorants had perched and made nests in dead trees on tiny islands of Wildlife Management Areas. Cormorants are colonial nesters and often perceived to be messy, nuisance birds.

They are fish-eaters, so do not make good game birds, and their community living seems to make them messy and troublesome. (For whom?) But we saw much preening and cleaning going on as they perched in their alabaster tree-houses together.

The vegetation in the woods had decidedly turned to Fall. It seemed to happen when I wasn’t looking. Clusters of red-fruited seeds of the Jack-in-the-Pulpit, amid the tattered leaves, shouted out to passers-by after two seasons of discreetly hiding in the forest.

Sunflowers, Asters, and Goldenrods grew from every sunny spot along the edge of the woods, and juicy Wild Plums hung from the trees.

The forest gave way to wetlands and prairies as we hiked along the Singing Hills State Bike Trail that traversed the Park.

It was a short but welcome break to get into the woods after driving the Interstate for hours through the fields of Iowa. And when we were home again, our Fall visitors began to boldly traipse through the yard. The Wild Turkey population seems greatly diminished this year—only four babies with two, sometimes three females. Other years we have had twelve to eighteen young ones trailing behind their mamas.

The spotted baby fawns are now big enough to graze in the open and look for apples that have fallen to the ground.

Our surprise this year, is that there are triplets!

This Spring and Summer have slipped by me—when I wasn’t looking—when insidious, unseen influences sort of took over our lives. We blindly believe that all-or-nothing technology is in our best interest (all=good, nothing=bad). But what are we losing in the process when we are complicit to the ‘lifestyle’ of the internet and our ‘smart’ phones? How have we isolated ourselves from our community of people for the (and I don’t know the word for this exactly) thrill/ satisfaction/ seduction of all that the internet supplies? I spent many days in the last two weeks not looking at the internet. It was a relief. I’m not so attached to technology that it was uncomfortable for me to do so. In fact, it actually felt like I became more of myself. As the Brake family mourned the loss of a Dad/ brother/ uncle, we didn’t do so on social media—we did it in person. It was the face-to-face, the tears and laughter, and the hugs and stories that sustained us. When we weren’t looking for it, the healing had begun, and we were a little bit less wrecked, thank the Good Lord. So, where are the disturbances in our lives? What interferes with us feeling like ourselves in a grounded, nurturing way? I say don’t let the power in our lives be about the internet—it is unsustaining and in fact robs us of our energy and creativity in the long run. We need more Sakatah in our lives—the sights and sounds of children (and we are all children of God) playing and singing in the hills.

On the Path to Being a Good Neighbor

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

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

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

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

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

There are plenty of brush-pile igloos for everyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Start by Surveying Your Territory—You May See the Dead Deer

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It was unusual to see an eagle just sitting in a tree along the highway.  They do that beside the River in search of fish or close to their nests.  It’s usually hawks that sit in trees or on posts surveying the ditches for signs of mouse movement in patient anticipation of a tasty tidbit.  Once I got his photo and we drove on, I commented to Chris how unusual it was to see an eagle in a tree beside the road.  While I had been staring at the eagle, Chris had been surveying the road behind us where we were pulled over and the road before us where he noticed a dead deer in the ditch.  I was totally focused on the eagle and didn’t see the dead deer—and that was why he was sitting there in the tree.

We continued to our destination—Wildwood County Park—for a chill-busting hike in the Maple and Basswood forest where some of the towering Maples are 300 years old.  It is a well-managed forest; tractor tracks followed the ski trail where freshly cut logs of downed trees were piled in the scant snow, and I didn’t see any Buckthorn invading the woods.

We crossed a creek flowing under a layer of ice with bridges of fallen logs—some bear-sized, some mouse-sized—connecting one side with the other.

With no leaves on the trees and no ‘greenery,’ the trees themselves became the focal points—the trunks and branches, the colors and textures.

We found a ‘fort’ made of branches, a shelter from the winds on the ridge.  Would you stay here?

One of the dead Basswood trees was obliterated by a Pileated Woodpecker.  Huge white patches of drilled wood stuck out in the gray day, and a hefty pile of shavings gathered at the foot of the tree.

At another creek, two deer paths diverged from the creek into the woods.  Which way would you go?

In any mature forest there are many downed trees—all a part of Nature’s recycling program.  Oftentimes we forget about the extensive root systems that anchor trees and keep them nourished.  An eroded bank exposed some of the roots of this oak tree, reminding me of the unseen network of support.

A large burl interrupted the smooth flow of a tree trunk.  The dark, bumpy, tumor-like growth is caused by an injury, a genetic mutation, insects, or fungal and bacterial infections.  The cells divide more rapidly than normal (like many cancers) or there is excessive cell enlargement (hypertrophy).  Burls are coveted by woodworkers as the wood has unique and beautiful grain patterns due to knots from dormant buds and the swirls of the unusual growth.

The woods of Wildwood were bare and stripped down on this cool, gray day with interesting things to see and life lessons to learn if we are so inclined.

 

I’m sure the eagle spotted the dead deer when he was soaring high above the ground surveying his territory—it’s what they are meant to do.  The deer would provide food for many days—if the eagle could safely access it.  They are not swift on the wing to get out of the way of cars, so from his perch in the tree, he could watch for an opportunity to feed on the carcass.  Seeing the eagle and not the deer reminded me that we ‘see’ what we look for, what we are focused on and many times, we don’t see what else is ‘in the picture.’  That’s when it helps to have other eyes and other points of view—Chris saw the deer—the reason why the eagle was there.  He kept watch for danger in passing cars as I looked only at the eagle.  The Wildwood showed how bridges connect one side with another—natural things like logs, laughter, love, and lively conversation.  What creates our shelters from the wrathful winds and storms of life?  We must build them log by log, bit by bit.  Is it prayer or yoga or daily walks?  What makes each of us resilient?  What do we do with the old, dead parts that no longer work?  We mine them for the morsels that will continue to sustain us, then discard the rest.  We choose our paths, and all the while, we remember our network of support, that we don’t make our way in this world by ourselves, by only what is seen.  Who holds us up?  Who sends nourishment to us?  Who helps build the shelters and bridges?  The burled tree reminds us that ugly things can be transformed into beautiful creations.  It usually takes time, hard work, dedication, and the ability to see beyond the ugliness.  When we survey our territory and see and learn the lessons the eagle and the woods have to teach us, we can see the opportunities, not be blindsided by the dangers, stay safe in our shelters with those who sustain us, and create Beauty for all to see.

 

Hiding in Plain Sight

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I stared out the window into the brown woods and could not see the deer Chris told me was there—right there!  Right behind the black pole that held a hanging bowl of sunflower seeds for the birds.  Finally I saw a subtle movement.  I zoomed in on the large black eyes of the hiding deer.  It was the first weekend of the firearms hunting season for deer—the little resort motel beside the Sauk River just down the hill was full of cars, and early morning gunshots rang through the air.  I’d be hiding, too.

It was a classic example of crypsis, a type of camouflage, when an animal, person, or object avoids detection by blending into the surroundings.  It is one of the most common and successful defenses in the animal world, and, in turn, one of the most common and successful offenses of the hunting world.

Later that week, I saw the twin fawns browsing their way through the yard and woods.  Their furry winter coats had displaced the spots of their smooth summer coats as they grew into their ‘teenage’ bodies.

They were not afraid to be seen—maybe it was their youthful naiveté or the fact that they had been here most days of their lives or maybe it was the lure of the apples on the ground beneath the tree.  I did not see their mama this time, though she was probably keeping a watchful eye from somewhere deeper in the woods.

Soon the two of them wandered into the woods, into the Gray Dogwood, Sumac, and I hate to say it—Buckthorn.  Right before my eyes, they disappeared by camouflage!

They are still there—can you see them?!

 

Camouflage uses a combination of coloration, materials, or illumination for hiding in plain sight.  Nature knows about survival.  Our mammalian brain works in much the same way—if we feel threatened, we want to run and hide.  We want to protect ourselves.  Our strategies are much more complex than Nature and the deer.  We hide in plain sight all the time.  We hide behind smiles, behind humor, behind walls of shame.  We wear masks of happiness, masks of productiveness, masks of toughness.  We cover up hurts with compliancy, with silence, with ‘it could be worse.’  We conceal reality and the truth of our lives behind alcohol, food, materialism, and other addictions.  We carry our well-developed and effective protective mechanisms with us from childhood through adulthood until they no longer work….until we can no longer hide.

Very often, all the activity of the human mind is directed not in revealing the truth, but in hiding the truth.        —Leo Tolstoy

But then what?!  Then comes the hard part—the part where all the courage and brilliance of our past protective strategies morphs into the very means by which we walk out into the sunshine to be seen.  Zora Neale Hurston wrote, “Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”  The catalyst is Love.  It’s the Love that holds us when we run and hide to be safe.  It’s the Love that was always ‘right there’ but we could not see.  It’s the Love that says the time has come for us to be seen.  It’s the Love that helps us to finally love ourselves.  “I am still here—can you see me?”  

 

 

Snapshots of July Stories

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Here we are in the middle of the year, in the middle of summer—this month of July.  I tend to wish away July when the temperatures rise, when the humidity causes so much discomfort, and when bugs are bugging humans animals, and plants.  Oh, and also when the deer jump our garden fence and eat the beans, beets, and peppers.  The first half of the month was hot and sticky—and I realize that relative to the rest of the country, we have it easy.  Just as I was wondering how to navigate the humid days of summer, we got a blast of welcome relief from cooler Canadian air.  The last two weeks have been glorious summer days—days I am not wishing away!  Looking over my photographs of July, I realized that our month could be told in a series of little stories.  There is the two-sided story of the deer—the nemesis of Chris and his ‘fight’ to save our hostas, trees, and other plants from being devoured by our cloven-hoofed friends as opposed to the beauty of spotted fawns with their mamas.

I saw one small fawn by itself one evening, just standing in the driveway, looking back and forth between the barking dog in the house and the sound of people walking down the street.  No mama was in sight.  Another day, a fawn hid behind the grass by the blueberries—again without its mama.  It’s unusual to see such a young one without its mother close by, and I wondered if she had been killed somehow.  Poor, cute baby.

July holds the story of blooming things.  The garden vegetables—peppers, tomatoes, green beans, and cucumbers—are flowering and beginning to grow their fruit.  Hosta flowers are in wild abundance, much to the happiness and satiety of the hummingbirds.

Carpets of thyme are covered with purple blooms, and annual zinnias are bright and inviting to the butterflies.

There is the story of time on the lake with friends—delicious in-the-moment time when the look and feel of the water and wind make every cell in your body feel alive.  It is the story of Minnesota where pines and loons represent our state.

The story of the Lake is not complete without Cattails, Yellow Pond Lilies, and spiders who take advantage of a corner of a dock to capture a plethora of insects that hover around the water.

There are the summer stories of friends and relatives around a fire on the patio.

The stories of Sunlight and Moonlight fall on the moss of trees, the burbling creek water, and the tall oaks of the forest.

 

July stories told in snapshots are added to the album of Summer and then to the bigger albums of our year and life.  I like how the photographs open those albums, how they illustrate a part of the story, and how they reveal elements that may not have been noticed before.  So often—like the deer story—there is a little story within the bigger one.  It also illustrates how there can be different feelings and thoughts about a situation, not only from different people, but even within one person.  Our personal stories, seen through the snapshot of a photo or memory, are limited, however; we don’t see what’s happening off camera or have all the pertinent information.  But a photo and story are also gifts to every one of us—they remind us of the beauty and goodness of life.  They make us remember not to take people or things for granted.  They instill in us the preciousness of time.  What are your July stories?  What delicious moments in time have you had this summer?  And are you ready for a new story to unfold in each new day?  

Earth, Teach Us on this Earth Day

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EARTH, TEACH ME

An Ute Prayer

Earth teach me quiet—as the grasses are still with new light.

Earth teach me suffering—as old stones suffer with memory.

Earth teach me humility—as blossoms are humble with beginning.

Earth teach me caring—as mothers nurture their young.

Earth teach me courage—as the tree that stands alone.

Earth teach me limitation—as the ant that crawls on the ground.

Earth teach me freedom—as the eagle that soars in the sky.

Earth teach me acceptance—as the leaves that die each fall.

Earth teach me renewal—as the seed that rises in the spring.

Earth teach me to forget myself—as melted snow forgets its life.

Earth teach me to remember kindness—as dry fields weep with rain.

Let the words of this beautiful prayer float around you as they are sung by this talented choir.

 

Earth Day is a special day to remember and celebrate all that is good and beneficial about our Earth.  We are the stewards of this Home to us all.  And just as caregivers to children or elders know, the cared-for also teach us in profound ways.  The Earth and all of Nature—our Mother Earth, our Mother Nature—can teach us qualities we need to know.  Are we receptive?  We can learn listening skills from the quiet of grasses in the morning light.  We can learn resilience from the suffering of our earth and rocks from exploitation and apply that to the heavy stones we carry of our burdensome memories.  Like a child, we can cultivate wonder and humility as we watch the miraculous unfolding of flowers.  We can learn responsibility and how to nurture vulnerable creations as we watch animal parents care for their young.  The solitude of a lone tree can offer us a model of courage and fortitude in the face of harsh conditions.  When we feel small and inadequate, we can remember how the ant lives with limitations, and in that reality, can actually perform great feats.  An eagle in the sky models freedom and possibilities.  We can learn acceptance and peace from the cycle of life.  There are yearly lessons of renewal and rejuvenation with each Spring.  We can learn about transformation and transcendence as we watch snow melt to water, water turn to vapor, vapor fall as rain.  And as that rain provides the very basic need of water to dry plant life, we can learn about kindness, philanthropy, and grace.  There, but by the grace of God, go I.  Imagine our world, our Earth, our lives if everyone learned these eleven lessons.  Happy Earth Day! 

Dodging Cars and Bullets

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Have you ever woken in the morning and even before you open your eyes or move from your last position of sleep you feel weight pressing in on your mind and body?  That’s how I woke on Friday.  Sometimes it’s a low barometric pressure squeezing in on me; sometimes it’s from the energy-draining not-enough-sleep for a couple of nights; other times it’s a worry, a fight, or an anniversary of something only your body remembers that your mind does not want to recall.  It’s when you drag your body out of bed and hope that breakfast and caffeine will boost your energy and dissipate the pressure.

Do animals ever feel that way?  How do deer wake and show up for their day?  They sleep in the snow and cold, have to forage for their daily food, and at times have to dodge cars and bullets.  Sounds like a recipe for having a horrible, no good, very bad day.  But I don’t think they do.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d.  I stand and look at them long and long.  They do not sweat and whine about their condition.  They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins.  They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God.  Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things.  Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago.  Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.  –excerpt from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

When I was young, I thought animals were easier to understand than humans, so I wanted to be a veterinarian.  I loved this poem by Walt Whitman, even in its irreverent way.  I argued with Walt’s line that ‘not one is respectable,’ for I had great respect for animals, especially my horses.  Before we were married, Chris made me a present of a framed picture of this poem in calligraphy with a drawing of a horse.  I recite the first lines often in my head when I feel the pressure of living in our human world.   

Chris, in his wisdom of knowing me for thirty-eight years, suggested on Friday that we go to the pine forest in the snow, to where the animals live, to where I could get out of my head and out of my funk, to where the old pines whisper their secrets.  I begrudgingly agreed, even as my body wanted to just splay itself on the floor with a blanket.  So in the late afternoon, we drove the short distance to Warner Lake County Park to bathe in the solitude of the pine forest.

The little creek that runs into the lake wasn’t frozen, and the trail had been ‘groomed’ for cross-country skiing.

Walking was relatively easy on the groomed trail (not on the ski tracks, of course), but hard work in the short areas where we blazed a trail.  Energy returned to my body as we ventured deeper into the woods.

The forest was a constellation of light and shadow, with outlines and crowns of snow.

The late day sun cast long shadows of the long trees.  Animal tracks cut across the trails—their footprints leaving the history of their day.

In a small clearing, we saw a shining young pine, enveloped and radiant in the Winter sunshine, as the old, wise guardians surrounded it.

It was peaceful and quiet in the snowy forest—a silky balm for my out-of-sorts mind and body.  I was a welcome visitor in the animals’ house, with no host needed.  They were willing to share their majestic home with seekers of beauty and peace.

 

Our lives are a constellation of light and shadow.  Some days we live in the darkness, and often we don’t even know what is casting the shadow.  It feels like we are dodging the flu, or the axe, or the bullet.  The recipe is written, and it seems to spell disaster.  But what if the recipe for your day is written in pencil?  What if sitting in prayer or meditation erases worry?  What if ten minutes of exercise erases pain?  And talking to your friend takes away the blues?  We are each a shining star, like the radiant young pine tree in the forest.  Dissatisfaction melts away to gratitude.  The mania of owning things morphs into a willingness to share.  Anxiety and worry transform into placid self-containment.  The whispered secrets of the ancient guardians begin to work their way into the tracks of our days.  And we live like the animals and are happy.

Walking With Those Who Came Before Us

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My Grandma Anna arrived in America at Ellis Island on July 9, 1907.  She was four years old and had traveled with her mother from Osterild, Denmark.  She remembered the boat trip being long and how the blaring foghorn scared her.  What a journey for a child and her young mother!

Seventeen years later my Grandma, her whole family, and all their possessions traveled from Mott, North Dakota to Arlington, South Dakota by covered wagon pulled by a pair of horses.  They crossed the Missouri River at Bismarck, headed east to Jamestown, then south to Arlington.  They walked 450 miles back to their extended family in South Dakota.*

Every morning I walk with Tamba—at the most, we walk a mile.  When the temperatures are well below zero, we don’t get that far.  One morning after a fresh snow, I realized that we were walking with the animals that had come before us!  The prints were fresh in the fresh snow, and I wondered how many minutes ago they had walked this very same path.  The deer will walk down the road, the fox crosses the road from the quarry land, circles through the neighbor’s woods, and often treks through our yard.

Deer tracks and mine

Fox tracks

The deer and turkey have a path under a pushed up section of fence that gains them access to the protected quarry land.

Turkey track

There’s also an opossum, a skunk, raccoons, squirrels, rabbits, cats, and dogs who travel down and across the road we walk along.

Skunk track

Rabbit trail

 

Occasionally I see the deer or turkeys or fox, but mostly they walk their journeys without my awareness.  I follow their paths, and they follow mine.  I cross their paths, and they cross mine.  Unknowing.  But fresh winter snow illuminates the animals’ paths, and I can see us walking together.  It makes me feel connected to them in some primitive way.  Their quest for food.  Their pathway to shelter.  Their trek to safety.

Part of the DNA I carry came across the ocean on a ship to Ellis Island and walked across the Dakotas in the hot July weather.  *Thanks to my aunt Faye and my dear cousin Marvel, may they rest in peace, we have stories and genealogy from the generations who walked before us.  With that history of our family, we are aware of how we follow their paths and how they cross our paths.  I am connected to my Grandma and to those who came before her.  With the history of inspiring words and realistic pictures, we celebrated Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. last Monday.  With that history and celebration, we are reminded of the quest for freedom, of the pathway to equality, and of the journey to a better life.  Our pathways are illuminated, and I can see us walking together.