Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Mesmerizing Middle
I’m going to begin in the middle. In the middle of our hike, that is. And only for one photograph, one minute of time, one funny little revelation. It inspires all of my hikes, and with reflection, it really is the basis of why I take photos, write this blog, and share it with you all. We walked across a ‘floating’ wooden bridge over an inlet to a shallow pond halfway through our hike at Mississippi River County Park. Duckweed has been covering the slow-moving inlet water and much of the pond for months now. On this day and all those going forward into Autumn, leaves had fallen onto the thick duckweed, creating a collage. I peered over the edge of the bridge, staring into the pea-soup green water. Since the bridge ‘floats’ on top of the water, every movement we made radiated out into the water and duckweed, producing movement and patterns through the bright green medium. “This is kind of mesmerizing,” I told my patiently waiting husband. With his usual dry humor, Chris broke my nature-spell by proclaiming his take on it all, “Makes me want to jump in and go for a swim!” I laughed at the absurdity of it, imagining his rising from the water as the incredible green hulk!
Nature is mesmerizing for me. I see things and wonder…who lives here? How did the tree die? How many young ones have fledged from this high-rise home?
Look at this pearly shell! Scooped up by the water from the sandy shore and placed on this rock for a moment in the long trend of time until a bigger wave sweeps it back to the Mississippi waters.
Seaweed and floating Willow leaves have their own kind of enchantment as the waves move through them.
In the full green of Summer, vines are often overlooked, but at this time of year, they show themselves with changing colors, as with red Virginia Creeper, orange-berried Bittersweet, or yellowing Wild Cucumber. Wild Grape vines and Wild or Bur Cucumber vines can absolutely enshroud all other vegetation or structures with their robust twining and climbing. As some of the other leaves fall, Canada Moonseed vine comes into its own with hanging purple fruit that looks a bit like edible Wild Grapes, but in actuality, is poisonous.
Another common vine is Virgin’s Bower. It is a type of wild Clematis with indistinct, small white flowers. Its fruit and seedheads are the fascinating part of this vine—the wispy tails of the fruit dry into puffs that inspire its common name of Old Man’s Beard.
In the middle of summer, Mississippi River County Park becomes very monochromatic and homogeneous after its enthralling Spring of woodland/floodplain flowers. Few plants are blooming, trails can be wet with rain and heavy with mosquitoes, and the cons often outweigh the pros for hiking there. But Autumn comes, and the park once again embraces its color and beauty.
The shallow pond in the middle of the park reflects the golden trees, provides a home for Painted Turtles, and grows Monet-worthy Lily Pads.
Colors of all shades and hues begin to pop out of the greenery. The process of the energy-producing shutdown that happens to most plants in the Northland is fascinating!
And then there’s the Sunlight. It shines on the color, over the brown seedheads of Monarda and Indian Grass, and through the green leaves of Stiff Goldenrod and others. It is the fire that fuels Spring growth, Summer production, and Fall decline. It entrances us because the Sun is just as important to us as to the plants.
Poet extraordinaire Mary Oliver wrote: “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” It is the way I live my life. It is the reason I started North Star Nature. It is my fascination with all the mesmerizing aspects of Nature that impel me to write my blog week after week for over eight and a half years now. To my readers, I thank you and hope you have been astonished along with me. Nature deserves your attention. It deserves your love. It deserves your caregiving. I hope you have an enchanting Autumn!
The Day it Snowed in July
The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness. –John Muir
This post is not about clarity or the forest, and I am backing us up in time to the middle of July. The hot, humid middle of July. We had just gotten back from our trip to Missouri, Chris was back to work, and I was desperate to get away from some overarching, insistent, persistent bad feelings. Hot, humid weather never makes anything better, in my opinion; in fact, it magnifies madness, swells cells, and creates chaos. I walked down the road to the little lake on Hummingbird Lane. I don’t even remember how bad the mosquitoes and deer flies were as I sweated up the hill. And then as I saw the usually-pretty lake, I was even more disgusted when I saw how the vegetative scum had overtaken the open water.
It is at times like these when we need and crave some clear reflection of reality. Why is all this crap in the way? The reason for our trip to Missouri was to spend time with Chris’ brother Paul who was dying of pancreatic cancer. This brother who was just two years older, the one who played in dirt piles with him, went to Boy Scouts camp, and drove him to high school. We watched some Big Valley on TV, walked to get the long-neglected mail for him, got an Icee that cooled his throat, and cleaned up the kitchen a little bit. Paul joked about it all with his dry one-liners, and we laughed. It was as good and normal as ever, even as we talked about end-of-life things. The brothers reminisced about boyhood memories, and Paul held his arm over his stomach and rocked ever-so-slightly.
As we sat together, there were layers of feelings—fresh in-the-moment ones, surface take-care-of-business ones, deep, dark feelings about what was to come, and a forest of sweet memories.
I had listened to a Rob Bell podcast where he talked about the struggles and irritations in our lives, and I had written a line he said on a post-it note where I could see it every day. “This is all part of it.” This is all part of it. This pond scum is part of a hot July summer. The mosquitoes and deer flies are a part of a still, humid day. Dying is part of living. We can look a little closer at what clouds our vision, what’s getting in the way of our clear reflection. The Duckweed is actually kind of pretty close up, and do you see the three damselflies who live and fly above the Duckweed?
The flat, floating Yellow Pond Lily leaves send up surprising stalks of flowers. How did I miss them before? This is all part of it.
The intricate cluster of pink balls to open stars of the Milkweed flower housed ants and a tiny caterpillar. This is all part of it. It was a comforting mantra for my nervous body and unsettled soul.
And then, as I walked home in the July heat and humidity, it started to snow! Out of the blue sky drifted snowflakes—snowflakes of Cottonwood seeds. It was somewhat of a miracle to me—‘snow’ in July!
A month and a day after the snow in July, Paul passed from this world. He and his dear family caregivers had a week of the very serious business of dying. I can’t even imagine, though we waited for texted updates and prayed for…. oh my gosh, the things we prayed for changed as the week went on. On Sunday, it would have been ‘easy.’ Each night after that, we wondered how he was holding on, why he was holding on, who he was holding on for. I have so much respect and honor for our family members who were by his side every hour of that long week. But from my distance, it struck me like a lightning bolt that Paul’s dying wasn’t only about his letting go, seeing people one more time, saying and hearing the words that would never be said or heard again, and holding on for whatever reason—it was about us all. We are all part of it. Everybody who loved him and who he loved was a part of his dying. We all longed to see certain faces, say certain words, take away pain, if only we could, pass on peace, and change the way we do certain things in our lives. What did each of us need to let go of, say or hear said, promise to ourselves and God? How did I not notice that before? What is getting in the way? What is really important in this life? The last time I saw Paul, I kissed the top of his bald head, he said, “See you later,” and we smiled. Exquisite grace, precious moment. Snow in July is a miracle. Life is a miracle. Death is a miracle. We went through the wilderness of dying with Paul to get to the Universe of Love. All the while God is holding us all in the palm of his hand and smiling. This is all part of it.