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Another Time, Another Season

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I remember those times in my life when change was abrupt, when my life on one side of an event was completely different from the other side and when there was a glimmer of knowing that life as I knew it would never be the same. Some of those events were life-changingly wonderful—the day I met Chris and those three December days I gave birth to our children. Joy was the gift of those days. Others changed my life with gut-wrenching sorrow and disbelief when even the thought of getting through it was untenable, let alone any possibility of healing. How slow the hours drag by when one is in pain.

It is at this time of the year when pictures from a week ago can seem like they are from a different season. A week ago the temperature was abnormally high, the ground was dry, and winds were strong enough to warrant red-flag warnings in multiple states, including Minnesota. This week we have had rain every day—steady, consistent showers with perpetual cloud cover and cooler temperatures. The Spring world has soaked it up and responded—grass is turning green, Forsythia are blooming in sunshine yellow, and leaves are emerging from the dormancy of Winter. Change comes swiftly, eagerly, and joyfully.

Our Easter hike with Aaron and Zoe was at Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge, southeast of Little Falls. Wherever I hike at this time of year makes me feel like I have come at the ‘wrong’ time. The snow is gone, and Spring has yet to show up except for the earliest, subtle signs. The Refuge seemed stark and empty, despite the beautiful blue sky. We followed the Platte River trail through an Oak savanna, the sunlight streaming through the bare branches to the brown grass below.

The Platte River was surprisingly wide as we continued through the restored tallgrass prairie. I wondered what the prairie and the beautiful big Oaks looked like in summer and noted to Chris that we needed to return to this place at another time, another season.

And then we saw the fire-ravaged trees—the benign mediocrity of the prairie morphed into signs of sorrow. Fire is one of those events that can change life forever, whether for humans or trees.

Crane Meadows is part of the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge complex where we saw the same fire damage to trees in an Oak Savanna that had been burned. A controlled, prescribed burn for the prairie should not impact the mature trees in such a way, and I wondered what had gone wrong. The loss was immense.

Like at Sherburne, there was a burned tree graveyard, even more stark in the post-Winter, pre-Spring landscape.

The River and cool water gave visual relief from the burned area of trees. A small dam crossed the Platte, widening it into Rice Lake. I wondered if this was a nest of some sort or just debris that had gathered on the rock with high water.

As the River widened into the shallow lake and wetlands, there seemed to be more ‘life’—Pines, Aspens, Willows, and wetland grasses breathed ‘potential’ into the landscape. Soon a green blush will envelop the Aspens, and the Willows will leaf out from the catkins that had emerged.

Rice Lake had a few ducks—a couple showy, black and white Buffleheads and some rafts of Common Mergansers. I was surprised there weren’t more migrating birds, however, and I wondered if we were too early or too late to see them.

Across the lake we noticed an eagle sitting on a point of land that extended into the water. Through a spotting scope at the observation deck, it looked like he was raiding a nest and eating eggs.

On the return trail, we passed by an eagle’s aerie and saw mother eagle sitting on her expertly engineered nest, panting in the afternoon heat.

I think it’s common for us to believe that something happens at the ‘wrong time.’ We even use it as an apology and ‘out’ for doing something—usually by saying “It’s not the right time for me to do this.” Valid truth-telling in the choices we make. But what about the events that are beyond our control? I have waxed and waned about the ‘wrong timing’ of some events in my life—job searching and recessions, health issues and the fall-out, moves and their impact. Valid truth-telling deemed an excuse? Are the ‘wrong timings’ in our lives a nest full of potential or is it debris? Even if it’s a nest full of potential, a predator at the top of the food chain can destroy those possibilities with a swift stroke of power. And when we try to do the right thing to preserve and maintain the ‘prairie,’ things can go wrong and more harm is done—collateral damage is real and abruptly life-changing. Stark, empty sorrow. But there is a difference between burning it down inadvertently and burning it down on purpose. The arsonists of society are too often at the top of the food chain and slip through the cracks of accountability. Was it the ‘wrong’ time for us to go to Crane Meadows? We didn’t see migrating birds or fluttering sweeps of golden Aspen leaves or blooming prairie wildflowers, but we did see the very real and authentic reality of the transition time between seasons. It wasn’t ‘pretty’ or ‘exciting,’ but it was real—like every one of our lives. Scorched trees and dreams. Bland landscapes and routines. Empty wetlands and pockets—or hearts. New saplings and plans. Life-giving water and compassion. Building nests and resilience. A refuge for them and for us. We will return to this place at another time, another season.

We and Wood

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I have a tendency to hold on to things. Not so much in the sense that I will be able to use a certain item at a future time or for a future project but as a snapshot of what my life was like at a particular time. I kept a blow-up orange that my Dad brought back from Florida for each of us kids when he was driving truck cross-country. I have a piece of rock from the outcropping where Chris proposed to me. I have priceless pictures and tiny clay sculptures from when the kids were little. They are all in boxes now, tucked away from sight and mind on a daily basis. But they are there if I want to revisit those times. Holding something in my hand that represents a certain time in my life gives physical reality to the past.

At this time of year with the passing of an old year to a new one, we each get to decide what to keep from the past and what to purge. It is not a stretch to say that everyone was glad to see 2020 go. What a crazy, chaotic, Covid year. But we can’t just throw it all out and pretend it didn’t happen. There were memorable, deeply moving moments that should be remembered and cherished. There were a myriad of important lessons to be learned. But what about the garbage, the refuse, and the rubbish of the past year? What about the things that have hurt us, held us back, or no longer nourish our life? Burn them. Literally or figuratively or both, send them into the flames of a fire.

We spent a number of our New Year’s hours building and tending a fire. It was a still day, a perfect fire day when the smoke ascends straight up to the sky. There was no shifting and moving to keep the smoke out of our eyes. We were clear-sighted and clear-headed. The trees around us still held their embellishments of fluffy snow—their holiday season decorations.

Old discarded needles fell among the vibrant green ones that sustain the tree. And a seed-containing cone had started the process of drying and opening for the dispersal of the next generation. Past, present, and future.

Fire, like any element of Nature, can be life-giving or destructive. There needs to be parameters, limits, containments, and safe practices in order for it to be life-giving. Fire becomes destructive in the hands of a maniac who has no regard for rules or for others. Power of any kind, like fire, can move from helpful to harmful to catastrophic in the blink of an eye.

There cannot be fire without fuel. Chris’ summer clean-up work has given us a stack of fuel—brush for kindling and branches and logs for sustaining a warm Winter fire.

Burning wood is a multi-step chemical reaction—wood + oxygen + heat = carbon dioxide + water + ash (simplified). It is a transformative process where molecules are broken down and new molecules are formed. Heat and light are produced from the chemical reaction. But most importantly, all the atoms are conserved. Nothing disappears or is ‘wasted’—it is just rearranged. Something new is formed from the old.

(Fun fact: flames are ‘pointed’ because of gravity and subsequent pressure differences.)

Our New Year’s fire, complete with a visit from a wise, wonderful friend, was a multi-layered transformative process. Warmth and light were produced as we and wood were transforming. So while we each get to decide what to keep and what to purge at any time in our lives, we always carry our past, our present, and our future. Some of us like to hold the material, realistic, factual items of our past; others throw them away. It is understandable that we want to purge the hurts and pain, the disappointments and soul-searing experiences that burden us, and the utter garbage that lies in the wake of destructive power. But nothing is wasted. Cherish the memorable moments. Learn the lessons that need to be learned. Use the fire, use the chemical reaction, use the contained power of transformation to break it down, rearrange, and build it into something new and life-giving. Fuel your fire with love.

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 Burning Houses of Our Lives

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I was mindlessly mowing on the John Deere a couple summers ago, listening to subpar country music on the headphones, when a song came on that instantly caught my attention.  It was haunting and beautiful, so unlike everything I had been listening to.  The song was ‘Burning House,’ and the singer was Camaron Ochs, known simply as Cam.  The song was written based on a dream she had had about a former boyfriend and how guilty she felt by the way she had treated him.

  “I had a dream about a burning house/ you were stuck inside/ I couldn’t get you out/ I lay beside you and pulled you close/ And the two of us went up in smoke”

During our December trip to Texas, we hiked through Bastrop State Park which had gone up in smoke on September 4, 2011, after months of drought and excessive heat.  It was the most destructive wildfire in state history, burning 32,400 acres, killing two people, and destroying 1,696 homes and businesses.  Ninety-six percent of Bastrop State Park was affected by the wildfire with thirty percent being intensely burned.

The Bastrop area is part of the Lost Pines ecosystem, the western most area of the United States where Loblolly Pines have grown for over 18,000 years.  Seven years after the fire, the destruction was still so evident—the missing trees, the standing ‘ghost’ trees, the charred wood, and the fallen logs.

Fire kills trees in two ways: by destroying the cambium or living tissue layer that is under the protective bark or by consuming or damaging the needles, leaves, or buds.  Ponderosa Pines and Western Larch are the most hardy trees when it comes to surviving a wildfire, which is dependent on the speed and intensity of the fire.

The 2011 Bastrop Complex Wildfire burned for 55 days.

This photo shows the various levels of damage, and the ridge gives us a visual of what the area previously looked like before the fire.

Another fire swept through the area in the fall of 2015—the Hidden Pines Fire.  We drove through that smoke-filled air when we went to Austin for our daughter’s wedding that October.  Eyeliner-black tree trunks define the destruction.

“I’ve been sleep walking/ Been wondering all night/ Trying to take what’s lost and broke/ And make it right”

To add insult to injury, on Memorial Day, 2015, after excessive rains, a dam on a 10-acre lake in the park failed and flooded this low-lying area.

We saw burnt trees that had acted like a snow fence, causing the roaring flood waters to dump the rocks on the downside of the tree.  (Erosion is an ongoing problem in the park as it tries to reestablish the lost forest.)

“Wish that we could go back in time/ I’d be the one you thought you’d find”

 

The Bastrop Fire of 2011 and the preceding drought was devastating for the park and surrounding community.  Trees that had taken multiple decades to grow were gone in a flash of fire.  Homes and businesses—gone.  Like the wildfires in California and other places around the world.  Hiking through the park on that warm December day was a bit haunting—the evidence of what once was stood stark against the blue sky, and the loss was a reality hard to grasp.  Even after seven years.  Just like the burning houses of our lives.  We find ourselves, or put ourselves, in a place that is going up in flames—guilt licks at our ankles, confusion fuels the fire, indifference smothers the air from our lungs.  “I’ve been sleepwalking/ Too close to the fire”  Our protective bark is breached, and the fire gets to our living tissue and causes us pain and death of what once was.  We wish we could go back in time, but everything has changed.

On Friday, sixteen-year-old Greta Thunberg spoke at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland about Climate Change.  She said, “But I don’t want your hope….I want you to act as you would in a crisis.  I want you to act as if the house is on fire, because it is.”

We’ve been sleepwalking—in the living emotional areas of our lives, in the political and financial arenas of the world, and in the very real existential crisis that we face with climate change.  How do we take what’s lost and broke and make it right?

 

 

‘Burning House’ lyrics written by Jeff Bhasker, Tyler Johnson, and Camaron Ochs

Talking to the Moon

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The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.  –Carl Sandburg

Last weekend was a lonesome couple of days.  The men in my family headed south with a bad case of Mahomes fever.  It was perfectly understandable—the Chiefs’ young quarterback is taking the NFL by storm with his quickness, his yards/game, and his touchdown passes.  I love it when a star is born.  I also love when a star shines on the rest of us—and that would be our star, the Sun!  Our star shines on us here on Earth and also on our Moon.  Do you know what a selenophile is?  A person who loves the Moon and finds joy and peace of mind from the Moon!

I worked outside in the sunshine for most of the day, cutting back hostas, raking leaves, and pulling the wilted, sad-looking vegetable plants out of the garden.  Dozens of cherry tomatoes that had not ripened or were not harvested squished under my boots.  Only the carrots and a few cold-hardy lettuces still looked green and lively after the freezes.  It had been a good year for tomatoes, green beans, and lettuce, and I felt a deep satisfaction for all the meals our small garden had provided.  As evening rolled in, the not-quite-yet-full Moon rose through the pine trees.

It was a beautiful evening.  No wind, not too chilly, a shining Moon.  I decided to make a campfire for myself, so gathered some wood before it was completely dark.  The previous week’s rain dampened my chances for a roaring flame, but with small logs, pinecones, and some newspaper, I soon had a respectable fire.

The sun sank below the horizon, now so far south in the western sky.  The trees stood bare and black against the soft colors of the sunset.

As I sat beside my campfire, I felt a little silly for doing this by myself.  I missed Chris.  I missed the kids.  I missed my faithful companion Tamba who always loved to lay at our feet when we had a campfire.  It was just me and the Moon.

 

When all those feelings and thoughts of loneliness, missing someone, and being alone impinge upon our mind, body, and soul, our first reaction seems to be to do anything that distracts us from those feelings: social media, tv, music, phone calls, exercise, eating, drinking.  Just don’t let me feel those feelings!  It causes discomfort, and I felt it as I sat by myself by the fire.  I even thought of a bunch of things I should be doing instead of sitting there alone.  ‘Working’ is a great distractor.  But the night, the fire, and the Moon implored me to stay, welcomed me into the natural world, and calmed my discomfort.  “Of course you are missing your family and Tamba—they are such an important part of your life.  Chris and Aaron are having a wonderful weekend and will love to tell you all about it.  It was a beautiful day, and you got a lot of work done getting ready for Winter.  You are stronger now than you’ve ever been,” said my friend.  Even in the darkness, the star’s light shined down on me.  “Touchdown!!  The Moon and De-nise!”