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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.

A Good Flood

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We’ve all experienced a flood of emotions—whether anger at an injustice, sadness with the loss of a loved one, shame when something triggers our feelings of unworthiness, or love with the first look at our newborn. This flood of feelings can be overwhelming, sudden and surprising, and many times bringing tears to our eyes. Often the flood is a messy collection of emotions that are not easily teased apart and compartmentalized—it could be anger-sadness-shame-love all rolled into one tsunami. We flail around in the overwhelm, sometimes apologizing for our tears, often wanting to retreat or hide from the defenselessness of our vulnerability, and feeling the need to quickly erect the wall of protection that normally hides those feelings from the rest of the world.

It’s a messy time of year in Minnesota for hiking. There are still ridges of old, packed snow on trails in the trees that are softened and slippery. Other places are muddy with snowmelt and rain and snow again. There are big puddles in places where even ‘waterproof’ boots are challenged. In spite of all of that, we ventured to Mississippi River County Park on Monday. The first thing Chris noticed, even before we got out of the car, was an Eagle circling the area above us. When we got out, we saw two, then three of the graceful gliders! That’s a good start to a hike!

As we crested the hill that plunges down towards the River, we immediately saw we would not be hiking our usual route—the whole woods below us was flooded!

The riverside trail was the River now. The banks were overwhelmed, overtaken by the high and mighty waters that had gathered from the snow and ice that had quickly dissipated to liquid form in the previous unseasonably warm week. No slowing down the melt; no slowing down the water.

We walked back up the hill, along the bluff ridge, to the blocked-off road that goes to the boat launch. The road had been built up enough to be dry, though there was evidence the water had surged over it sometime before we were there. The woods seemed unrecognizable in the swamp of water. A twisty tree looked like a sea serpent rising from the swale.

The leaf litter and debris that floated to the top of the floodwater shone in the evening sun and looked like snow that still clung to the higher ground.

A little chipmunk scurried around the base of a big Cottonwood tree. He seemed to be more worried about staying on high ground than about us walking by him. I wondered how many little critters had been displaced with the flood waters.

On either side of the road was water—debris-shining, reflecting, still, rippling, engulfing, submerging.

A green-moss-log-gator loomed from the swamp water.

The boat launch was filled to the parking lot, the usual ‘banks’ covered, the new banks only defined by how high the ground was at any given spot. The River was making and taking its own boundaries.

We heard the chatter of geese across the River. Some strong, brave souls were swimming upstream against the current. One pair flew upriver close to the water. Perhaps this is their ‘spring training.’ But then as we walked on, we noticed some geese rapidly flowing downstream with the swift current, like the ultimate waterpark slide! Was it the same ones who had just navigated against the current? They ‘let go’ of their striving and rode the rapids, turning and twirling like a kid on a saucer sled barreling down a steep, snowy hill. Do you suppose they do this for fun?

One pair rested on a log that had become driftwood in the flood waters.

We were able to walk a short distance along the river trail until the water once again overtook the lower land. A raft of ducks bobbed about on a quieter part of the River.

We headed for higher ground to finish our hike. Bright green moss glowed in the sunlight, brightening the still-gray woods. And despite the snow, it was sending up bloom stalks, shaking off the dormancy of Winter.

We rounded a corner beyond a row of tall Pines. The sun was bright in our eyes. Without sunglasses, I squinted to see what Chris noticed—in the glowing sunlight stood a young deer looking at us. I always marvel at these creature to creature encounters when curiosity of one another binds us together for a moment in time!

The Young One wandered away, not running, not raising her white tail in alarm. We saw her and another larger deer nibbling at things among the Oak trees. They watched us, and we watched them, all of us happy for the melting snow, the unveiling of the fuzzy, green Mullein and shoots of green grass, and for the imminent promise of Spring.

Mississippi River County Park is a stellar example of a ‘good flood.’ Most often when we hear the word ‘flooding,’ it is a crisis of washed out roads and damaged homes. Melting snow and Spring rains bring about an increase in the volume of water flowing down a river—and it needs someplace to go. Lowland around a river—the flood plain—has been the natural place to safely contain excess water. It has adapted to being flooded in the Spring, and the plant life renews itself with nutrients dropped on the soil as the flood waters recede. As humans have drained and developed or farmed lowlands, there is less area to safely contain the excess water. More of it runs off to places that cause damage. The lowland at the park is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do—it’s a good flood!

The same can be said of our flood of emotions. They are our release valves in the messy business of being human. We have adapted to be emotional beings—it keeps us connected to one another, provides us with information about ourselves and others, and helps to keep us safe. When we notice and express our feelings in a healthy way, it helps to avert a crisis that causes heartache and damage. So we just have to let the good floods happen, let the tears and water flow, witness the overwhelm and the adaptability, connect with curiosity, learn, and have fun!

Path of Redemption

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Room to Grow Into Our Best Selves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

UnSnowed

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When we lived on our little farmstead in Missouri in our younger years, we had a trencher come and dig in a water line. The machine slices into the earth making a narrow but deep gash in which to lay the water pipe so it doesn’t freeze. Once the pipe was in place, there was a slight mound of extra dirt in a line across the field. After a rain, Chris and Emily walked along the cut path. Emily noticed a beautiful, blush-colored spear point laying on top of the soil. Unearthed by machine and rain. After all that time.

In the last three weeks, we have become unsnowed. After what seemed like a long, snowy winter (not really so long as many others), the culprit has mostly disappeared in a short amount of time. Just when we think that things we don’t like and time move slowly! Change does not often adhere to our time schedule. As a snow-lover, it is leaving too quickly for me—even as the cold temps this weekend have slowed the loss and even as a part of me desires the warmth and greenth of Spring. In my fickleness, I miss the bright snow-light of the morning. After all that time.

From our last ten-inch snowstorm to unsnowed—just three weeks in time.

I discovered some green Pachysandra in the unsnowing—our eyes and memories ‘forget’ what lies underneath the real and compelling recent past.

Where did the snow go? With the frost still in the ground, the melted snow made its way down the hill to the River. The high water just about touched the old railroad bridge as ice floes and foam bubbled from the dam.

In places, it was hard to distinguish the foam from the snow.

The old mill dam was covered by a dark, smooth sheet of water that crashed over the short drop-off into a frenzy of voluminous, white-capped churning.

We caught sight of an approaching ice floe that had been dislodged from the upstream lakes and sent on its northern trek towards the Mississippi.

It was rather mesmerizing to watch the floating ice draw near the dam, change course in the current, and break into pieces as gravity and churning water broke the tenuous bonds and instantly changed the state of ice to the state of water and vapor.

Upstream more blocks of deconstruction floated quietly by, unsuspecting of the turmoil that lay ahead.

A short ways upstream, past one more highway bridge, a boat ramp accepted excess water, just as all the lower-lying areas of all these Midwest flooded rivers have done. There is no choice in the matter.

High above the River on the bluff, where the tips of the Spruce trees rise above the Oaks, is where we live, where the snow melted, where the water ran from.

An evening silhouette of Alder cones and catkins stood beside the River, against the golden-hued trees on the opposite shore.

Squiggly, golden reflections of winter-weary trees shone on the water, bypassing the blunting, matte ice still clinging to the shore. It is time to see ourselves again.

Snow has ruled our lives for the last three and a half months—there is no choice in the matter if you live in Minnesota. (Only three and a half months—not six, for those who believe our winters are unreasonable.) It is not unusual or unexpected. Seasons unfold in unmistakable ways. And now the snow is (almost) gone. We have been unsnowed.

With longer life comes the opportunities to change our states. I have been undone, unnerved, undecided, and uncomfortable. I have felt unworthy, unsettled, unsafe, and unaccepted. Events and issues in my life have been unexplainable, unbearable, unforeseen, and unfair. And I have also lived my life with unwavering hope, unceasing love, unbridled joy, and unmitigated faith. What happens within us when things are unspoken, unresolved, untenable, and unbalanced? What happens within us when we become unburdened, untangled, unmasked, and unafraid? The state of our mind and body changes. Our eyes and memories can forget the recent or distant past, and we can unearth the treasure of who we are. We can see ourselves again. After all that time.

Hope and Renewal After the Fire

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There have been more than a few times in my life when I felt like I was in a burning house—that feeling of helplessness, of betrayal, of feeling stuck in a room of flames.  And even more times when I felt like I was sleepwalking, wandering too close to the fire without even knowing the danger.  Perhaps that is life and what we are here to do—“to take what’s lost and broke and make it right.”*

It was shocking to see the devastation from the Bastrop Complex Fire of 2011 at Bastrop State Park in Texas—I can’t imagine what it was like just after the fire.  Yet, in the midst of the ruins from the fire were signs of resilience, new growth, and renewal.  Cheery red yaupon berries nestled among shiny green leaves contrasted with the burnt black bark of a Loblolly Pine tree.

In one fertile area of our hike, the new Pines were swiftly growing under the tall ghost trees that hadn’t survived the fire and one that had.  It was already looking ‘forest-like’ in this part of the park.

Along with the devastation was the hopeful new growth of Pines and Oaks.

The December day was warm and sunny, perfect for hikers and a little lizard crawling through the fallen leaves.

Replanting of the drought-hardy Loblolly Pines began in January 2013.  Volunteers and contractors have planted two million pine seedlings since that time and will continue to plant  in order to get a “mosaic of tree ages” as the forest re-grows.

This bright, tight growth of young pines probably originated from the fallen cones (seeds) of these survivors.  Often a threatened tree will produce an inordinate number of seeds to compensate for loss or potential loss of mature trees.

I admired these two survivors and wondered what had saved them from the mighty flames of the wildfire.  How were they spared?

Another tall survivor obviously sustained damage, but had a crown full of healthy needles and seed-laden cones.

A striking visual in the flooded valley (four years after the wildfire) was the color of the winter grasses.  One of the ongoing ways to curb erosion in the park after the fire was the application of a hydromulch—a slurry of straw, water, and native grass seed.  Normally these grasses would not grow in the shade of a forest, but they will stabilize the soil while the trees and native understory grow to repopulate the forest.

I caught a glimpse of a grasshopper in the grassy valley.

Even after the repeated devastation of fire and flood, pine seedlings were growing in the desolation.

One of the most interesting things we saw on our hike—that could easily have been missed if I wasn’t looking down—was a trail of ants carrying yaupon leaves.  The hiking trail was sandy and wide, so the line of green leaves, like sails on little red ships, readily stood out in the afternoon sun.  These are Texas Leaf-cutting ants, native to East Texas.  They collect plant material to bring back to their colony in order to build a fungi farm.  This fungi is their only known source of food.  Colonies house up to two million ants, so they can be extremely destructive to pine seedlings, citrus plants, agricultural crops, and landscape ornamentals.  They can strip a small to medium tree overnight!  The line of ants and leaves was as far as I could see on both sides of the trail.

We hiked through an section of the park that was not so intensively damaged by the fire—many scorched trees were still alive.  There were more Oak trees in this hillside area, and the path was strewn with acorns—food for the animals being re-established in the park and potential trees for the future.

Someone had built a rock cairn along the trail.  Many are used for ornamental purposes nowadays, but at one time, they were markers for navigation or memorial purposes.  Many remote hiking trails rely on cairns to mark which way the hiker should go, and many indigenous, sacred sites are marked with cairns.  Rock balancing art has its place, but many agree that it goes against the principle of Leave No Trace.

One of the loveliest signs of hope was a teeny tiny pine seedling growing in the debris of a fallen log.  Nature is the master of re-birth.

 

In the burning houses of our lives, how do we take the lost parts, the broken parts, the parts that keep us up at night and make them right?  How do we stop walking so close to the dangerous flames, even when it feels like the only thing we know how to do?  The aftermath can be devastating.  In the midst of the ruins, we are in shock, in disbelief.  How in God’s name did this happen?  In our disorientation, we may notice the survivors, the ones still standing.  The survivors sustained damage, too, but for some reason they are more resilient, and they are the beacons of hope.  It is the survivors and the empathetic helpers and the paid professionals who can work together to hold back the erosion of despair and plant the new seeds necessary for renewal.  We need a helping hand while we re-group and gather our wits and our strength.  We need cairns of caring people to honor what we have been through and show us the way to new growth and new life.  Nature (and Nature in us) is the master of re-birth, and we (and Mother Nature) need a helping hand in the aftermath of devastation—that’s how we make it right.

 

 

*from ‘Burning House’ by Jeff Bhasker, Tyler Johnson, and Cameron Ochs