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The Sweet Fragrance of Our Toil

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I remember the incredible energy and enthusiasm I had in early adulthood to make my way in life. I was naïve in the ways of the world and idealistic to a distinct and long-lingering fault. My pragmatic friend Judy tried to point out my rose-colored vision and give me a reality check, but I cheerfully resisted and persisted in my verdant views of life. I was young, fresh-faced, and immature in experience and judgement. I was in the early Spring of my life, teeming with tender ideas and raw emotions.

One month after we had been walking through those resistant, persistent snow piles in central Minnesota and after our short stay in Cassville, WI for Mary’s burial, Chris and I spent a couple of days in the verdant hills of Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in southeastern Minnesota. The trees had not fully leafed out yet—groves of Walnut trees, shy of cold temps, were just pushing out their young compound leaves. Everything was fresh and green and flourishing! This ‘driftless’ area of Minnesota was unglaciated in the last two glacial advances, but the glacial meltwater cut through the limestone and created the bluffs that predominate the area. Winding through and at the bottom of the bluffs are shallow, cold water streams and rivers that support trout, making this an angler’s paradise. After a death and burial, our bodies and minds do well to have a respite from the busy, ‘normal’ life that feels like an assault against the tenderhearted soul work of losing a loved one. This rich green park was a perfect place to buffer ourselves for a transition time back to normal life.

We hiked the Palisade Trail the first morning in the shadow of the palisade or line of cliffs that loomed over the shallow South Branch of the Root River. On the trail down to the river bottom, we saw Mayapples with their two umbrella leaves and single white flower.

Wild Geraniums and Honeysuckle flowers attracted bees and insects and disseminated a sweet fragrance.

The limestone cliff shaded the River and trail from the morning sun—it was noticeably cooler when we descended to the River.

Meadow Rue, Wild Mustard, and Wild Blue Phlox thrived in the cool valley of the rugged limestone cliffs.

With the heat of the sun and the cool of the valley floor, dew had collected on plants, including the beautiful Virginia Bluebells, and soaked our shoes as we walked.

There were fishermen trying to land a trout, and geese swimming in and flying above the River. It was a peaceful, beautiful place.

Later in the day, we walked another trail that wound by the Root River, through the campgrounds, and up over a Maple tree-covered hill and ridge. Ferns of every sort and large Jack-in-the-Pulpits lined the trail.

The park has a horse camp area, and we saw numerous riders on some of the trails we hiked. The horse trail forded the River below the road bridge. Hiking up the ridge was a good workout, and as we puffed our way up, a horse rider exclaimed that they let their horse do the work!

The trail at the top of the ridge was beautiful. I had expected there to be a flattened meadow once we got to the top, but the ridge was literally the ridge between two steep, deeply wooded valleys. Exploring a new place is always an adventure.

Early Spring, whether in our own lives or in Nature’s cyclic rhythm, is a time of fresh and supple greenness. Ideas, beliefs, faces, leaves, flowers, and all accompanying entities are unscarred, unscathed, and untested. Then comes Life, death, soul injuries, insects, weather, loss, and a whole host of things that temper the young, fresh living beings. ‘Temper’ is a key word about the process—it describes how steel is heated and then cooled repeatedly to improve its hardness and elasticity. Life does harden our young greenness, but it also increases our elasticity or resilience, if we include ‘the cooling.’

Whenever there is grief, a ‘heating up’, whether by the death of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, a stark and jolting reality check, or the gradual realization that a naïve, fervently-held belief is not nor ever has been true, we desire comfort. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”* Comfort is the ‘cooling off’, the neutralizer or counterbalance to the heat and pain of Life. It is often overlooked, undervalued, and not given its due time and respect by society. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.”* Green pastures, streams and rivers, old forests, ancient rocks, fragrant flowers, rest, love, words of care and understanding, hugs, and time for self reflection cool us down and restore our souls. Life is a good workout for our souls, but we have to do the restorative work ourselves. God knows it’s hard work, and he leads us on the right paths.* With each pain, each grief, each adventure, and each comfort, we are tempered—stronger and more resilient. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”*—the sweet fragrance of our toil.

*from Psalm 23

Hallelujah!

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I call this the Hallelujah Tree. Sunlight shone down on its crown and through the canopy to the ground, lighting up the trail before us. Its ‘arms’ were raised in praise of this glorious day, and it was framed by a chapel door of trees. After walking through the heavily shaded forest, the light was notable. Another notable was how dry the forest floor was, not only on the trail but throughout the stand of Maples and Basswood. The undergrowth was stunted and almost barren-looking from too long a lack of moisture. We were less than an hour from home, where grass and growing things were more nourished, and I could hardly get over the stark, unexpected difference.

A hardy resident of the dry forest jumped on the sandy trail. He didn’t seem concerned…about anything. American Toads are the most abundant toads in Minnesota. I liked his orangish-red speckles on his legs and back.

As with any forest, there were many broken trees, but this one caught my attention. It was a relatively new break, still attached to the tree, and the break seemed complex. It looked like there was a burl at the break site, a place where insects or fungi invade and the tree grows ‘scar’ tissue around it.

We hiked by the dry wetland of the park that usually has standing water and squishy trails. We found blooming Goldenrod and Joe Pye Weed, though they were far from robust, so even the wetland was suffering from the drought.

We did, however, see the tallest Jack-in-the-Pulpit I’ve seen in a long time! It had little competition from other plants besides the small Jewel Weeds growing at its feet. The cluster of green berries will turn bright red towards Fall, attracting birds and rodents. But beware, the leaves, berries, and roots can cause painful irritation if humans touch it.

The wetland abruptly ended as the ground cover of ferns stopped, and brown, crunchy leaves took over.

Almost every lake in Minnesota has a resident Loon, and this small lake was no exception. The Loon seemed unpaired so was probably a yearling. But he took great care in preening and cleaning his feathers, having the advantage of living in his own large bird bath! Hallelujah!

Handsome!

The small, shallow lake was also home for an abundant population of White Water Lilies. While they seriously impede the lake activities of humans, they are actually a food and shelter haven for many insects, amphibians, turtles, ducks, muskrats, beaver, and moose!

The fragrant flowers close at night and open in the morning and have a profusion of pollen for insects with their forty or more yellow stamens.

The drought had instigated an early Fall in the forest. Maple seedlings had dried up and would not grow into saplings. Aspen leaves were turning color and dropping to the ground. But in the midst of that, the sun shone on a well-established spider web and created all the colors of the rainbow!

Environmentally (and in many other ways), it feels like we are on shaky ground. Extreme weather is causing unprecedented damage and suffering to people and all God’s creatures around the world. It’s scary. And scared people and animals tend to lash out at others and self-protect in any way possible. The broken trees of society are complex.

I happened to be going to the store this week when I heard an interview on the radio with the Minneapolis author Richard Leider. His latest book is ‘Who Do You Want to Be When You Grow Old? The Path of Purposeful Aging.’ He instructed that our daily purpose in life is to grow and to give—a simple mission we can all undertake. How do I grow today? How do I give today? That is the very purpose of Nature! Growing and giving! The ecosystem isn’t working only for the largest, most powerful of the flora and fauna—it benefits all. One plant like the White Water Lily feeds tiny thrips and gigantic moose, and looks and smells beautiful at the same time.

We live in a world that has some very scary things going on, and people are suffering. Fear has us lashing out at others, making them enemies, while history and logic are defied and defiled. We want to defend ourselves, take for ourselves, hold on to our own ideas. We end up hurting others—and ourselves. It is the antithesis of growing and giving, the antithesis of Nature. Think about how much each of us is blessed by Nature’s growing and giving—not just blessed, but sustained. Nature can flourish without us. We cannot live without Nature. I can’t help but have a foreboding feeling that we’re not doing enough to stop the earth wreck. But I will continue to appreciate and share the incredible beauty and intelligence of our natural world in hopes of making a difference. Let us not destroy what we love. I’m going to hold on to the Hallelujahs.

Fishing in the Clouds

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We had a wonderful western weekend over Memorial Day, and I’m anxious to share that…, but my mind wouldn’t let me skip over a couple other places we visited in May. Nature changes in leaps and bounds during May, so three weeks ago already seems and looks like months have passed. On our anniversary, we hiked with fishing pole in hand and picnic lunch in backpack to spend a whole day in the forest. Fishing is a pastime I don’t share with Chris—it seems to be one of those things that takes a measure of skill, a modicum of knowledge, and a whole lot of luck. I’m glad he fishes—he was coming back from a northern fishing trip with his Dad when we met in a one-in-a-million moment all those years ago. Fishing seems to be an enterprise in hope, and for that reason, I like the idea of it. What I captured with my camera when he was fishing that day illustrates ‘hope’ even more—he was fishing in the clouds!

What kind of pie-in-the-sky idea is that?! Exactly—it doesn’t make sense.

He throws a line into a place he cannot see. He ‘tries’ a lure or bait that might attract a certain fish. He waits. Cast, wait, repeat. The desire is there, but the outcome is unknown.

Meanwhile, I’m finding other things to look at on the mounded peninsula—flowers and new leaves on trees, fallen branches and logs that eventually disappear into soil, a tree bowing to kiss the water-clouds.

The outcome was no bites, no fish, and some weedy line—a perfectly ‘normal’ outcome from the bank of a never-before-fished-lake. But for a fisherman who likes to fish and who usually practices catch-and-release, the endeavor was not a bust. The point was to fish, not to catch. So we munched our snack of cheese and crackers as we gazed at the water-clouds, knowing full well that a cast into the unknown would happen again. We hiked on through the greening forest, amazed how the sunlight was already having trouble reaching the ground through the new green canopy.

The design marvel of emerging plants is enough to make anyone believe in ‘fishing in the clouds.’ From a packed spike of green pushing up through the Spring soil unfurls a Jack-in-the-Pulpit! What a simple, intricate, inconspicuous miracle.

There was a beautiful Tamarack bog where brilliant yellow Marsh Marigolds bloomed in profusion, and the Tamarack (or Larch trees) pushed out bundles of soft, new needles.

Along the marsh-gully, we saw an old car with tires and engine sunk into the mud. It had been there a very long time. Nature was working to re-claim it—in the mud, by the fallen trees, and by the new trees growing around and through it. We wondered how it got there, what its story was in relation to the pristine forest around it.

What was bare trunks and dried leaf litter just weeks ago was now green, growing, and dappled by sunlight.

Fishing begins with a cast, a toss into the unknown. The outcome is beyond our control. How many eggs don’t make a bird? How many baby birds don’t make it to adulthood?

Why does one tree die and slough off its bark while another is ‘stitched up’ with a wound-healing, zig-zag scar?

With Nature, the ‘tries’ are abundant. Millions of acorns fall to the ground and sprout by a miraculous, shell-splitting force. Maple seedlings cover an embankment. Dormant perennials emerge after every harsh winter and push away the old in order to grow, develop, and reproduce.

Mother Nature casts, waits, repeats. Thank goodness she does. We believe in the cycle of seasons; we depend on it. She reaches for the sky with all her abundance—she is full of hope. Yet Nature is also full of destruction and decay—many launches end in death: few seedlings will grow into a mature tree. Only a number of fish eggs will grow into an adult fish. Nature teaches us that we can’t just skip over the not-so-good parts to only embrace the beauty. We can’t skip over the waiting, the boredom, the loneliness, or the pain to get to the good stuff, to what we want. But we can keep on casting into the cloudy unknown—again and again and again. Our desires become a fling of fate; the outcome is unknown. Perhaps we will reel in a fish or a job or a mate. Nature’s odds have produced an amazing, abundant, beautiful world. Keep fishing in the clouds!