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Love is the River and the Bridge

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One of the satisfying aspects of growing older is looking back at the line of your life and noticing how you have changed. I don’t mean only in physical appearances, though certainly they are the most apparent changes. Gray highlights, added pounds, lines that accentuate the movement of your face over the years. How has your spiritual life changed? Your politics? Your ability to handle your emotions? How has your thinking matured? Your wants and needs? How have the things you deem ‘important’ changed from when you were younger? My guess is, that like me, the path of your life has changed and moved and morphed.

On the high prairies of Buffalo River State Park, one can see a line of trees that runs alongside the winding Buffalo River. Before reaching the river from the prairie, there is a huge drop-off, then a wide flood plain where the trees have grown. Chris and I wondered if they named the river from the fact that buffalo ran or were chased through the prairie grasses off the cliff to their death.

We walked from the prairie down a path by a draw that opened up to the flood plain. Shrubs were changing to fall colors, and Wild Plums were ripening.

The cliff from prairie to flood plain is called a ‘cutbank,’ a steep bank where a river runs against the side of a hill, undercutting and eroding it. It produces a wide plain of underlying sediments. It also illustrates that over time, the path of the Buffalo River has changed—first cutting away from the north bank, then the south bank (or east and west depending on where the winding river is flowing.) We walked on the floodplain, looking up on the steep cutbank that has been populated by trees.

The River was high, swift, and muddy from the strong storms that had pushed through Minnesota and brought tornado warnings and those fabulous mammatus clouds to our doorstep two days before.

The mosquitoes we were hoping to foil on the prairie found us as we walked along the River through the trees. One particular dead tree was riddled with woodpecker holes—one even went all the way through it. We could see from one side to the other through something that normally would not allow such a thing.

Speaking of one side to the other, eventually we came to a bridge where we could cross the River to explore the uplands of prairie on the other side.

The muddy water flowed around a large rock in the middle of the River, depositing sediment in the wake of it. The resistance caused the build-up.

Up river, fallen trees dammed up the flow of the water, piling up debris as the River flowed on.

The prairie resumed on the other side of the River—grasses waving, flowers blooming, butterflies lighting, and seeds dispersing.

One could not distinguish one side of the prairie from the other—each has a myriad of grasses and colorful flowers. Both have cutbanks, trees, and mosquitoes. Both have butterflies, seeds, and seedlings. The Buffalo River runs through it. And the Buffalo River has moved and changed over time.

The long view of life changes and evolves. This place used to be a glacier, then a sea, then a prairie with glacier-deposited erratic boulders with a River that runs through it. Even the River has changed course in the relatively near past. We do the same. Civilizations change. Societies change, and each one of us changes in the course of our lives. So how have you changed? And more importantly, what happened to you that led to those changes? Our development from infant to elder includes changes to our physical selves imprinted in our DNA, the expression of which is influenced by our environment. Our personalities and experiences influence our thinking, our emotional responses, and our actions. The River of Life runs through us. What rocks of resistance are impeding the flow? What kind of debris is getting in the way? I think for most of us we want to be better than we once were. That desire is the cornerstone of failure and forgiveness. It is the challenge of our physical, social, political, emotional selves. What allows us to see from one side to the other? What allows us to walk to the other side? What reminds us that we are grasses and colorful flowers with seeds and seedlings that all live together in this world? Love, and I mean that with a capital L, is the river and the bridge. Let it flow through you and allow you to walk to the other side.

The Gift of a Paper Birch Tree

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In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.  –Aristotle

One of the most marvelous trees in Nature is the Paper Birch.  It thrives in colder-climate regions, is one of the first species to grow after a wildfire in these northern climates, provides food for moose, deer, birds, and porcupines, and the bark is an excellent fire-starter, even when wet, because of its high oil content.  The leaves have been used for centuries by herbalists as a topical for skin problems as well as infusions for a wide array of internal problems.

These beautiful trees have been designated National Memorial Trees for Mothers with one planted at Arlington National Cemetery named the National Mothers’ Tree.  We are fortunate to have one right outside our front door.

The shiny white bark has characteristic ‘dashes’ in light gray, and as the tree grows, the older bark peels off in large curls.

The curls of peeling bark get stuck on the knots where the branches grow and hang on until it gets worked loose.

We also have a pile of logs from an old Birch that had to come down.  The rotting process has begun.  Often the inside wood will rot away leaving an empty shell of tough birch bark.

Fungi, like a stack of morning pancakes with frosty white syrup of snow, grows from one end of a log.

Colorful lichens decorate the ‘eye’ of the log where a branch was cut from the trunk.

There is something almost magical in the bark of a Paper Birch, with its strength, resiliency, and weather-proof properties.

From downed trees, the bark can be peeled off in thick layers.  The Native Americans used the bark for making containers and canoes, and for the shells of wigwams.

But in our household, Chris uses the bark to make ornaments for our Christmas tree and for gifts!

 

A marvelous tree—from beautiful live Mothers’ tree to downed logs to handmade gifts of Nature and Love.  In this season of advent, the ‘old’ is peeling away in anticipation of what’s to come—we make room for the new.  We may get hung up on knots of uncertainty, of doubts and fears, but whether we are ready or not, the Child is born to the Mother of God, the new year greets us, Joy is made available—do we embrace it?  Life is a magical, miraculous gift, and we are the strong, resilient participants, the givers, the receivers, and the gifts themselves.  From our household to yours, we wish you Love, Protection, and Peace!

One Final Walk

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I can’t say I wasn’t prepared for it, but the reality of it hits me hard in a hundred little moments every day since she’s been gone.  Three weeks ago the inevitability of making that decision pressed against us on all fronts.  I barely slept one night, trying to figure out ways to extend her time with us, my selfishness co-mingling with what I knew in my gut was the right thing to do.  I fell asleep after tearfully resigning myself to the difficulty of the next few days.

She was my near-constant companion for over ten years—we walked together twice a day—one of those times with Chris after he got home from work.  Technically, she was Aaron’s dog—the wanted and needed puppy who joined our family just two months after we left South Dakota for our new life in Minnesota.  He slept on the porch with her those first nights, hearing her baby whimpers and whines and letting her out to go to the bathroom during the night—an unusual caretaking role for a high school boy.  Then he left to go back up to Camp in the Boundary Waters, and I took over the well-known role of caregiving.  Tamba was here every day when Aaron came home from Camp, or school, or college, or lately, from the Cities and his job.  They were like siblings—rolling around on the floor, running around the yard as fast as they could, playing all kinds of ball games with one another.  She was joyous in every sense of the word when she saw Aaron was home.

When I got up Monday morning, I heard her shake her head as she exited her kennel, her dog tags jingling in a morning song, like thousands of mornings before.  We did what we always did—I put on my boots and jacket, grabbed the leash, she stretched her downward dog—small and modified due to her age and tumors—I clicked on the leash, and we headed out into the weather, into the morning, into the zen of Nature and movement.  I couldn’t help myself from thinking this was my second-to-the-last morning walk with her.  When we came back and she was off her leash, she wandered around the yard, checking out the smells of who had wandered through, but when she saw me, she played her stalking game!  She stopped, crouched slightly, head lowered, eyes on me.  I did the same.  Then slowly, ever so slowly, we walked toward one another, each carefully lifting one foot just as the other did, pausing mid-air, then gradually stepping toward one another until a certain moment when one of us would run!  Then both of us would run together, her jumping at me in pretend aggressiveness, me laughing.  We spent a lot of time outside that day—we lay in the grass together letting the sunshine soak into our skin, warming the coolness of the day and the coldness of tomorrow.  I doubted my decision a dozen times over, but then I saw her hind end give away when she walked by me on level ground.  After many attempts, I finally forced myself to call the vet’s office, and with a catch in my voice, made the appointment.  Chris and I walked our last walk with her that afternoon, grateful, as always, for our catch-up time together, along with our big, black dog.

Early Tuesday morning, Chris fed her one last time before he left for work with his usual remark: “Happy Birthday!” as the kibbles melodically poured into her dish.  When I got up, she and I took our last morning walk, and I felt a combination of extreme gratefulness for all my days with this beautiful dog and a sorrowful dread.  Later I sat on the patio with her—I looked at her, and she looked at me with her wise, calm eyes.  We had gotten to be so in tune with one another after all these years—I could sense when she needed to go out by her subtle cues; she knew when something was wrong with me.  And as I looked at her, I felt like she knew what was going to happen, like she knew we were spending our last moments together.  As the time neared, we took our final walk together, the two of us, in sync, turning left out the driveway after nearly always turning right for our walks.  We walked down the road, then turned into the woods where lots of new smells captured her attention.  We slowly walked up a steep trail that she and Aaron used to run up and down when she was a puppy, where he sledded down the deep snow holding on to a wiggling, happy puppy.  It was hard for her to walk up the hill, but she trooped on, like she always had these past painful months.  We looked out over the River, then wound our way back home.  A perfect last walk.

These three weeks have been gray and cloudy, cold and rainy—Mother Nature’s reflection of my sorrow.  A few days offered me a smile of sunshine—oh, yes, that’s what it feels like—just to keep me going: Emily was home for two weekends, and Aaron was here, too.  The mailman brought cards from people who knew how much she meant to us, who had been through the same thing.  I hear her tags jingling sometimes in the morning, I turn to look at her when I come up from the basement, I reach for the treat can when I come inside from a walk, and I lament going to get the mail without her.  I walk in the mornings, and Chris and I walk when he comes home from work.  I feel like she is walking with me still.  That’s what unconditional love is.  That’s what being there for one another does, come what may.  That’s the celebration of every ordinary day being a Happy Birthday day.  That is her gift of grace to me, and I am ever so grateful.

Gonna Get Burned

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Have you ever been burned?  I don’t mean literally, though we have probably all experienced that pain in some way in our lives—a sunburn that reddens and heats our shoulders or a blistering burn on our hand from cooking.  I mean figuratively.

“Love is the burning point of life… Love itself is pain, you might say—the pain of being truly alive.”  –Joseph Campbell

We all probably know this pain, too.

In April, soon after the snow melted, we attempted to burn our little prairie area.  We had the water hose, shovels, wet burlap in buckets of water, and matches.  The first dried grasses in the flame of a match poofed up and were instantly gone.  It seemed dry enough, but as we progressed, there was still too much moisture in the ground and in the grass to get a consistent burn.

I used a pitchfork to ‘move’ the flame from one place to another, with Chris standing by with his shovel, but it just wasn’t going well.  When we were about to call it a day, a smoldering flame lit the tall, dried grass around one of the White Pine trees and whooshed up into the branches.  Chris beat it with a shovel as I got the water hose and doused it.  But there was damage done.  Some of the lower branches were scorched and burned at the tips.  Glad it wasn’t worse.  But as the days passed, more brown needles appeared.  The heat of the burn had rose up and damaged the needles farther up the tree.

I tried to reassure the man who loves trees and who had lovingly planted these pines as two-footers, that it would be okay.  But this poor tree looked worse by the day.

Meanwhile, as I was driving on the highway not far from our house, the stark blackness of a burn rose from the road up a hill to the edge of a woods.

Prescribed or controlled burns help manage weeds and invasive species, including woody plants like cedar and buckthorn.  Burns also restore nutrients to prairie plants and stimulate growth of deep-rooted grasses and native plants.

The charred ground was in stark contrast to the vivid green of new Spring leaves in the woods.

As the weeks passed, I noticed buds emerging from the tips of our White Pine, including most of the branches with browned needles.  New growth was springing forth from the damage!  I am optimistic, even as Chris is much more cautious about the long-term welfare of the tree.

One week after I photographed the blackened burn on the hillside, it has already begun to transform to Spring greenness.

 

“If you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”  Even with preparation, consideration, and care, we still damaged one of our young trees with fire.  The tree will have scars from the fleeting fire, but it will continue to grow.  Hopefully, someday, the scars won’t even be seen.  The rapid transformation of a prescribed burn on the hillside from black to green is like a ‘do-over’—getting rid of the old, undesirable, and invasive to make room for the new, beneficial, and native.

Joseph Campbell, mythologist and writer of the human experience, wrote about love as ‘the burning point of life.’  It encompasses so many aspects of love—the burning desire of young lovers, the fierceness of a mother protecting her child, the passion one has for a vocation or avocation, and the absolute heartbreak of a lost love.  Love ups the ante of us getting burned.  We love, we get burned, we have scars, and we keep on growing through the growing pains.  Maybe we are all ‘prescribed’ these burns in our lives to manage our egos, to keep offensive things from taking over our lives, and to restore goodness to our innate selves.  Campbell also wrote, “Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.”  Love, pain, growth, and joy—when we know we’re truly alive.

To All Those Who Came From Mothers

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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.  

Holy Week is the Story of Our Lives

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This has been a wild week—a wild and holy week.  Wild because of the weather, with up and down temperatures, sunshine and snow, mud and ice.  Holy because it’s Holy week in the Christian religion.  Palm Sunday dawned with a peaceful, pastel sky—a sight to behold, one fit for a King.

Early Spring eases its way out of Winter with fits and starts—the promise is here, small signs are here, but in good standing, we cannot proclaim that Spring is here.  One morning, this small sign of Spring chirped and sang with exuberance from on high in the Linden tree.  A Starling is not known to be a pretty or interesting bird, but he was singing hosanna with joy!

The colorful Sunday morning sky heralded in a Monday morning snow.  Confusion swirled around the Spruce branches as the vine tried to reassure them.  Spring is here!  They did not believe. 

Tuesday warmed to 40 degrees with brilliant sunshine, and the sap was lifted up from the earth and flowed from a wound in the Maple tree.  Now this feels like Spring!

Wednesday was muddy and messy.  The warmth melted the new snow and chiseled away at the old piles.  Plans for the future garden were held in disbelief.

It’s too hard to imagine Spring and new life when the snow still clings to the north-facing hills.

Thursday’s rising sun shone through another colorful morning sky, foreshadowing another stormy day.  The pink light from the east reflected off the western hills.  Geese flew to the open part of the Sauk River for nourishment and companionship, washing their feet in the clear, cold water.

Friday morning’s sky was heavy and dark to the west, and I thought to myself, ‘It looks like snow.’  Soon the flakes started to fall, laying down an inch or so on the pavement as the warmed earth melted it away.  A Pileated Woodpecker crowed his distinctive call, flew to the base of one of the old Spruce trees, and proceeded to excavate a cavernous hole with his powerful beak.  He shouldn’t be destroying a live, formidable tree.

The afternoon looked normal, looked warm, but the wind picked up and felt damp and cold, betraying any thoughts of Spring.  When the sun sank and the day was done, the night sky was a strange purple-gray.

I heard the wind straining the house and trees overnight and heard ice hitting the windows.  A Winter chill settled over the house, over the land, over the Spring.  Saturday morning was cold with a wind chill of 1° F and three inches of snow.  The evergreen tree branches drooped with the burden of heavy, icy snow.  The blue sky taunted us to come outside to play, but everything else about the day held grief, disbelief, and suffering.  Spring, why have you forsaken us?

Easter morning dawned clear and cold.  The wind had calmed down.  The second blue moon of the year was setting in the west.

The sun rose blindingly bright; we were unable to look directly at its glory—even through the trees its power was undeniable.  The Cardinals were singing their Spring songs, and the sun created infinite sparkling diamonds in the snow.

 

It seems like all of Life is encompassed in Holy week.  Our exuberant joys and our deepest sorrows.  The days our hearts are troubled.  Our denial and disbelief in what is real, in what is happening before our eyes, in what we thought we strongly held in our hearts.  Holy week and our lives are wild with confusion, doubt, and suffering, along with devotion, love, and friendship.  It highlights the tender, vulnerable moments of our lives when we dare to kneel in servanthood, when we break the rules for justice and kindness, when we offer our dearest ones to another for safe-keeping, and when we call out to God in prayer.  It reveals the inconsistency and idiocy of power in the wrong hands and of deluded group-think that spreads like wildfire and destroys the Spirit of truth.  It gives us hope for the future, peace for the present, and reclamation for the past.  It gives us a way forward, a blueprint for transformation, and a belief in a bigger, more benevolent Way.  Holy Week is the story of our lives.  Peace and Love be with you.

Island Ice Walkers

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“In a sense, each of us is an island.  In another sense, however, we are all one.  For though islands appear separate, and may even be situated at great distances from one another, they are only extrusions of the same planet, Earth.”  –J. Donald Walters

Last weekend, I got away to an island.  It was sunny and warm—so warm that the snow was melting!  Down the hill from our house is the Sauk River which winds its way through the Horseshoe Chain of Lakes—thirteen connected lakes with convoluted shorelines, jutting peninsulas, and a multitude of islands.  We parked at a boat ramp at Horseshoe Lake as a group of ATVs raced around on the ice.  Cars and trucks crept through the rushes on an ice road to the little village of fish shacks.

But we were going a different way by a different mode of transportation.  We followed the snowmobile tracks to the island.

Most of the ice was snow-covered, which made walking easier, but there were places of clear ice where I peered into the depths of it, wondering how thick it was.

We weren’t the only creatures walking the ice to check out the island.

The island was like an incline rising from the water (ice) with the highest point facing the northwest, from which we came.

Oak, Basswood, Box Elder and Ironwood trees populated the island, and I was surprised as one of the fluffy-tailed inhabitants ran past me while I was gazing at the jet trail in the azure blue sky.

Most of the snow had melted from the island, and it was rather startling to see the vivid green moss at the base of the trees and crawling up the trunks.

Just as vivid was a scattering of Red-twigged Dogwoods along the shore, reaching out to the sunlight.

Downed trees had fallen into the water after years of erosion had loosened the roots from their moorings.

The branches gathered seaweed and algae from high-water summers…

and were polished to sculptural driftwood by summer waves.

We dubbed the island ‘Lone Squirrel Island’ as we walked back over the ice.

 

Islands are sort of mysterious.  They lend themselves to exploration, enticing the boater, the squirrel, and the ice walkers to come see what lies within these shores.  I was impressed with the quality of the woodland ecosystem on Lone Squirrel Island—the acorn-bearing Oaks and the beautiful Ironwood trees.  It’s not as easy to get to know an island when a watery moat surrounds it as it is when thick ice supports cars, trucks, snowmobiles, or walkers.  What if each of us is an island?  We appear separate.  Some of us are situated at great distances from one another.  What is the quality of our ecosystem?  Has anything loosened our roots from their secure moorings?  Yet, like the underlying Earth of the islands, we are all connected.  “Love is the binding force of the Universe.  It holds us together.  It makes us One.” –J. Donald Walters  The thick ice was our bridge to the island.  What bridges us together?  Listening.  Understanding.  Empathy.  Patience.  Kindness.  Let’s all be ice walkers.  As we peer into the depths of Love, can we even fathom how deep and wide it is?  

Wielding the Power of Love

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There’s somebody out there wielding more power than they probably know they have.  Their power is not evident at the time of delivery; in fact, it will be evident days to weeks later.  The delivery, I’m sure, is taken lightly and seems relatively benign, and they may or may not see the consequences of their actions.  That being said, their mission is noble and just—to rid our city or township of the noxious Spiny Plumeless Thistle.

I don’t have anything against the intrinsic value of any plant in this creation of ours, but I have a strong dislike for Buckthorn and Thistles, two of the most tenacious invasive species of our area.  Come June, I am scanning the ditch along our road for the opening of a pretty-if-it-was-on-another-plant purple flower.  At that time, I get out Chris’ sharp digging spade and spend an hour or two doing my civic duty by walking up and down our road chopping every purple-flowered, prickly plant I see.

Seed dispersal by wind takes the opportunistic seeds to anywhere there is some degree of disturbance—an overgrazed pasture, vacant lots, field edges, or roadsides.  Luckily, the plant is biennial, and with persistence, it can be eradicated over a number of years, especially if all neighbors are on the same page.  As the summer wears on, my digging slips, and I notice a few spindly plants flowering across the road from our garden.  Here is where the wielder of power comes into the picture—with a wand and a tank of herbicide.  August is not a good time to spray weeds in a good management program.  I’m not an expert on herbicides, but I live with a man who has used them every year of his horticultural career, and I know about drift and volatility.  I first noticed a change in the color of a number of sumacs–they all turned orange while the others were green.  And then I noticed my tomatoes—the growing tips were burned back, the leaves got spotty, and the tomatoes I was so looking forward to started turning off colors.  Dang it!  The city public works director denied that they were the ones responsible, but I was a little worried when he said my garden was too far from the road to be affected (not true) and didn’t know what dicamba was.

The wielder of the wand did more damage in the neighborhood.  While spraying in a gravel parking lot down the road at a small park, the drift killed all but one branch on a 15-20 year old Accolade Elm, a hybrid tolerant of Dutch Elm disease.  Its survival seems unlikely.

And the hill at the end of the road that used to be all grass a number of years ago will probably be filled with thistles again next year, as the herbicide concoction killed the grass along with the thistles.

 

So disappointing that my tomatoes were wrecked.  Disgusting that a tree that took so many years to grow was wiped out.  Frustrating that the people responsible don’t have a better management plan than ‘go spray thistles’ in the humid hot middle of summer.  For some reason it all reminded me of the hate, injustice, and ignorance in the world that seems to be tenaciously invading all our lives.  The prickly spines of hate are often hidden under the beauty and righteousness of a pretty idea.  Seeds of discontent and harm are dispersed via the internet by opportunistic self-serving strangers looking for the grounds of unrest.  And what are the wielders of power doing to manage it all?

It’s overwhelming at times.  I find myself wondering in that ancient, yet 90’s sort of way—What Would Jesus Do?  It helps me stay strong.  I know that I will keep picking up my shovel to chop out hate and ignorance, and for all I am worth, I will wield the power of Love.

Gleanings from June—How the Time has Flewn

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How did it get so late so soon?  It’s night before it’s afternoon.  December is here before it’s June.  My goodness how the time has flewn.  How did it get so late so soon?                   –Dr. Seuss

This is how I feel about the month of June.  It’s one of my favorite months, made all the better this year by the fact that we spent the beginning of the month in Kansas City with our daughter Anna and the other Brake relatives, had our daughter Emily home for vacation and work days, and had SD relatives, Aaron, friends, Emily and Shawn together for celebration days.  How the time has flewn, as Dr. Seuss said!

June is the most precious month of the summer—here in Minnesota the temperature is summer perfect–warm days and still-cool nights, few bugs and mosquitoes impede outdoor work and fun, and there is plenty of sunshine with abundant rain to keep things growing, blooming, and thriving.  Sooo good!  June is when my favorite Perennial Blue Flax blooms—so very lovely.  Do we take the time to appreciate the incredible beauty of a single flower?

Fuzzy, thick-leaved Mullein unfolds like a rosebud—how do we unfold the many layers of our gifts and talents so we can stand tall with our brilliant display of color?

Prairie grasses bloom in June and wave in the wind, while prairie wildflowers begin their complementary display.  How do we stand out in the crowd and love and accept the very things that make us unique?

Talk about fleeting time!  The exquisite poppy, so delicate yet strong, blooms for such a short time before the crinkly petals fall off, leaving the bulbous seed head.  How do we cultivate strength of body, character, mind, and soul?

The blooming Mock Orange shrub with its sweet fragrance was a magnet for Swallowtail Butterflies, both yellow and black.  How do we gather the sweetness of life and share it with others?

A June evening on the lake with good friends is made even better when we see or hear the resident loons.  I believe the ‘bumpy’ feathers towards the tail are hiding a young chick, enabling travel and protection for the offspring.  Do we protect and nourish our offspring and all the ‘children of the Lord?’

Some ingenious spider built its web on the dock, basically over the water—a construction feat for food and shelter.  How do we work to build a safe home and provide food while also maintaining creativity and inventiveness?

Water, lily pads, greens and blues—this Monet-like work of art is a reflection of a birch tree in the lake!  I love it!  How do our actions reflect our true inner self?  What work of art are we creating?

I also love this photograph of a Yellow Pond-lily—the floating leaves, the yellow sphere of flower, the reflection of the blossom, and the spill of water on top of the leaf.  How do we keep our heads above water with poise, beauty, and peace?

And finally, June in the Land of 10,000 Lakes—a couple of people and their dog, out on a boat, fishing at sundown.  How do we relax in this hurried, harried world?  How do we embrace silence and our own thoughts and feelings?

 

June slipped away far too fast—I wanted to hold it steady, keep it close, prevent it from moving on.  I wanted to do the same thing with the time I spent with my kids.  Instead, in the moments I was with them, I was intentional about looking into their faces, not only to see their beauty and uniqueness, but to notice the outward reflection of their inner state.  Are they happy, at peace, using their gifts and talents?  I quietly noticed their strengths of body, character, mind, and soul.  I fretted silently that they may have learned some of my qualities of being hard on myself, of not loving myself quite enough.  I also confirmed my intention and commitment I had from day one as a parent to protect and nourish them in the best way I could, to show them the sweetness of life, to instill in them a love for God, for Nature, for creating and learning.  And here they are—two and a half to three decades later!  How I love being in their presence!  And here I am—throwing out a line in the peaceful silence of my own thoughts and feelings.  “My goodness how the time has flewn.”

The Courtship of Spring—Love Letters to Us

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Courtship consists in a number of quiet attentions, not so pointed as to alarm, nor so vague as not to be understood.  –Laurence Sterne

Downstairs there are two cardboard boxes full of hundreds of letters from our courtship—one marked Letters to Denise, the other, Letters to Chris.  In this era of smartphones and other technology, who can even imagine such a thing!?  We met one May night, one one-in-a-million chance meeting, one would-you-like-to-dance swirl around the dance floor.  He was headed back home to Missouri from a northern fishing trip with his Dad, and I was out with my friend Patty talking about her upcoming wedding.  He gave me his temporary fishing license with his name and address on it and said if I’d write to him, he would write back to me.  So I did.  That began our two-year, 400-miles-apart courtship.

Letters are slow—slow to be written with pencil or pen and slow to be delivered by the US Postal Service.  But I still recall the excitement of opening the mailbox to find a letter from Chris, unsealing the envelope, reading his words and turning over the pieces of paper in discovery of this man.  Many things we wrote about were mundane—the weather, what we ate for supper, what tv shows we watched.  But letter by letter, slowly and surely, his character and values emerged.  Most of the time when we did see one another in person, we stayed at our parents’ houses.  I spent time washing dishes with his Mom, held the ladder for his Dad as he put up Christmas lights and told stories, met his four older brothers, their wives and children, and spent precious time with his sister.  Chris went duck hunting with my Dad, brought gifts of plants for my Mom, and made my siblings laugh.  Our courtship was slow and lovely and difficult and richly exciting as we anticipated each new discovery and the life we would have together.

The courtship of Spring is also the slow emerging of a wondrous season.  Weeks after the calendar Spring, tiny, golden leaves unfold from a Ninebark shrub.

Rhubarb, the delicious, tart fruit of the North, is pushing its way up out of the ground…

…while seeds of abundant greens wait for warmer weather and germination.

Setbacks happen in even the best of courtships—we were smiling from the warmth until a wave of cold air moved in this week, icing over the birdbath and constricting the leaves and flowers that were intent on opening.

Even the bluebird, all poufed up from the cold, was wondering what had happened to Spring.

Setbacks are temporary, and early bloomers like Epimedium and Lilacs can tolerate the cold better than others.

Day by day, Spring reveals new surprises—blooming Vinca vine and fairyland Mayapples.

Ferns unfurl tête à tête…

…and Mourning Doves and other birds pair up in courtship.

 

Spring delivers a plethora of quiet, slow unfoldings as each tree and plant comes ‘back to life’ after a dormant winter, as each pair of birds and animals prepare for mating and raising young ones.  The courtship cannot be one-sided—it takes the attention and appreciation of a beloved for the other to be seen and understood.  Each Spring we are privy to thousands of tiny miracles right before our eyes.  Do we see them?  As we swirl around the dance floor of Earth, tête à tête with Spring and with the beloveds of our choosing, it behooves us to remember that courtships include more than just the pair.  We are part of a family, a friend group, a community of like and unlike, and finally, a small part of the entire Whole.  While in our mundanity, during our chilly setbacks and mistaken attentions that alarm, let us notice the quiet miracles, the revealing values and character, and the discoveries that let us know we’re on the right track, that’s there’s no turning back, that we’re all in this together.