hawks Archives - NorthStarNature

To Have and To Hold

May 16, 2021 by Denise Brake 8 Comments

I’m breathing a sigh of relief. Fourteen months into this pandemic and Chris and I are vaccinated. I saw my Mom for Mother’s Day. The CDC is saying vaccinated people don’t have to wear masks. Venues and organizations are outlining plans to ‘return to normal!’ We survived a pandemic! Chris and I have also survived thirty-nine years of marriage as of this weekend. It doesn’t really sound very good to say the word ‘survive’ when speaking of your marriage, but it is the truth. When we said our vows, we had no idea what our future would hold—for better, for worse. The year of the pandemic was not the worst year of our marriage—in fact, there were lots of ‘betters’ sprinkled in among the oddities, losses, and unknowns of the ‘unprecedented’ pandemic. But we have navigated other unprecedented events in our years together that have fallen into the ‘worse’ category—things we couldn’t plan for, things that broke our hearts, things we could never imagine would happen—and it is those things that we have survived.

As a naïve young bride, I thought marriage would be simple—as simple as the name Spring Beauty for these delicate ephemeral flowers. To love and to cherish sounded simple to me, for I fiercely loved this man, and I was pretty good at cherishing things.

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What I didn’t know how to handle was the first time I realized that in this moment I hated him, which, as we learn, says much more about me than him. By that time, we had had over twenty-seven years together, so like the Leatherwood shrub, I learned to be more flexible, more forgiving, of him and of myself.

We discovered over time what side of the creek we were on—the Democrat married a Republican, the sports-lover married a sports-dare-I-say-hater, the horse-loving country girl hitched up with a city boy. But we also waded across the clear, cold creek to see and feel what it was like on the other side—he learned to ride horses, and I eventually learned to like football!

Sometimes things were a little murky. We kind of knew what was going on, but there were things we either didn’t know or we just didn’t have the mature skills to navigate with finesse. We bumbled through it. First-child parenting comes to mind. Okay, make that all-child parenting. All house buying and selling. All job changes. How many murky moments in thirty-nine years?!

We learned about perspectives. What’s real? What’s just a shadow? Which one is taking up the most space? The shadow of fear took up a ton of space in my life and darkened far too much of our relationship and my ‘being’ in the world. In sickness and in health. In shadow and in light.

There were mysteries unveiled of bodies and minds, of past and present, of life at large. God’s holy ordinance allows for mysteries, embraces them, and lifts them up for our participation and our wonder.

We learned to be rocks for one another. It always seemed like Chris was my rock, as I talked so much, cried so often, hurt so deeply, but over the years I realized how steady I was for him—in making a warm home, in explaining the science of things and the emotional aspects of relationships, and in always having topics to converse about. To have and to hold.

There have been so, so many bright spots in our life together, especially our three children. It is an honor to bring other human beings into the mysteries of life and relationships.

And yet, beauty and goodness can be caught in a tangle of rubble, unreachable and unpreachable. There are hard, messy things in life that are beyond our control. For richer, for poorer.

There are trees, and there are forests. There are details, and there are ‘big pictures.’ There is the here and now, and there is the future. We have learned who is the tree person—the detail person, and who is the forest person—the ‘big picture’ person. And we have learned the exceptions to the rule.

How long can one hide, and what is the reason for hiding? There’s almost always a reason, a very good reason. For a very long time the very good reason is often hidden from the person who is hiding. This riddle is the journey of our lives.

As young marrieds, we knew little of death. Then a puppy died, and another, and then a young dog, an old dog, many cats, my beloved horse. We chopped off heads of chickens to put in our freezer, butchered a pig we named and cared for. An infant nephew died, my dear friend, an uncle, an aunt, my Grandma, Chris’ parents, my Dad, Chris’ brother….We know about death now. It is a lesson that brings many lessons. Till death do us part.

There is spirit in marriage, there is science, and there is art. I think you need all three to make it thirty-nine years, to survive, to thrive, to become the person you are meant to be. Thereto I pledge thee my faith.

So, we have made it this far together. The fir-cone strewn path stretches on before us. We see the trees and the forest. We know precious new life and have walked with death. We respect the simplicities and complexities of life. We have experienced love and hate, fear and peace, sorrow and joy. We appreciate beauty and mystery. We go on. From this day forward.

Without a Map or an App

April 12, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

In this stay-at-home/ social distancing/ unprecedented time of the Covid-19 pandemic, we find ourselves without a map or an app. How do we do this? Which way is the best way to go? Where do we end up if we follow this path? The unknown is unnerving. Even as the hope of Spring is pulling us out of the dark, bleak Winter, there is still bleakness all around—death, sickness, chaos, partisanship, job loss, fear, hunger, and more. We haven’t done this before! What are we supposed to do?!

Twelve days ago Chris and I drove west to Birch Lakes State Forest. We had been there once before, a number of years ago. The gate was closed at the entrance, as the unplowed, sandy road was still snowy in places and soggy in the rest. We parked by the sign, the only ones—the only human ones, that is—to inhabit the forest for the afternoon. Before we were even out of the car, we saw an eagle circling above our heads. They are so impressive and free—watching them fly takes me out of my earthly worries into the clear blue strata above.

The pond across the road was still ice-covered, the snowmobile tracks still visible, the trees in the forest still unadorned. As much as we want our beautiful, full-blown Spring, this is our Spring reality.

Before we left the car side, we heard a high-spirited screeching in the sky. Two hawks were singing and swooping in a joyful sky dance! The mated pair flew apart, then close together (one carrying a stick in its beak) with grace and energy for the Spring ritual of mating, nesting, and raising a family.

It was only when we saw a path and entered the forest that I remembered we didn’t have a map of the trails. No worries—even though we hadn’t hiked in this area before, I knew Birch Lake was at the end of the road, and we would find our way.

With the exception of a few Fir and Spruce trees, the landscape was brown and gray—until we walked a little farther and looked a little closer. I saw a bright red dollop in the brown leaves—one of the earliest, showiest fungi—the Scarlet Elf Cup.

Vibrant green Sedge grass looked unscathed by five months of being buried under snow.

Fungi was the star of the show in the brown woods, in color, texture, and form with expressive names like Turkey Tail, Oyster, and Artist’s Conk.

Lush green moss covered areas of trees, logs, and ground in impressive mini-scapes.

From the hardwood, deciduous forest we entered a quiet, moss-covered Spruce forest. The sun streaked through in an other-worldly way.

A number of times the trail diverged in the woods—which way to go? Where will it lead? I would choose one. The hills were steep in places, and the north faces still had quite a bit of snow. One lower area had a population of Leatherwood trees—short, almost shrub-like trees with pliable, yet strong branches. They bloom in early Spring with tiny yellow flowers before getting any leaves, but we were still a little too early to see them.

We found evidence of the non-human occupants of the forest—a clump of deer hair in a patch of snow mold and a deer rub where the bucks rub their antlers against a young tree.

The landscape looked bleak after the snow melt, but small signs of the hope of Spring could be found—the moss was flowering!

The ice was melting!

The water was flowing!

The geese were flying!

With no map, we navigated our way through the forest and ended up at Birch Lake. We walked back to the car in the soggy sand road marked occasionally by fresh deer tracks.

When we left the State Forest, we circled around Birch Lake by car, and we saw a huge, dark eagle’s nest in the distant trees. Our hike had begun and ended with an eagle—one high in the sky with his bird’s eye view and eagle eyes looking for food and the other sitting high in a tree with her nest of eggs or young ones.

The unknown doesn’t need to be unnerving—it can be an adventure. How do we do this? One day at a time with patience, faith, and love. Which way is the best way to go? Follow the signs (six feet apart) and maintain that inside sense of direction. Where do we end up if we follow this path? Expertise, knowledge, science, and history of past hard times will guide our path in this new time with the novel virus. What does a bird’s eye view show us about how we were living in the past, how we are living now, and how we want to choose to live in the future? This is our Spring reality—not how we’d like it to be, certainly not beautiful, definitely bleak in many ways, but there are small signs of hope everywhere when we look closely. No worries, dear people of our Earth, the process and the path will unfold. We will find our way.

The Things Our Eyes Can’t See

October 8, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

When I was in graduate school, I could get lost for hours looking into a microscope—looking at things our eyes can’t see—red and white blood cells, chromosomes, uric acid crystals in urine, sperm cells, and so many other incredible structures. It was a whole other fascinating world that we carry with us, that is us!

Our woodland Cooper’s Hawk flew to an Oak tree branch when I happened to be looking out the window. I know he saw me looking at him—in other words, he watched me like a hawk. He wasn’t too perturbed, as he sat there for quite a while, fluffed up his feathers, and continued watching.

Hawks and other raptors have excellent vision—they can see 4 to 5 times farther than humans, have superior color vision, and deeper foveas that allow their eyes to act like a telephoto lens. They need this acute vision to focus in on their prey from a great distance, then accurately capture it.

With our much more limited eyesight, we get a bigger picture of the world by moving our eyes and heads. We are capable of seeing the big picture and the details of things that are close by but often overlooked. The big picture of Autumn is the changing colors of the landscape, but I thought I would focus in on a more detailed look at Fall through the camera’s telephoto lens. The needle-like leaves of the Larch tree are changing to a golden yellow and will drop to the ground like a carpet.

Spiny seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace have begun their dispersal by wind or clinging to the fur, feather, or pantleg of a passerby.

Scarlet cones of Sumac berries top the equally beautiful crimson foliage and will remain as a food source for dozens of birds throughout the winter, long after the leaves have fallen.

Huge white puffs of ‘Annabelle’ Hydrangea flowers gradually dry to a rich, toasted brown color and can be brought indoors for a beautiful Fall decoration.

Individual seeds on the Purple Coneflower light up like pegs on a Lite-Brite screen.

Fast growing fungi popped up all over the yard after days of rain. Isn’t it incredible that such a strange structure, complete with unique colors and shapes, can grow so quickly then melt away to nothing?

Like a huge bouquet of tiny rosebuds, each ‘Autumn Joy’ Sedum flower spreads its namesake to all who see them.

Behold the first leaf to change from green to wine on one of the many ‘Nannyberry’ Vibernums we have planted in the woods.

Dried Fern fronds remind me of the racks of drying tobacco I remember from my childhood, that hung in Pennsylvania barns.

The lace cap flowers of ‘Quick Fire’ Hydrangea bloom a pure white and gradually turn pink as Summer wanes and Fall arrives.

Joe Pye Weed seedheads look like pink sheaves of wheat blowing in the breeze.

A tangle of plumy seedheads from a Purple Smoke tree is rarely noticed at this time of year.

The landscape of Fall is beautiful; the details of Autumn are intriguing, just as the landscape and microscopic details of our bodies are amazing. Though we don’t have the keen distance sight of a hawk, we do have the marvelous ability to see the big picture and the details, both literally and figuratively. But what happens when we are only focused on one certain thing?

The other objects in sight are rarely noticed or are distorted beyond reality. At times like this, a person’s world and vision gets small—when the focus of his sight and mind is singular and obsessive. It happens when a person is fighting for her life. It happens when despair covers a person like a cloak, and she seems to melt away to nothing. It happens when one is lost for hours, days, years in addiction. It happens when suffering people are unimportant compared to money. It happens every day. It is rare that a person in this situation can correct his vision on his own, let alone have the inner and outer resources to change his world. That’s where the rest of us come in, for if you think you live your life as an island, you are either a fool or delusional. We are our brothers’ keepers. Before that seems overwhelming or raises the hackles of defense, know that we are hard-wired as social creatures. We are meant to look out for one another. It starts with taking good care of ourselves, our partners and families, then our friends and community, our country, our Earth. Like a hawk, we can watch for despair or addiction, for suffering and injustice, and though we cannot do the inner work for the people affected, we can stand by their side and do what we can to assist them. We need to be able to help them see the big picture, yet work diligently with the details. And then there are the things our eyes can’t see—love, faith, hope, resiliency—that sustain us even when the material world has dried up and fallen away or been washed away in a flood. Behold!

The Greatest of These is Love

November 14, 2016 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It’s been a confusing week. Welcome to Life, right? Luckily, every day of our lives isn’t so confusing, but looking back on my decades, there were definitely weeks, months, even some years that fall into that category. And then there’s wanting and working hard for something that means the world to you….and not getting it. That’s when things get personal. After about two and a half years into my graduate schooling, my adviser decided to build his business and not have students anymore. In order to finish my PhD, I was forced to change departments and get a new adviser. I moved into a department in chaos–the offices, labs and classrooms had been moved out of their building in order for repairs to be done. When I met with the new professors, I asked if I should shadow their lab manager and other graduate student to learn the ropes of the new lab. They laughed and said of each woman, “She doesn’t know anything.” As uncomfortable as I felt at the time, I didn’t know how foreshadowing that statement was to be. I should have turned around and run the other way. We make choices, to the best of our abilities, and then feel obligated, committed, stuck, maybe, like we don’t have another choice, considering all the the circumstances. Four years later, my coursework was completed, my research was almost finished, there was a new department head, my ‘new’ adviser had left, the professor I asked to help me finish said he didn’t have the time for me, my parents-in-law had both died, two of our three kids had left for college, and I was a total wreck. Somehow, I managed to find an ally, and we tried to get that PhD to happen, but I was broken in every sense of the word. How could this be happening? This shouldn’t be happening. My sense of ‘rightness’ in the world was shattered.

Beyond the confusing political week, I also had a crazy blog week. Chris had noticed a hawk in a tree outside of our yard. I could barely get a picture of it, but a few minutes later, it flew to the top of the cut-off spruce in the yard with a red squirrel in its talons.

We live in a place surrounded by trees, and I assumed it was a young Cooper’s Hawk who eats mainly birds, but also hunts for chipmunks, rabbits, mice and squirrels. Cooper’s Hawks have a large head, broad shoulders, and long, rounded tails. The juveniles are brown with a streaked brown breast and yellow eyes. (The pictures of the young Cooper’s had streaking all the way up to their necks without that white bib. Oh, well, juveniles are variable.)

The young hawk looked down at this prey as he squeezed it to death with his strong talons.

Cooper’s Hawks live and hunt in the woods and are skillful fliers with short wings and long tails. (His tail doesn’t seem as long as the other Cooper I saw.)

He was a beautiful hawk, and it was crazy that I got a picture of him with his prey!

After a minute or two, he looked around, and then flew away with the squirrel.

Yesterday, as I looked at the hawk websites again, I realized that my hawk was more likely a juvenile Red-tailed Hawk. But Red-tails usually hunt in open land, not in tree cover. I had assumed because of our location that it was a Cooper’s Hawk, even though his tail was shorter and he had a white bib. Confusing. What I thought to be true, what I assumed to be true, even with nagging evidence to the contrary, wasn’t true. Granted, the coloring was very similar between the two—it was not a cut-and-dried decision.

Evidence. Assumptions. Facts. Opinions. Wishes and wants. The choices we make are a large knot of all of these things. We often see and dismiss evidence of what’s to come, yet on some level, often with our gut instinct, we absolutely know the truth. But it’s not a cut-and-dried decision. And then there are the things we work hard at and hold dear–the things we will fight for, the things that sustain us, the things we build our lives upon. When those foundations are threatened, we feel attacked and justify our actions of attacking others. It’s personal. We wonder how this can be happening, we proclaim this should not be happening. My sense of ‘rightness’ in the world took another hit last week, and policy wasn’t the reason. I can certainly see both sides of the policy issues, and there is truth on both sides and lots of gray area in between. That’s what politics is all about. My hit came when the bully won, when fear and hateful language won. We teach our children not to make fun of the disabled kid, not to call others names that are different from them, not to be a bully. If we hold that standard for our children, why in heaven’s name wouldn’t we hold that basic standard for our president? I may be idealistic, but I am no longer naive. I know that sometimes the predator wins, that non-ethical things happen in unintentional and in deliberate ways, that many people don’t have the same standards as me, that some will ‘win’ at any cost and lay their head on the pillow at night and sleep soundly. Last week my gut felt sick and I had trouble sleeping. I did a lot of thinking and took in very little media. And here’s what I know: I know that words are important. I know that decency, understanding, and civility are cornerstones of our American values. I know that most of our ancestors were immigrants. I know that I love my LGBT friends and family members. I know that all women are strong and beautiful in so, so many ways. I know that Love, Faith, Hope, Mercy, and Goodness matter. And I know that the greatest of these is Love.

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