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At the Corner of Deer and Fox

March 13, 2022 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The world’s suffering makes my heart heavy. When I see the video of all the mothers and children fleeing from their homes in Ukraine, tears stream down my face. The destruction, chaos, and trauma imposed by one unhinged guy is overwhelming and rips a deep tear in my constructed fabric of Goodness. Even here at home where the pandemic has killed nearly one million people—it’s like wiping out all the people who live in South Dakota and then a hundred thousand more. And then there are all the people I know who are suffering with or dying from a cancer diagnosis—is it just me or does that seem to be on the rise? What’s a person to do with all that suffering?

I strapped on my snowshoes and hiked into the snow and cold. Our below normal temperatures this week have preserved the snow cover, beyond the melting of the edges from the strong, March sunlight. The cold felt good on my face, a relief from the hot suffering of people I know and of the millions I do not. Our gathering place around the firepit is still engulfed in snow—only the deer have been wandering through in their quest for food. I followed their path and offered a couple old apples for their browsing brunch. Won’t that be a delightful surprise?!

Deer trails cut through the trees and over fences. The snow reveals some secrets of the other seasons—the travel routes of deer and other animals. They seem to be creatures of habit or perhaps know to take the easiest route—just like us.

My previous snowshoe tracks had been covered with a bit of snow, but the deer had already been using the trail. I felt like I was walking at the Sumac treetops with all the snow that has accumulated over the Winter. Getting off the trail definitely makes ambulating much harder!

In no time at all, at the corner of Deer and Fox (tracks), Nature took over my mind, washing away the thoughts of suffering for the time being.

Rabbit and squirrel tracks zigzagged erratic paths around and to trees, their light little bodies not worrying about sinking through the deep snow.

Last year’s fox den was definitely occupied by someone, with many curious onlookers, including myself.

I’m pretty sure Mr. Possum had been out wandering for food—see his tail track? Maybe he made the old fox den his winter home.

It’s a busy place out there.

Farther along the trail I noticed a dark spot in the snow, so I veered off the trail to investigate. A deer carcass was mostly buried under the snow but had provided many meals for the carnivores of the forest.

There was a deer-sized indentation in the snow where a deer had bedded down for the night, though the bed had a new blanket of snow on it.

I continued on the little road, following one deer trail while others intersected it, coming and going through the trees. A community of animals with their roads, homes, and eating places.

An allee of Pines with its chevron shadows create a perfect corridor for travel.

Spring is already showing its signs, despite the snow and cold. More birds can be heard singing and flitting through the trees, and on the south side of a large Pine tree, the snow has started to melt away from the warm, brown pine needles.

I had added my tracks to those of the woodland creatures as I witnessed the evidence of their Winter lives in the forest. It was a beautiful, brisk day—a perfect day for snowshoeing.

A quote fell into my lap today—timely and serendipitously—from Helen Keller: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” While it is important for us to be compassionate witnesses to the realities of war, illness, and suffering, we must also cultivate and elevate the simple acts of ‘overcoming it’ that we see in the world. I appreciate the news outlets that include snippets of that Goodness that mostly go unseen. Those who dwell on and promote the negative and divisive aspects of our society, politics, and culture do a disservice to themselves and to us all. It’s a balancing act to witness and acknowledge the reality of suffering in our world and to do the same with the acts of overcoming it. Nature is a balm for overcoming suffering, as are gathering places of loved ones who lift us up and simple acts of kindness and offering. Spring is a hopeful, uplifting season—every year it overcomes the harshness of Winter and the heaviness of suffering. Food becomes abundant, new life is nourished, and life energy flows with renewed vigor. Isn’t that a delightful surprise?

Trekking Through Trauma

February 28, 2021 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

If you have ever been through therapy, you know there is not a line drawn down the middle of your life with good things on one side and bad things on the other. And I say ‘through therapy,’ not ‘in therapy,’ as ‘in therapy’ implies that you can be ‘out of therapy.’ When I was going ‘through therapy’ after a spiritual crisis, it felt like I was going through one of those old-fashioned wringers on an old tub washer—my old life was being crushed, wrung out, flattened. I felt like the energy and purpose of what I thought life was all about was being snuffed out of me. There was no ‘in therapy’ then returning to ‘normal life’ when I left a session—it affected every aspect of my life and left me exhausted, crumpled, and changed.

Having a very strong line of demarcation between right and wrong when I was young was a coping mechanism for me to feel like the world was orderly. It helped me feel more safe, more in control. Things were easier to sort—either you’re with me or against me, it’s good or it’s bad, it’s black or it’s white. And I was the arbitrator of those judgements. My world view was narrow. That worked for a while. But as I got older, there were things that clashed with my categories. If I love this person, how can I vanquish this part of their life to the ‘bad category?’ Wait, the person I voted for did what?! That’s not acceptable. If this action helps one person and harms many others, what does that mean? Things weren’t an easy call anymore. Things were confusing. The huge gray area between black and white opened up my narrow world and threw me for a loop.

In order to process the gray area of our larger lives we must process the black, white, and gray areas of our own personal lives. The line of demarcation was strong down the middle of my own life, in my own head and heart. I rejected parts of myself. I made up stories in my head to try to make sense of my categories. I embraced the actions and people that made me feel like my point of view was the ‘right’ one. I ignored my individual desires, then projected those grievances onto others. How could they?! Not how could I not? So going through therapy exposed all of those thoughts, feelings, and actions that I grew up with. It showed me that I very smartly did those things to feel safe and to feel some control. It opened up different ways of thinking and different possibilities. My life through therapy became a giant puzzle, not a bin of good or bad. Each reaching back into my past retrieved a piece of the puzzle that clicked into place. Oh, yes, that makes sense. Holy cow—yes! Oh, no, really? Such sadness. Parts of my present life fit perfectly with the pieces that I had assembled from my past. The picture of my life was coming together—it was finally beginning to make sense. And it was my life, with all the good, bad, indifferent, compelling, benign, happy, grief-filled, hard, and satisfying parts of my life—all in the big picture of who I am.

That was almost fifteen years ago. Therapy never ends. Once you go through it, it tends to stay with you. You ask the questions to yourself. You try to figure out if any of the puzzle pieces were in the wrong place, even if they looked like they fit back then. The past year, no, make that two or more years, has kind of messed up my puzzle again. I have a ton of questions about our world, about the divide in our country—that black and white divide, about the actions of elected leaders, about people making up stories to fit the wished-for narrative in their head and heart. Believe me, I get it. But it has shaken my sense of safety and rightness. So I do what I have always done when I feel shaken or lost or scared or upset—I get outside. Mother Nature soothes me. My world becomes bigger than the mess that scares me as I immerse myself in the small details of the Life that intrinsically holds the seeds of creation. I find things that make me happy.

From shadow to potential and creativity. Like butterflies.

Why would anyone choose therapy that seems so hard and harrowing? Not everyone who chooses is in the midst of a crisis like I was, but at the time, I just needed some relief from the pain of the crisis. I didn’t know how hard the journey of relief was going to be. But even in the midst of the difficulty, there was relief as well as exhaustion in the artesian well of tears that flowed from my eyes. There was relief when another puzzle piece clicked together where before there was a numb emptiness. There was relief in developing an awareness of myself where before there was an outsized fear of what could happen. There was also an immense sense of holiness I felt during the process and certainly looking back at it. It was hard, holy work. God was with me then just as God was with me during my young years when fear controlled my narrative. The harrowing trek was worth it. The crisis was there for a reason. It pushed me to action, it pushed me to truth, it pushed me to awareness. I didn’t have to reject any pieces of myself or of my life anymore. The black and white sorting bins were gone. And with that reconciliation came more order, more control of my life, and more safety—all of the things I yearned for when I was young. My adversity led me towards fruition. It’s not like I have arrived—I’m still on the journey. Things can still shake me and make me want to go back to hiding in fear. But Nature helps me breathe deep relaxing breaths again. She shows me how shadows can become butterflies. How curiosity partners with knowledge and truth. How treasures can show up on our doorstep in routine life and when we least expect but need them the most. Nature shows us how Goodness is restored.

The Exact Right Moment

July 26, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I’ve been holding on to a picture since May. It is a special photograph that I ran from the front of the house to the back of the house to snap after running to get my camera after standing up and glancing out the window at the exact right moment one morning. What are the chances?! Seriously, I love those moments so much. What I saw was a fox running across the front yard with something in her mouth. I ran to get my camera. I took the lens cap off on the run, turned it on, got to the window, pointed, and…she was gone around the side of the house. I ran to the back and got one picture of her before she slipped into the trees. She was beautiful…and elusive. I thank my lucky stars for encounters like that—even more so when I can manage to capture the moment with my camera. I have seen her four times this Spring and early Summer, out hunting for her kits, I imagine. One time was on my birthday, which is the second time in three years and at two different places that I have seen a fox on my birthday. What are the chances?! I held on to the picture to share at just the right time—so here is my serendipitous photo of the fox—please enjoy, smile, marvel, wonder, and thank your lucky stars that we are privileged to see such beauty!

Five months ago Chris and I walked across the Mississippi River on the thick ice, an experiment in comfort-busting. (go here) The River is a force in Minnesota as it flows from its source at Lake Itasca, diagonally through the central part of the state, down through the Twin Cities, then along the border with Wisconsin until it hands it off to Iowa. The power of the River is the same here as with any river that plays such a huge role in the life of a state. It is commerce, it is recreation, it is aesthetic. The force of the River comes from Mother Nature, however. It is mystical, spiritual, phenomenal. It is ever-flowing. On our bike ride this past weekend, we once again crossed over the River, this time on an old railroad bridge of bumpy, worn railroad ties. The River flowed swiftly and shallowly over rocks, as right behind us was a tall, cement dam and power plant built in 1924. The River is held up, blocked, checked, impeded, restricted, obstructed by the huge dam and controlled as to how much water is released over the dam at any given time. The spirits of the River mourn.

If you are a person who has worked on a farm, one who has ever done the physical work of chopping, de-heading, or hand spraying thistles, you know the ‘eye’ that comes from doing so. You get tuned in to seeing them as you walk the pasture or drive the field roads (or drive the public roads and look at the ditches.) The light purple flowers and prickly stems and leaves are ‘honed in on’ as the enemy, so to speak.

“A weed is a flower growing in the wrong place.” –George Washington Carver

On our bike ride, my thistle-trained eye spotted a patch of purple down the embankment from the bike trail by the River. There on a prickly thistle was a Great Spangled Fritillary drinking in the sweet nectar of that purple flower. The late afternoon sun shone on the pearl white spangles on the underside of its wings and on the lavender flowers, and the light cast a rosy hue on the legs of the butterfly. Beautiful!

“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life, you will have been all of these.” –George Washington Carver

George Washington Carver had a much deeper, broader, soulful definition of “how far you go in life” than the surface parameters of fame, power, and wealth. Reminds me of something Jesus would say or rather, did say in a number of ways. The spirit of each person is like a river, ever-flowing, the life force that we embody. It is uniquely special and rare. It is not our jobs in life to build dams that block, check, impede, restrict, obstruct, and control the moving life-force in other people. (And that has nothing to do with real and appropriate laws and consistent and responsible order that sustains a functioning community or a functioning individual.) People can hone in on whatever they were trained or believe to be ‘the enemy’—that has much more to say about the person than the perceived enemy. Thistles are on a spectrum from beautiful flower with life-giving nectar to enemy of a healthy, productive pasture. It is not an either/or issue, not right or wrong, not black or white. And like it or not, everything in this world lies on the same spectrum. We live in the long, gray area between the two extremes—or maybe I should say in the beautiful, rainbow colors of that spectrum. And that brings us back to beauty. Without a doubt, we are living through a tumultuous, difficult time, and yet, every day there are those beautiful, elusive moments that open our hearts and make us happy to be alive among God’s creation. Hold on to them. Smile, marvel, wonder, and thank your lucky stars, and then share them with the world.

A Boy Named Tree

July 22, 2014 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

When our son was three or four years old he started telling us and anybody who asked him that his middle name was Tree. Now in our family, trees are rather beloved things, so we didn’t object to his chosen name. His father is a modern-day Johnny Appleseed who can wield an A.M. Leonard spade like a surgeon’s knife and dig a hole and plant a tree with the same precision, so maybe he has trees in his blood. Our Tree Brake was a spirited nature person at a young age–he loved snakes, frogs, bugs, squirrels, mice, and just about any kind of critter. He caught snakes and brought them into the house. He took a live mouse from one of the outside cats and brought it inside where it hid behind the toy box until we let the cat in to finish her job. He and his sister would crawl under the corral fence and catch frogs in the muddy hollows of hoof prints. He agilely climbed trees, swung from trees, and played in the Lilac leafhouse and the tall treehouse in the spreading elm tree. He was a cute, fearless creature of nature.

Trees and lakes dominate the landscape in northern Minnesota. Pines, birch, and aspen create the backdrop of beauty in the area around the Pelican Lake camp we visited. When we drove through the woods close to the camp, we saw a deer munching on foliage under a huge white pine.

As we biked and wandered through the woods with our beautiful guide (who happens to be Tree’s girlfriend), we passed through an aspen cathedral. The light filtered through the dancing leaves and reflected off the gray-white bark of the trees. A feeling of reverence descended on me.

Further along the trail, we saw interesting fungi growing on fallen birch logs–another stage in nature’s cycle of tree life.

There are too many things to say about trees–they are so much more than their size, form, leaf description, bark texture, flower, seed, or fall color. I have been frustrated that I cannot capture in a photo the majesty of a pine or a cottonwood that has weathered decades of winters, storms, and droughts. Three pines at camp immediately caught my attention when we entered a clearing by the lake. They towered above the other trees, quietly demanding attention and respect. My photo does not do them justice.

As I returned to the clearing after getting some pictures of the lake, Chris and Michaela pointed down the mown path. A young fox was sitting there. It was clear that we were in his domain. He wasn’t old enough to be on his own yet, but he had obviously gotten permission to leave the den. Maybe he had wandered down to the lake to try to find a crayfish or perhaps he was tasting the sweet, ripe raspberries that lined the path.

He was curious about us–‘Maybe those are the creatures my mom told me to stay away from–they don’t look so bad!’

‘Is that my mom calling me?’

‘Still, they don’t seem too scary….’

‘But I’d better get home anyway!’

And he disappeared into the tall grass and trees. Trees and these woods–home to so many creatures. Often we claim the land and resources for our own without realizing how many living things call it home. The trio of white pines that watch over the fox family that eat the crayfish and raspberries–the web of life.

Aaron Tree Brake is now a senior in college at the beautiful and unique St. John’s University where he is surrounded by lakes, trees, and wildlife. Like Aaron, I believe we should all aspire to call ourselves something from Nature that stirs our soul, encourages our fearlessness, and inspires our life. As for the young fox, I think I will call him Tree.

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