leaves Archives - NorthStarNature

Crossing the Threshold

April 16, 2023 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

There are many times in our lives we encounter a threshold where time seems to slow down with the weightiness of our next step. We become aware of all that has transpired in the past, and depending on the facts and our mindset, it may be tinged with negative feelings or with feelings so positive we are reluctant to leave it behind. And yet, the unknown landscape before us is calling our name in whispers both alluring and compelling. We are standing at the point of no return. No matter how comfortable or beautiful or sad the past has been, there is no going back—we must take that step, cross the threshold, and continue forward.

I am the worst when standing on the threshold. I can barely bring myself to leave the comfort I have grown into and around, so thoroughly enmeshed in the steadiness I have built into my past. I can be looking forward to the next adventure with excitement—whether school or a new place to live—and still I have a knot in my stomach, tears in my eyes, and fingers clenched on the door jamb in a dare to time and loved ones to move me forward. I fail miserably at adaptability.

I usually argue with Mother Nature at this time of year as the warmer temperatures of Spring start to melt Winter’s beautiful snow. I don’t want to see it go. I adore the ‘snow light’ that permeates the house. I love the crisp crunch when walking on the miraculous crystals. The cold feels so good on my face and body. But this last week, I have (mostly) graciously conceded to time (it has been five months with snow on the ground), temperatures (how can it be 78 degrees?), and my loved ones (who can’t wait for warmer days and green grass.) Mother Nature has shoved us through the threshold into Spring!

On Easter Monday Chris and I hiked our last snow hike of the season at Greenleaf Lake State Recreation Area. The tracks on the slushy ice of the lake were vestiges of ice-fishing capades. There is no going back there this season.

Old cattails with bulgy, lightened seedheads were ripe for dispersal of the fluffy seeds. Soon they will fly away to their new homes to make new plants in the cycle and circle of life.

The trail was a combination of sunshiny bare ground and soft, sinky snow where the warm temps had released the solid structure of the frozen molecules.

The Red Oaks and Ironwoods were liberating the old leaves they had carried all Winter, and the beautiful amber color of them was littered along the wooded trail. The beautiful Spring-is-here litter in the dirty snow!

We saw trees in all states—fallen soldiers who now protect a waterway from erosion, a decaying tree that gives a focused vision of the lake, a towering Oak with the power of the sun behind it activating the bud-popping sap, and the bark-stripped, weathered wood of a standing piece of art.

There were trees stuck in the ice, leaning or fallen into the lake but still alive, connected to roots, and getting ready to grow in their unorthodox positions.

Long-fallen trees in the midst of decay sported colorful little shelf mushrooms, along with lichens and moss. There was life among the death.

The spiny caterpillar-like stem of a gooseberry branch will be one of the first to open green buds beside the sharp thorns.

And the vibrant scarlet stems of Red-twigged Dogwoods are setting their pointy-leaved buds on the threshold of Spring.

A holey tree with a halo of golden Ironwood leaves has seen many decades of the past and has fewer years of life before it. It is probably gripping the threshold with roots and branches, too. How does one leave such a beautiful, holy life?

But then I spot a constellation of stars in an old Oak leaf in the dirty snow. Water and sunlight, in just the right way, created a new cosmic entity! There is so much in the world that we don’t see and don’t comprehend. We are like tiny new buds in the timeline of our ancient world.

Mother Nature gave me a reprieve today on my threshold of Spring. We woke up to white and will have six inches by the end of the day. But it will most likely be gone again tomorrow. There’s no going back—Spring is here. There is always life of a new season after the death of an old one. The threshold time is a pause for looking back, for gathering the good that gave our hearts comfort and joy, but also for listening to the siren calls of our souls that entice us onward. What whispers do you hear? What constellation of stars do you see?

It’s Time to See Our Roots

November 1, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

We take things for granted. Things unseen, things that have been in place for a long time, things we don’t think about, and things we just believe to be true and steadfast, even when the evidence says otherwise. Election season is such an interesting social experiment. I have taken voting for granted at various times in my life—I believed that all would be well whether I voted or not. I naively presumed that anybody running for office believed in the sanctity of the office being pursued. I trusted that public servants worked for all people in their constituency. And it didn’t even occur to me that there were people out there who didn’t want everybody to vote and to vote easily. (sigh)

What keeps a tree from falling over? We don’t think about it or usually see the structures that anchor a tree upright. Before leaving Ely on our Northwoods trip, we stopped to see Kawishiwi Falls, a place the kids have talked about from their summers there. Soon after we began our short hike, I saw a tree with roots like octopus legs! As I looked more closely, I realized that the tree grew out of an old stump and the roots grew down over and around the decaying wood. How unusual!

But that was not out of the ordinary in this place! Soon another rooted anomaly presented itself. The Birch tree trunk had been stripped of layers of white bark by passersby. (Not a good practice.) The tree and its roots curved around a large rock, depicting a long-necked turtle-creature being showered by Fall’s golden coins.

A stately White Cedar was poised on a knoll strewn with rocks with its exposed roots reaching towards the trail.

Another Birch grew on top of a flattened boulder, roots flowing out like a ballroom gown from a tiny-waisted dancer.

Rocky soil and years of erosion have exposed the roots of these giant trees—some with roots as big as trees themselves. It made me think about what it would look like if we could peer through the soil and see all the root systems of all the trees, intertwined, interconnected, working together to support and nourish each tree and all the others. The unseen foundation we mostly take for granted.

Along with the exposed roots, the falling leaves were everywhere. Fall is the ultimate recycling process, nourishing and replenishing the soil with fallen leaves.

I could hear the falls before I could see them. The terrain underfoot became solid rock. Then we saw the tumbling, aerated water flowing over the dark rock of Kawishiwi Falls. Kawishiwi is an Ojibwe name meaning the ‘river full of beaver and muskrat houses.’ It was a thoroughfare for Native Americans, explorers, and fur traders—all of whom had to portage around the 70-foot-high falls that links Garden Lake with Fall Lake.

In the late 1800’s, it became the route where loggers floated the huge, fallen trees to the mill town of Winton.

In the early 1920’s, as the railroad took over the transport of logs and the demand for electricity grew, the Winton dam and powerhouse were built to produce electricity. Nearly 100 years later, the power of the River is still generating zero emission, carbon-free electricity.

From the falls, the River flows around a little island into Fall Lake.

A portage trail (where people carry their canoes and supplies to get from one lake to another) still connects the two lakes for the canoeists. Along the trail I noticed this branch that had been drilled by a woodpecker. The drills were not fresh—some healing had taken place around the wounds, but the wounds were abundant. A tree can heal from wounds of many kinds unless they are too extensive.

We walked back from the falls through the forest Fall spectacular. Though most mourn the passing of warm weather a tiny bit, it is reassuring to see the next iteration of the progression of seasons.

Nature gives us some comforting certainty. With Autumn, we know the daylight hours decrease, the weather cools, the leaves change color and fall from the trees. We know that Winter will follow. We can take that for granted—for now, at least. We the people and our right to vote are the roots of our democracy. We the people are the ones that keep government upright, keep it stable and able to weather the storms of economic uncertainty or of a pandemic. I will not take my right to vote for granted again, for there has been a wounding of our democracy. Lies are wounds, foreign interference and disinformation are wounds, and the dismantling of expertise is an extensive wound. It’s time to heal. Don’t take truth and integrity for granted. It’s time to see our roots.

The Gold in All of Us

May 19, 2019 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

I remember the feeling I had when I went off to college of having the opportunity to become a new person. I’m not sure if that was an expectation of society or an internal wish on my part or both. Stepping from dependence to independence (the first error in my thinking) seemed like a good time to become this new self, my true being.

It’s happening right now as I write, as the birds sing their joyful songs, as the breeze blows through the grass that needs its first mowing—each and every tree, shrub, and perennial plant is stepping into its full being! The hints and false starts and stubborn stuckness is over—this week we are rising to the crescendo of Spring!

It is striking when the higher-arching sun illuminates the new leaves with gold. The fresh new cells of the emerging leaves seem to carry an inner brightness and glow that is sparked by the warm sun. Green and orange and red glow with gold.

New growth of a Red Oak unfolds from a single bud that was swollen with potential. It emerges like a butterfly from a cocoon or a calf from the womb—wrinkled, wobbly, and fragile looking.

Timing of each tree’s unfolding varies—some are early starters, in full-leaf by the time others are just pushing out their tiny works of art—all in the glow of becoming. It’s supposed to be that way. Only a fool would expect Nature to be all the same.

And then there’s this. Even as these brand new leaves emerge, there is already a connection to another kingdom, another species. Nature is a web of interdependence, seen and unseen.

College was a time of growth and learning, but by no means did I step into my full being. I think perhaps we are like the trees—we get a chance to emerge into a new being with each year of our lives. We have an inner energy that can’t be denied and guides us toward the next step. It’s supposed to be that way—it’s the high-arching journey of our lives. It also provides us with grace—we don’t have to get it ‘right’ at any certain time, but we learn and grow and hopefully get better with each iteration of newness. So, we always have these innate buds of potential waiting to emerge, and we need to be protective of their wobbly births and beginnings. The seen and unseen connections that bind us to others can be uplifting or destructive, not only to our new births, but to Nature’s web as a whole.

“Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.” –Chief Seattle

Here’s to new beginnings! Here’s to all of us stepping into a higher, better iteration of ourselves. Here’s to the new, developing cells in the warm glow of becoming. Here’s to the uplifting, positive forces that know the truth and power of Chief Seattle’s message. Here’s to the gold in all of us!

Paring Down to Bare

October 21, 2018 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

“Look for the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities of life.”

by Phil Harris and Bruce Reitherman from the Jungle Book

We are a fickle bunch. We all have our own ideas of what the seasons should and shouldn’t be—Fall’s too short, Winter’s too long, Summer’s too hot, did we even have Spring this year?! We love the Hallmark renditions of the seasons and wish for three perfect months of that. The last two weeks have been a pretty perfect Fall here in Central Minnesota—even with the caveat that an early hard freeze took away the slow ripening of the yellows, oranges, and reds and muted them all.

Yet Mother Nature does what she does. The leaves have been losing their ability to use chlorophyll for energy, their colors are emerging, they are falling from the trees, and gathering like a circle skirt in the grass below the branches.

Then Mother Nature sends in the wind! Our idyllic Autumn speeds up, and in one day whips most of the leaves to the ground. Wait! That was too fast! Once again, our perception of what is happening is not the same as reality. The Maple tree above is the last of our big three Maples to change color and drop its leaves. The Maple tree below is the first to change—it has been changing color for over a month. The wind won’t take down the leaves until they’re ready to let go. The paring down process proceeds in the prescribed time, even while influenced by hard freezes and stiff winds.

Our little Larch trees turned a rich amber-gold this year instead of bright yellow, adapting to the conditions.

The Crabapple leaves browned and curled with the freeze, and when the tree is bare of leaves, it will still hold on to the fruit.

The tall, columnar Poplars dropped their leaves while still mostly green, making fragrant, messy piles in the street. Even though the branches seem bare without the leaves, the swollen buds for next year’s leaves are already there!

While the Ash trees have lost their leaves weeks ago—the first to turn yellow, even before official Autumn arrives—this little beauty of a Maple waits until late October, its shimmering red-orange leaves take center stage.

Most trees are identified by their leaves—those of us who really know trees see the differences in shape, in bark, in seeds, in color and can name them by name without the leaves. But losing the identity of the leaves complicates things, makes it harder to tell who is who. However, a Kentucky Coffee Tree is still a Kentucky Coffee Tree even when the leaflets are gone.

Most of the White Oaks are bare—their non-spectacular brown leaves have fallen to the ground along with this year’s prolific crop of acorns.

But the Red Oaks are just coming into their sensational color and often hold on to their leaves into or through the Winter.

The varied Viburnum shrubs run the gamut from glossy green to yellow to freeze-induced brown—all on their own time schedule.

Fall is a miraculous time of year—the programmed shut-down of the growing season—the short and sweet growing season of Minnesota (reality or my perception? Or a little bit of both?) September brings the beginnings of the paring-down time, and by this time in October, the paring down cannot be denied as the bare branches let the sky show through. Grief is a paring-down time, too. It strips away the unnecessary parts of our lives like a whirlwind, and we are left with the bareness. We are raw and vulnerable. Often we feel like the structure of our world has collapsed. The Hallmark rendition of our lives has been crushed. Something precious has been taken from us. We sit in the bare pain, the bare unfairness of it all, the bare loss. What really matters? What are the bare necessities of my life? Who am I without this person, this job, this dream, this pet? With time and introspection, we realize we are still holding on to the fruit, the buds are there for the next growing season, and the seeds have already been planted. We look at ourselves and recognize the shape of our being and the texture of our character. We hold on until we’re ready to let go. And the Light shines through.

To All Those Who Came From Mothers

May 13, 2018 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

Our very being, essence, health and happiness depend on Mother Earth. –David Suzuki

Where and how do we begin? What is our essence? To whom do we owe our health and happiness? Yikes! These are deep questions! On this Mother’s Day, there is no need to overwhelm ourselves with an endless pool of existential inquiry, but maybe we should at least dip our toes in. Only some of us are mothers, but all of us came from mothers. We all know at least half of the equation. We were all mothered in one way or another—the judgement of how that turned out is only for each one of us to determine in the journey of our lives. Of course, that journey changes if and when we become mothers (and fathers) ourselves and when we lose those that brought forth our life. And so it goes…

The essence of life is Springing forth. The change that happens in one week’s time is mind-boggling and mind-humbling—we are dealing with a force so much bigger than ourselves. The greening of the grass seems simple compared to perennials pushing up and unfolding from the earth and dormant trees exploding with flowers and new leaves. We really are fortunate to witness such miracles, do you know? Look at the fresh flowers and tender leaves of these two types of Maple trees:

Blue Jay mates were foraging for food this week, vocalizing their pleasure of Spring mating and nest-building.

Linden leaves began the filling-out process of changing the trees’ skeletal silhouettes to geometrical shapes.

The Rabbits were in a frenzy one early morning, darting here and there, perhaps for no other reason than Spring is finally here!

Tiny new Wild Strawberry flowers opened up as the only-days-old Magnolia flowers wilted, browned, and fell—a miniature birth and death cycle that leads to the next step in the biological process—the formation of fruits and seeds.

Two surprises showed up this week that had me rushing for the camera—it’s exciting to see something that one has never seen before! We have had many types of woodpeckers frequent the feeders, but I had never seen a flashy Red-headed Woodpecker until this week.

Another morning flash of color attracted my attention—a Red-breasted Grosbeak.

Mayapples, Epimedium, and Lily-of-the-Valley arose, appeared, and unrolled from the earth, from where there was nothing visible before.

Standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window, I see the ‘Prairie Fire’ Crabapple has a white cloud of Wild Plum blossoms surrounding its dark burgundy leaves and flower buds.

Spring marks the beginning of a full cycle of emergence, growth, development, seed formation, offspring, transformation, decline, and death. It’s the new time, an exciting time, a time that makes one frenetic with energy for no good reason other than Winter is over and Spring is here! Mother Earth’s pregnant potential showcases beginnings and alludes to the essence of Life. She provides sunshine and vitamin D for our health and brings us smiling happiness and wonder. In the midst of all of this, there is each one of us and our half of the equation. Our being, where once there was nothing, was brought forth by an egg and a sperm, was developed in the nourishing cloud of a womb, emerged into this mind-boggling, mind-humbling world, and then developed and filled out into the shape of our essence. We are mothered by mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, grandmas, grandpas, friends, teachers, mentors, and others—we deserve to be cared for, respected, listened to, and loved and to give those things in return. If we determine that we have fallen short of that, we must remember that we are dealing with a force that is so much bigger than us—the God-force of Life itself, where all things are possible. As we live into our half of the equation, let us give thanks for all the caring Mothers in our lives. We really are fortunate to be such miracles.

More Leaves Have Fallen Than Remain

October 22, 2017 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

“The leaf of every tree brings a message from the unseen world. Look, every falling leaf is a blessing.” –Rumi

If Fall is only known and embraced for colorful leaves, then Fall is short and soon over. Too often a season is defined by one certain thing, and it passes quickly. To me, Autumn began in August with little hints of color changes in out of the way places—a tinge of red on poison ivy peeking out from under the grass, and with a slight, but noticeable change in the length of daylight. From then until winter sits firmly in our bones and on our driveways, Fall morphs in a myriad of ways, and it is long and glorious.

Here in central Minnesota, more leaves have fallen than remain on the trees. Two weeks ago we wondered if it was ‘peak’ color yet; one week ago Chris raked what leaves had fallen; today the wind is blowing hard—raining leaves, rolling leaves, and piling leaves.

One of the large Maple trees around the house is bare.

Another has a few golden leaves still clinging to the branches.

And two are still mostly covered with their Autumn finery—for now.

But most of the leaves are spent and on the ground.

Some Oak trees have lost their leaves…

…and others glow like rubies and topaz.

Our ‘Prairie Fire’ Crabapple is lit with orange and yellow leaves that will soon fall, leaving behind the ripe red fruit.

For those of us who have lived for half a century or more, the words of the title can hold a different meaning from the literal. More leaves have fallen than remain. More years have passed than we probably have remaining. While that may bring up feelings of sadness and grief, it could be we are defining this season far too narrowly and with only the parameter of ‘lovely leaves.’ What if, as Rumi says, every falling leaf is a blessing. Perhaps we are getting rid of old, irrelevant burdens, ideas, heartaches, and self-imposed handicaps one by one by one. When they have fallen away, the fruit of our lives is still visible, still relevant, still able to nurture those who need us. We receive and embrace the messages from the unseen world, the gemstones that remain, and this season of life becomes long and glorious.

Homecoming

October 15, 2017 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

“Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering.” —Charles Dickens

An old black pickup pulls into the driveway every weekday afternoon and parks in front of the garage. An old black dog inside the house who’s waiting and watching by the floor-length window gets a shot of adrenaline in anticipation. The homecoming has begun! Chris exits the pickup, gathers his small red cooler and extraneous sweatshirts, boots, and clothes that are mud-streaked, oil-stained, and grass-smelling and walks slowly toward the house. If he’s dug holes, planted trees, or been on his hands and knees pulling weeds for too many hours of the day, it shows in the limp of his gait. But pure happiness and joy meets him at the door in a rush and a dozen rubs against his legs. There is a smile on Chris’ face as he sits on the bench, looks at his gray-faced friend, and rubs behind her ears as she wags her tail in contentment. The three of us then take a walk down the road—Chris and I check in with one another about our day as Tamba checks out the new smells on the old pathway.

It was Homecoming at Saint John’s University last weekend. Aaron and his friends met to eat breakfast in the Reef—the cafeteria on the basement floor of the thick stone walled Quad building. After a short walk across campus, they entered the pine tree enveloped football stadium where the Johnnies whomped the Auggies in a no-surprise win. Tailgating, catching up, reminiscing, and sharing a beer and a game of pool rounded out the day. Chris and I joined Aaron for a hike at Saint John’s the next day—it was a beautiful, sunshiny day, and the Maple trees were in spectacular color. Families, students, and alumni hiked the extensive network of trails, reveling in the magnificence of the place.

What does a place one wants to come home to offer? What brings people back ‘home?’ Saint John’s emphasizes a sense of community and friendship that I witnessed during Aaron’s four years there and that has continued in the years since he graduated. It is a place where you can fall, and there are people there to help you back up.

Home is a place of beauty, however you define that. Saint John’s University is surrounded with hundreds of acres of natural beauty—lakes, streams, Maple forests, grasslands, and Oak savannas—and contains historical and modern architecture that awes and inspires.

Coming home should be a safe haven in the rough seas of life. The heart-breaking reality is that many children don’t have a safe haven at home; they consider school and their teacher a place and person of safety where they can have food, kind words, and care and help with learning and being. We never know when we are someone’s port in a storm.

Home lets us be who we are with no pretenses, embraces us no matter our size, color, mistakes, or shortcomings.

Home is a place to hang out, to get close, to have a conversation, to hold one another accountable, to soak up the good things in life and to deal with the bad.

Home is a place of encouragement when a task is daunting, when we wonder how the heck we’re going to climb this next hurdle, when the steps are right in front of our faces but we are unable to navigate them for whatever reason.

Home is a place of growth and learning where books and experiments, chores and hands-on doing, creativity, mistakes and solving problems of every kind are used daily. We learn, we grow, we shed our old ways and constantly become new creatures.

Home is a place that helps us out of the muck, that throws us a rope when we’re stuck, that will wade into the mess we find ourselves in, pull our boot out of the mud, and help us back to shore.

Home is where all the paths of life lead back to—often we lose our way and wander through the trees. We get confused about what direction we’re going and whether it’s the right way. We get scared of what’s to come because of the dark nights that have come before. But always, the Light of home is calling us forward through the shadows.

For Aaron, homecoming at Saint John’s was fun and nostalgic, satisfying and bittersweet (Jake, you were missed!) For Tamba, Chris’ daily homecoming is a time to celebrate with joy and contentment. So what does a place or person offer that one wants to come home to? Safety in all realms, acceptance of who we are, beauty for the eyes and soul, responsibility of internal and external dynamics, help when we need it, a culture of learning and growth, and fun, happiness, contentment, and joy! Home is the place we return to, it is the people we can count on, it is the God who sustains us, it is the path we travel on the journey back to ourselves. Home is truly where our hearts are, where we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we matter.

This Glorious Day!

May 11, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Dear Nature Lovers,

Just wanted to share this glorious day in Minnesota with you! Spring is now bursting out all over the place in our yard and woods!

Love, Denise

Hostas, Ferns, and Lily of the Valley

Brunnera

Hosta leaves

Virginia Bluebells

Maple leaves

Purple-Leaf Plum

Iris

Apple blossom

Pagoda Dogwood

Crabapple

Foam Flower

Jonquil

Ajuga

Larch tree

Dandelion

Epimedium

Ostrich Fern

Candles on White Pine

Bergenia

Oak flowers and leaves

Spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm.

–John Muir

Gleanings from October—A Reflection

October 30, 2016 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

There have been days in my life when a glorious mixture of Light and Love from a combination of earthly wonder and heavenly grace has shone upon me. The brightest of them all were the days in which I married my partner for life and I bore our three children. Each of those days is etched in my body, mind, and soul as a reflection of everything that is good and holy. Each of those days included mundane tasks, messy happenings, and marvelous emotions.

October is a reflection of those kinds of days—bright and beautiful, colorful and chaotic, yet peaceful and priceless! It seems like October days pass by too quickly, as the vibrant-colored leaves fall and dry to brown, and the warm days fade to cool nights. Maples of all species are the shining stars of autumn color in our yard…

and in the woods at St. John’s Arboretum, where a Sunday hike on the trail is like walking through a grand, gilded cathedral.

The stillness of the beautiful Lake Sagatagan reflected the autumn colors and housed a community of lily pads with only the stems remaining of their exquisite flowers.

The reflection in a pond along the trail seemed sharper and more realistic than the actual trees in the woods…

until the focus changed to the individual leaves floating on the stained glass water.

Our destination for our Sunday hike at Saint John’s was Stella Maris chapel which sits on an island-like peninsula across Lake ‘Sag’ from the campus. Stella Maris is Latin for ‘Star of the Sea’ and ‘Our Lady Star of the Sea’ is an ancient title for the Blessed Virgin Mary. The original chapel was built in 1872 but was struck by lightning and burnt down in 1903. It was rebuilt in 1915 and has had three renovations since that time.

The beautiful stained-glass star window and pregnant Mary statue simply adorn the inside of the chapel.

Moving on through October, another celestial body displayed its beauty—the full moon.

A hazy reflection of the Sun’s light illuminates the darkness.

And then a foggy morning diminished visibility and gave the changing leaves a muted glow. Such a changeable month this October!

A clear, crisp night frosted the blades of grass and tipped the outlines of fallen leaves with white.

The bright sunlight soon melted away the frost and shone on these robins who grabbed a bite of crabapples.

By the end of the month, the gloriously colored leaves are gone, and the silhouettes of the trees are lined against gray skies. We move into our late fall landscape.

October reflections of light, color, and brilliance are gone before we are ready for them to leave. Once again we are reminded that Nature’s time schedule doesn’t bend to our wishes and wants. But those days of illumination stay with us and quietly and stealthily renovate our hearts. We build our lives with the stones we have available to us, and sometimes the fires of life tear down those walls in order for us to rebuild something new and better, all while retaining what is good and holy. At any given moment, we believe we see the reflections of our lives clearly—but what happens when we change the focus? Hindsight has a way of honing in on what matters most and of illuminating the flaws of our thoughts and actions. And the best thing we can forgivingly say to ourselves is ‘Live and Learn.’ We move into a new landscape of life, our eyes see differently, and we receive new wonders from our earth and new graces from the heavens.

Art In The Park

October 23, 2016 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

Smack dab in the middle of glorious summer, Brookings, South Dakota hosts the Arts Festival in Pioneer Park. Two weekend days of music, food, lemonade, art of all kinds, flea market, trader/trapper rendezvous tents and goods, children’s face painting and activities, more food, and more fresh-squeezed lemonade! We lived just a few blocks from the park, and I was always amazed at the transformation from quiet playground to exuberant festival. The art in the park included photography, painting, jewelry, leatherwork, sculptures, pottery, woodwork, fabric arts, and so much more. With creative minds, art can be made from almost anything.

On our exploration of St. Croix State Park, we saw art in Nature by the Great Creator via a walking tour. This piece is a collaboration of Mother Nature and the stone masons of the 1930’s who built the roads and crafted this stone pillar for a bridge over Bear Creek. The stonework and mosswork are exceptional, especially with the indigo background of rippling water!

A Maidenhair Fern tapestry is woven from fall-colored fronds that whirl and blend together, all accented by dark stems.

A light-reflecting prism of water is nestled in a leathery leaf basin, one of many multimedia works of art seen on the tour.

Realistic landscapes are abundant in the Park. This particular scene transcends realism to an ethereal realm.

This interactive piece is made up of soft green moss over rough bark with a line of fall-colored Virginia Creeper. Touching is encouraged.

Fungi art is an often overlooked medium that seems to be particularly popular at this time of year. Bright colors and wonderful textures highlight the geometric shape.

This stone-moss-pine study integrates wonderful textures and details with the muted green and stunning river-blue background.

These images by Current and Foam are ever-changing. Each evolving creation boasts a unique design and an ink-blot quality to its interpretation.

A colony of free-standing sculptures arise from the hodge-podge, monochromatic, needle-like matrix that has tiny accents of green.

An ancient, life-giving sculpture is the foundation for an even greater work of art that towers above it.

Dark and moody with punctuation of sunlight and clouds, this reflective work also features bubbly texture along with an applique of lily-pads.

Usually seen in a vertical position, this three-dimensional piece offers a fresh look for the bark-covered cylinder. Especially unique is the colorful banner of Virginia Creeper hanging below this expansive work of art.

A collage of leaves, duckweed, and grass are picture perfect on a reflecting aqueous background that transmutes trees and azure blue sky to a grounding environment.

These are just a few of the masterpieces from the gallery of Planet Earth. Nature’s art is available at any time of the year for all to see, study, and admire. Works of art can touch a place in our souls that needs healing and can inspire us to transformation. How glorious it is that all of Earth is an exuberant festival of arts!

This post is dedicated to my friend Amy Olsen Linn who has made art in more ways and out of more things than anybody I know.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm.

–John Muir

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: