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River Dance

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Countless times I have walked the riverside trail at Mississippi River County Park. I have seen the River’s bank and the boat launch during the ice and snow of Winter, the overflowing water of Spring, and the drought of Summer. I know where the low spots are that stay muddy and mosquito-laden, where certain flowers grow, and where the deer like to graze. I am also familiar with Bend in the River Park on the other side of the River with its canopy of Oaks on the high bluffs that overlook the Mighty Mississippi. On Saturday of Labor Day weekend, I saw the River from the River’s point of view. Chris, Emily, and I launched our trusty Alumacraft canoe into the softly-rippling water. I was the duffer—not the desirable position, especially for my sixty year old joints, but a needed one when canoeing as a trio. I sat on a floatation cushion in the middle, on the bottom of the canoe, while the more experienced paddlers took their seats.

The water was low from our ongoing drought. Little beaches of sand appeared in places, many unseen from the land above them. While logs that have fallen into or floated down the River could be seen from the park trail, from the River’s view, they became an integral part of the boundary between water and land—they were much more noticeable, more usable, and more artistic.

Some of the shallow parts of the River were a horizontal painting of aquatic plants and algaes that dragged the bottom of the canoe and slowed the competent paddling of Emily and Chris.

Other shallow parts were clear and glowing with golden sunlight that revealed millions of fragments of mollusk shells and often a complete bivalve pearlized shell. A whole new world of underwater life not seen from the land-side.

Beautiful blossoms of Purple Loosestrife populated the islands. It is not a desirable plant for wetlands, lakes, and rivers and is categorized as invasive and noxious. They have thick, woody roots that form a dense web that can block natural drainage areas and outcompete native plants.

Native Willows thrive with their feet in the water and provide shelter for many of the inhabitants that live along the River.

A young Belted Kingfisher flew among the branches along the bank. Her crested head and distinct breast feathers identified the small fish-eater.

Another well-camouflaged water bird, a Green Heron, posed on a fallen log like a museum display. No movement, anonymity, and hopes of not being detected—all natural behaviors to enhance their food-finding fishing.

Joe-Pye Weed grew along the banks, their rosy clusters of flowers an important source of nectar for butterflies and bees at this time of year.

Another late summer flower to adorn the banks is Sneezeweed, a member of the Aster family. Its bright yellow petals and yellow-green ball-like centers make a cheery sight along with sunflowers in the green expanse of riverbank.

We paddled for three and a half to four miles; our goal was the dock of friends of ours who live down the road from us. The downstream current was negligible since rain had been so scarce the whole summer and the southeast wind blew the waves against us. Seeing the landscape from the River’s viewpoint in our relatively slow-moving craft was a peaceful gift in the late-summer morning.

We circled around the north side of an island away from the channel where boats and jet-skis were beginning to make waves. I saw a Great Blue Heron standing in the shallow water, and we stopped paddling to watch the Great Bird on this Great River. We watched a slow-motion dance, beginning with a bow. Its long neck and long legs curved and bobbed, lifted and stretched, pranced and turned until it finished with a flair, standing tall and elegant on its home stage.

We left the island performance and concentrated on reaching our goal as the sun shone hotter, the River became busier with boats, and my legs grew stiff and tingly from inaction.

Goose down feathers floating on the algae and water

Our River trek took two and a half hours. Emily expertly landed us beside our friends’ dock. I awkwardly unfolded my legs from the bottom of the canoe and tried to move my uncooperating hips over the canoe seat while ‘staying low,’ in order to get to the ladder. Let’s just say I was not as graceful as a Great Blue Heron. But our canoe trek was the highlight of my weekend. It was wonderful to see this familiar River from ‘the other side,’ from the River’s point of view. There are so many things we miss or even dismiss when we look at some thing or some body or some issue only from the safe, familiar bank we are used to. Even the fast-boat river riders see and experience the River differently than the canoers and kayakers. It is an issue as old as time. Walk a mile in my shoes; paddle a mile (or three) in my canoe; work a day in my job; live a day in my skin. All impel us to live in empathy and understanding of people who are different from us and who experience life from a very different island of reference. I hope the River Dance reminds us all to live in empathy, peace, and grace.

The Unseen River

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In the early seventies—yes, back in the nineteen hundreds—I was one of millions of kids who watched the one television set in the house with my siblings. We watched an array of programs—The Brady Bunch, Saturday morning cartoons, American Bandstand, Dark Shadows, the Merv Griffin Show, To Tell the Truth, Hee Haw, Laugh-In, and so many more. One of the shows we watched—The Flip Wilson Show—popularized an idiom “what you see is what you get” when Flip impersonated his drag persona ‘Geraldine.’ And no one, not my Republican parents, not the ‘media,’ not half the members of Congress, or concerned citizens thought this show was ruining, grooming, exploiting, or influencing children. It was a comedy show with a humorous man dressing up like a sassy character, and it was funny! Looking back at any of those programs could indeed bring on some cringe moments in this day and age, but we survived our tv-watching childhood and became who we were meant to be.

“What you see is what you get” is a statement often used by a person who is unapologetic of who they are or how they are behaving, especially if another asks them to do or be something different. It implies there is no hidden or unknown features, traits, or characteristics beyond what is seen or immediately apparent, and it also implies that the person has no interest in changing. This statement can run the gamut from a person who is humbly grounded in who they are in the world to a rude reply of ‘hey, I do what I do, and I don’t care what you or anybody else thinks.’ I’m not so interested in who says it or for what reason, but in the premise that what we see is the whole story.

When we went north to Bemidji, we were on a bee-line to see the bog, and I was thrilled to see the blooming bog plants. After our bog walk, we picnicked beside Lake Bemidji, a medium sized (7,000 acres) lake with clear water, sandy beaches, and abundant fish species. We hiked along the beach and along the northern shore for a ways, noticing boats and float planes traversing the waters.

Other floaters seemed to ignore the few people fishing and swimming. A red-headed Common Merganser swam close to the beach. A large Snapping Turtle floated to the surface near the dock, then lazily swam under the dock as fishermen threw their lines close by. A school of Yellow Perch doubled their numbers with dark shadows of themselves. A Blue-Winged Teal preened on a rock by the fishing dock, then swam close to the hiking path.

Along the rocky shore where Bass Creek flows into Lake Bemidji, Harlequin Blueflag Irises displayed their showy purple flowers, and the ball-shaped buds of Yellow Pond Lilies floated above their lily pad leaves.

June Wild Roses proliferated along the wetlands, their sweet smell and pink faces bringing joy to those who noticed them.

Bass Creek cuts a path from Big Bass Lake to Lake Bemidji, part of the 396,000 acres of land that drains into Lake Bemidji. The rushes, reeds, and cattails create a scenic wetland and provide food and shelter to the animals who live there.

There is much to see at Lake Bemidji State Park, as with so much of northern Minnesota. It hones your observation skills and makes one appreciate the incredible diversity that is contained in a rather homogeneous area. What you see encompasses a large part of the story, but it is not the whole story. We tend to think of water flowing into a lake as becoming the lake—Bass Creek becomes Lake Bemidji. But there is something we don’t see. ‘Bemidji’ means ‘lake with crossing waters’ from the Ojibwa word ‘Bemidjigamaag.’ The Mississippi River, whose source is less than fifty miles away at Lake Itasca, flows into Lake Bemidji from the south and west, crosses the Lake and exits on the east side. A river runs through the lake. This large and impressive River flows through a number of northern lakes before it begins its southward descent to Louisiana.

The things we don’t see are powerful parts of the story of a River and a Lake, just as they are with the stories of our Lives. My premise is the idiom of ‘what you see is what you get’ is how a person wants to be seen, not all that is there. It’s more likely a way to hide a vulnerability or a painful part of oneself. We have amazing, creative, resilient ways to armor ourselves against pain and loss, but the spirit of who we are runs through us whether seen or unseen. I like that we and all of Nature are an amazing combination of both. I think the challenge is to integrate all those parts of ourselves—the swagger, the shadows, the funny parts, the vulnerable parts, the knowledge, the fears, and the weaknesses—into an authentic, happy, beautiful Self while shedding those behaviors that separate us from ourselves and others. What is the unseen river that runs through you?

Flowing Together Like a Great River

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I grew up caring for animals. Always cats and dogs. Sometimes chickens and ducks. Later horses and cattle. I would feed them, make sure they had water, help build their shelters, and take care of their wounds. I hauled hay, cleaned out stalls, helped pull a calf, and doctored pink eye. Taking care of animals teaches responsibility, selflessness (chores come first), and hard work. I loved it, and I loved them.

I’ve been a little obsessed lately about what people care about and how it seems to be skewed in some odd directions. Can you make a list of things you really care about? And how do you know you really care about something? Spend time doing the work of caring? Spend money in support of the cared about thing? Give energy to the entity, relationship, or cause high on the caring list? And then, what is the outcome of your caring? That’s often even harder to identify and articulate. Certainly we gave time, money, and energy to caring for our animals—in return they gave us food, protection, fun, love, livelihood, and lessons, to name a few.

When looking up the definition of ‘care,’ I was surprised that the first meaning of the noun was ‘suffering of mind: grief.’ The second was ‘a disquieted state of mixed uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility.’ The third was ‘painstaking or watchful attention.’ The verb care was similar. Only later on the list of meanings for both was desire, regard, interest, or fondness mentioned. The first definition actually gets to the crux of care—if what we really care about is ‘taken away,’ suffering of mind is sure to follow.

Two weeks ago we pulled out of our driveway on the Great River Road and hours later drove the Great River Road into tiny Cassville, Wisconsin. We left the Mississippi River at times to expedite our trip, but the force of it was ever present on our minds. We returned to Cassville to bury Chris’ sister’s remains beside her parents and infant brother. The four and a half months since her death had taken the edge off our grief, but our disquieted minds still desired the closure of a burial. The permanence of a burial, along with prayers and blessings for the deceased and for those caring, grieving people left to live, is a sealing of that chapter of life.

After seeing the flooding the Great River unleashed in our area, we were curious to see what was happening in Cassville at the little resort cabin we had reserved that was the favorite of Chris’ folks. The floodwaters had risen to the edge of the cabins but had started to recede by the time we got there.

Our first visitor to the deck overlooking the River was a tiny Hummingbird. Soon after, we discovered a pair of Robins had a nest in the Birch tree that provided shade from the western sunlight. The male Robin took great care to bring food to his mate who warmed the eggs in the nest they had built.

The receding floodwaters and subsequent mud provided a perfect playground for a pair of Killdeer and their fluffy, long-legged offspring. Their halting scurrying, bobbing, and distinct high-pitched chattering made them endearing neighbors.

The people-free, flooded dock was a great place for the Northern Map Turtles to bask in the sun. I didn’t even see the little ones in the bright sunlight when I was taking the photo of the big one. The next day we saw one floating down the River on a log—I think they are glad for this warm Spring weather, too!

Across the slough on an island was a dead tree that provided the perfect lookout for an ever-watchful Eagle.

It was good to be in Cassville beside the River. The cabin hadn’t changed much since the folks had stayed there, and my mind easily ‘saw’ them standing against the pine-paneled walls or on the deck overlooking the River. These people who we so deeply cared for and loved were home again or still in this River land, in this familiar cabin, and as always, in our hearts. Evening came with softly rippled reflections. The still water seemed ‘alive’ with a humming layer of mosquitoes or other bugs that had the fish jumping. The well-fed fish had little interest in the lures and bait that Chris and Aaron were throwing into the water from the marina dock.

As dusk fell, a Spotted Sandpiper teetered about in the shallow water, and a beaver swam undeterred until Aaron threw his line too close for the rodent’s comfort.

I cared for our animals with diligence and love, and if one of them was injured or died, I suffered their injury or loss. I like the analogy of grief as suffering of mind—it normalizes the pain of loss and gives it a deep container and a long timeline in which to hold it. Time tends to ease a suffering mind in ways that make living a little more doable. I have learned that the next step is to give your suffering mind some watchful attention, some care, some love, so that life becomes more than just doable. If we think about our grief as a palpable display of caring and love, the grieving and the living flow together like a great river. When grief gets dammed up behind a supposedly protective wall, it can easily overwhelm everyday life. It displays as depression, anxiety, lethargy, anger, blame, hate, and violence. Remember, grief is a suffering mind, no matter the cause. I think Mary’s life and death taught me to bind the suffering with joyful living. As a person with Down Syndrome, she needed people to take care of her—there was always uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility with her care (just as with all children.) And she cared deeply for the people around her, for animals, and for her job—she lived with joy. I can suffer her death and live with a peaceful heart. It takes time, energy, and oftentimes money to really care about someone, a relationship, an entity, or a cause. Caring is the business of lifting up, providing for, giving attention to, and suffering at the loss of the cared-for; it is not a frivolous business. We can all step into the great river of caring and grieving, loving and suffering—it is a force that can change the world.

A Good Flood

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We’ve all experienced a flood of emotions—whether anger at an injustice, sadness with the loss of a loved one, shame when something triggers our feelings of unworthiness, or love with the first look at our newborn. This flood of feelings can be overwhelming, sudden and surprising, and many times bringing tears to our eyes. Often the flood is a messy collection of emotions that are not easily teased apart and compartmentalized—it could be anger-sadness-shame-love all rolled into one tsunami. We flail around in the overwhelm, sometimes apologizing for our tears, often wanting to retreat or hide from the defenselessness of our vulnerability, and feeling the need to quickly erect the wall of protection that normally hides those feelings from the rest of the world.

It’s a messy time of year in Minnesota for hiking. There are still ridges of old, packed snow on trails in the trees that are softened and slippery. Other places are muddy with snowmelt and rain and snow again. There are big puddles in places where even ‘waterproof’ boots are challenged. In spite of all of that, we ventured to Mississippi River County Park on Monday. The first thing Chris noticed, even before we got out of the car, was an Eagle circling the area above us. When we got out, we saw two, then three of the graceful gliders! That’s a good start to a hike!

As we crested the hill that plunges down towards the River, we immediately saw we would not be hiking our usual route—the whole woods below us was flooded!

The riverside trail was the River now. The banks were overwhelmed, overtaken by the high and mighty waters that had gathered from the snow and ice that had quickly dissipated to liquid form in the previous unseasonably warm week. No slowing down the melt; no slowing down the water.

We walked back up the hill, along the bluff ridge, to the blocked-off road that goes to the boat launch. The road had been built up enough to be dry, though there was evidence the water had surged over it sometime before we were there. The woods seemed unrecognizable in the swamp of water. A twisty tree looked like a sea serpent rising from the swale.

The leaf litter and debris that floated to the top of the floodwater shone in the evening sun and looked like snow that still clung to the higher ground.

A little chipmunk scurried around the base of a big Cottonwood tree. He seemed to be more worried about staying on high ground than about us walking by him. I wondered how many little critters had been displaced with the flood waters.

On either side of the road was water—debris-shining, reflecting, still, rippling, engulfing, submerging.

A green-moss-log-gator loomed from the swamp water.

The boat launch was filled to the parking lot, the usual ‘banks’ covered, the new banks only defined by how high the ground was at any given spot. The River was making and taking its own boundaries.

We heard the chatter of geese across the River. Some strong, brave souls were swimming upstream against the current. One pair flew upriver close to the water. Perhaps this is their ‘spring training.’ But then as we walked on, we noticed some geese rapidly flowing downstream with the swift current, like the ultimate waterpark slide! Was it the same ones who had just navigated against the current? They ‘let go’ of their striving and rode the rapids, turning and twirling like a kid on a saucer sled barreling down a steep, snowy hill. Do you suppose they do this for fun?

One pair rested on a log that had become driftwood in the flood waters.

We were able to walk a short distance along the river trail until the water once again overtook the lower land. A raft of ducks bobbed about on a quieter part of the River.

We headed for higher ground to finish our hike. Bright green moss glowed in the sunlight, brightening the still-gray woods. And despite the snow, it was sending up bloom stalks, shaking off the dormancy of Winter.

We rounded a corner beyond a row of tall Pines. The sun was bright in our eyes. Without sunglasses, I squinted to see what Chris noticed—in the glowing sunlight stood a young deer looking at us. I always marvel at these creature to creature encounters when curiosity of one another binds us together for a moment in time!

The Young One wandered away, not running, not raising her white tail in alarm. We saw her and another larger deer nibbling at things among the Oak trees. They watched us, and we watched them, all of us happy for the melting snow, the unveiling of the fuzzy, green Mullein and shoots of green grass, and for the imminent promise of Spring.

Mississippi River County Park is a stellar example of a ‘good flood.’ Most often when we hear the word ‘flooding,’ it is a crisis of washed out roads and damaged homes. Melting snow and Spring rains bring about an increase in the volume of water flowing down a river—and it needs someplace to go. Lowland around a river—the flood plain—has been the natural place to safely contain excess water. It has adapted to being flooded in the Spring, and the plant life renews itself with nutrients dropped on the soil as the flood waters recede. As humans have drained and developed or farmed lowlands, there is less area to safely contain the excess water. More of it runs off to places that cause damage. The lowland at the park is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do—it’s a good flood!

The same can be said of our flood of emotions. They are our release valves in the messy business of being human. We have adapted to be emotional beings—it keeps us connected to one another, provides us with information about ourselves and others, and helps to keep us safe. When we notice and express our feelings in a healthy way, it helps to avert a crisis that causes heartache and damage. So we just have to let the good floods happen, let the tears and water flow, witness the overwhelm and the adaptability, connect with curiosity, learn, and have fun!

Chasing the Sun

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I bought a Sting album a number of years ago because of one song—“Soul Cake.” I loved the traditional instruments, the Celtic sound, and the inference that cake could be good for one’s soul—“Any good thing to make us all merry.” I had never listened to anything by Sting before that. The album contains some Christmas carols, but I never listen to it until after Christmas, in the gray days of January. It is titled, “If on a Winter’s Night…” and explores the deep feelings and thoughts that the cold, gray Winter brings to our doorsteps. This year, after Mary’s death, the song that catches my heart’s attention is “The Hounds of Winter.”

“Mercury falling, I rise from my bed, Collect my thoughts together, I have to hold my head; It seems that she’s gone And somehow I am pinned By the Hounds of Winter Howling in the wind.” –Sting

Our goal last weekend was to find some sun—the gray, cloudy days had persisted and resisted any positive forecasts that promised a peek of the happy-maker. “If we go north, we should have some sun by about one o’clock,” I strategized, looking at the weather app. So we packed snacks and snowshoes and headed north to Crow Wing State Park near Brainerd. When we pulled into the cleared parking lot, there were no signs of dispersing clouds, let alone a peek of sunshine. Still hopeful, we strapped on our snowshoes and followed the Red River Oxcart Trail along the Mississippi River.

We were not far along on the trail when I saw a sliding track in the snow. Alternating footprints were on either side of the slide—River Otters had been having some fun in the snow!

Not only was the sun nowhere to be found, the gray sky made the snow look gray—only the darker gray trees interrupted the gray expanse of our visual world. It was stark. It bordered on bleak. The hounds of Winter.

Another Otter slide etched through the snow and disappeared over the edge of the high River bank—that would be an exciting slide! I shoed through the deep snow to peer over the bank and saw his slide trail go all the way across the ice to the open ribbon of water.

Despite the lack of sun, it was a good day for snowshoeing. The temperature was in the low teens, and as long as we kept moving, we stayed warm but not sweaty.

Another Otter slide started on one side of the trail on a little hill, crossed our trail, then zoomed down the River embankment after a little hiccup with a snow-embedded branch. Otters slide on their chest and bellies, and when gravity doesn’t pull them along, they push themselves along with their hind feet.

We stopped for some water and a snack as we looked out over the frozen Mississippi River at Chippewa Lookout, then circled back towards the Old Crow Wing townsite where we had begun our hike.

A circle of Lichens

The history of this park includes the sites of three different mission churches, including one from the Catholic Church, where now stands a small, granite chapel. As we snowshoed past the outdoor alter, the words “Hail Mary, full of grace” came to my mind.

We never found the Sun. The gray Hounds of Winter found us. After the initial shock of a loved one’s death, grief can harry us, like Sting says “the Hounds of Winter, they harry me down.” Everyday life has a different feel, even as there are times when a day’s routine takes our mind away from the bleakness. There are even moments of joy that penetrate the grief like a ray of sunshine. Imagining the otters sliding in the snow gave me that ray of happiness. There is something to be said for living in the grief, in the stark grayness. For in the midst of the gray grief is the reason why we even feel that way—love. With each step forward, the grief is acknowledged and integrated into our being. With each step forward, the love is remembered and held up in gratitude.

Addition and Subtraction

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Have you seen that commercial where the man is stoically and rather cheerfully walking around with a enormous bear trap on his foot? It will be alright, he says. No big deal. He can handle it… Well, I can relate. Stoicism has its merits, including self-discipline and perseverance, but it can also become ridiculous. There seems to be a fine line between stoicism and self-inflicted suffering, and I have walked that line. I have also voluntarily veered into the suffering field and set up camp there. In fact, I was pretty comfortable in my suffering. But not anymore. I see the bear trap I’ve been dragging along on my foot—it’s heavy, and it hurts, and there’s no reason for it anymore.

So I have made a decision to subtract some things from my life, starting with that bear trap. I am taking away a few things I dearly love and fervently believe in, but I have realized that I can get so wrapped up in them that I neglect other things I should be paying attention to. My decision-making took long swaths of time and lots of angsty jumping back and forth across the line—should I or shouldn’t I? The process became as long suffering as my stoic self. But I finally feel like I’ve shaken some things off, and I’ve got to say, it feels….strange and rather exhilarating (in a stoic kind of way.)

Saturday was a day right on the line of freezing, give or take a degree or two. The air was heavy with humidity—at times it sputtered as snow, other times a misty sprinkle. Would we add snow or subtract it with rain? We hiked at the Little Elk area—it was a pretty spot where the Little Elk River opened up and flowed into the Mississippi River. But now both Rivers were iced over—the shallow parts had strong–enough ice for sleds and tent houses used for ice fishing. Each cold day and night adds ice. Each day above freezing deteriorates it.

Large White Pines and Oaks lined the River trail, along with little patches of prairie grasses in open areas.

For a pretty picture: just add mushrooms and a cap of snow!

We soon saw evidence that a beaver had been busy subtracting the number of standing trees along the River, and I wondered if the slushy footprints belonged to him.

I think beavers must be stoics considering their impossibly hard job of gnawing trees down in order to build their homes and make their dams. Try, try again and again and again. Perseverance and self-discipline.

As we followed the River, I began to wonder how many beavers were actually working in the area, especially when we got to this (de)construction site. Many of the trees were young Oaks—very hard wood to chew through, but what a sturdy structure they will make!

As in any forest, time, weather, insects, and diseases can subtract the number of large trees that make up the forest. Their loss is impactful. Their death and downing makes a cracking, crashing wail of letting go of what was a beautiful, productive life.

And yet, as those old beauties die, the young ones are sprouting up to take their place. Subtraction and addition.

At a point by a curve in the River was a fenced-in area that had been excavated by an archeologist in the 1980’s and 90’s. He found three dwellings of a French fort from the mid 1700’s. The area is listed with the National Register of Historic Places as the oldest European outpost in the Mississippi River headwaters region.

Logs were floated down this section of the River back in the logging days of late 1800’s/early 1900’s to local saw mills. Log jams were common and would take weeks or even months to clear. Interestingly, some of the logs sunk, caused a jam that didn’t get cleared, and created an island over the years! Addition of islands!

We left the River trail and circled into the Pine forest that followed a ridge. Red Pines joined the old White Pines, both towering above our heads. It was such a good feeling to be walking among them!

Nature is all about addition and subtraction. Birth and death. New things and old, failing things. Mother Nature also shows us how old things can be transformed into new things—downed trees into a new island! Humans seem to resist these natural transitions and transformations. At least I do. But when one is closer to the cracking, crashing wail of the end of life than to the sprouting vigor of a newborn, it is easier to let go of the things that feel like subtractions to our lives. Why carry around the heavy things just because we can? I know that I am strong enough, persistent enough, and disciplined enough—all good qualities of stoicism. But I also want to add loving enough (to myself), empowered enough, and peaceful enough. Subtraction and addition—it’s simple math.

Blessings and Crack-ups

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I know a blessing when it presents itself to my life, and I can even spot a few that are in disguise. I know how to count them, accept them, savor them, and be grateful for them. I’ve had a few plaques hanging on my walls over the years proclaiming the goodness of blessings and offering that sentiment to anyone who sees it. I am equally familiar with the crack-ups, the break-downs, the pile-ups, and the mishaps. No Thanksgiving or any other day, for that matter, has one without the other.

Last Sunday’s hike at Mississippi River County Park was chilly and windy. The temps had dropped into the teens the previous few nights, and ice had formed on the River in record time. (We had hiked at the park across the River two days before, and the River was open.) A layer of snow had fallen after the ice formed, and then the wind blew! The wind and current sent the River ice into a crack-up! There is a dam a couple of miles down river from the park where the water becomes still and full. When the water slows down, the ice forms more smoothly. At this stretch, the north winds stirred up the current and the chaos, breaking up the ice that formed overnight. The River was a mash-up of smooth ice, piles of chards, open, flowing water, ice floes, and ‘warm’ spots that had melted and re-froze. Does any of that feel familiar?

We left the River bank and followed the trail ‘inland.’ The trail had already been groomed for skiing, and ski tracks intermingled with the footprints of humans, dogs, and deer.

The bright sunlight filtered through the trees, lighting up the ‘snow arches’ of the bent trees that live incognito during the summer.

The backwater pond, even and shallow, had smooth ice with a layer of snow that revealed the tracks of some brave animals that had already ‘tested’ the ice. I wondered how they knew they could make it across.

The beaver has been busy felling trees. I have yet to see where his lodge is, and I wonder if he is new to the neighborhood. His industriousness is impressive! Chewing down the tree isn’t even the hardest part—‘cutting up’ and dragging the chunks of wood to his building spot is the most labor-intensive.

Living in this world has given me an appreciation for the blessings in my life. It also makes me realize that blessings befall us all—they are not just doled out to a favored few. The hardest part is being grateful, humble, helpful, and beneficial to others with the gifts that come our way. The more difficult learning curve of the decades is appreciating the crack-ups, downfalls, pile-ups, and break-downs. They also befall us all. We cannot eschew them if we want to abide in a more peaceful place. The hard part is not getting tangled up in the chaos and the destruction, though that is easier said than done. But slowing down smooths things out and soothes the pain of the inevitable crack-ups and break-downs. So take it all in and be thankful. Be still. Be full of love—for our beautiful Earth, for ourselves, and for others.

Promise Shines Through the Gray

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There is a stark contrast in my photographs from this post compared to the last one with all the brilliant Fall colors, though nearly a month has passed since I actually took the colorful photos. Gray November comes to us gradually. It is time to see things in a different light—the literal reality of which we have no other choice. Shades of gray and brown dominate the landscape now. We do have a choice as to how we think about the ‘colorless’ palette of late Autumn and Winter.

It is a time to see the bare basics, the silhouettes of trees and shrubs. I appreciate their form, their shape, their strength and flexibility.

The gray Mississippi reflects the gray sky, surrounded by the gray, bare trees, the gray-green Cedars, and the surprisingly yellowish-brown grass. The day was raw with a northwest wind—eighteen miles per hour of wind chill on the below-freezing day. Enough to make my eyes water as I faced the flowing River.

We had had rain, much-needed rain, in the few days prior to my hike, and the ice crystals crunched ever-so-softly under my boots. Tiny beads of snow fell, hardly perceptible to my eyes and skin.

Along with the rain had been strong winds that had toppled dead trees and limbs, making obstacles on the trail and wreckage in the woods. Beware of the gravity-defying widow-makers who have not made their way to the ground!

A pile of invasive Buckthorn had been toppled on purpose and piled neatly beside the trail. Good riddance to that which takes over the forest, if allowed, in its hungry quest for dominance.

The bare trees allow us to see things that we would not normally notice in the Summer, and though it seems to have an ‘ugly’ look, it really is ‘just different.’ Our judgement clouds the reality.

Blemishes, wrinkles, wounds, spots, holes, marks, weathering, and decline are all exquisitely evident in the unveiling Autumn. It is Nature, and it is us—how can you not love it?

Here in the forested North, we have place-holders for all the others who have lost their leaves—the Evergreens. They are the hope-keepers, the oxygen-makers, the color-bearers. Usually when I hear the wind whisking through the tops of the Pines, it sounds like singing, but on this day, it sounded more muted, less lyrical, more….story telling. The Evergreens, whether the long–needled Pines, the conical Spruces, the wispy Firs, or the sturdy Cedars, tell the Winter story for all the trees and dormant plants. It keeps them all ‘alive.’

And so, the dried Goldenrod flowers become stars of light…

the Artemisia becomes an array of tiny silver bells…

the young Pines embody the everlasting Goodness…

the Red-twigged Dogwoods represent the warm flow of life-sustaining blood…

and the clinging red Oak leaves remind us of our resilience.

Growth is a given in Nature—the eternal hopefulness of that can sustain us through the cold and gray months. Meditate on the miracle of it.

Often with growth comes the shrinking and dying of old branches, childish beliefs, old, outdated coping behaviors, and ignorant information. (To me ‘ignorant’ is uninformed or inexperienced, not a judgement.) Gray November and the cold Winter are perfect times to prune away the old, outdated branches.

Sometimes our old, tightly-held beliefs and ignorances have grown so large that they have wounded those close to us, often with no intention and knowledge on our part. Pruning allows both to heal and grow.

At the end of my hike, I saw a noisy flock of birds scouring the leaf litter under some trees. Robins and Chickadees and a Northern Flicker hopped around looking for food. The Robins and Flickers will go farther south when snow covers the ground. They are some of the last to go, but I see in them their promise to be the first to return, just as the snow uncovers the ground in Spring.

Gray November holds all kinds of Hope. We attended a beautiful wedding last weekend that held the light of young Love and the energy of Happiness and Potential. Do you remember those? At this time of year, we can see more clearly with less obstacles in the way, along with a path around the ones that fall before us. Vision and Breakthroughs. We can look at the reality of our blemishes and human short-comings and call them Authentic. Forgiveness lives on in the cold harshness of Winter. We can identify the invasive species of thoughts, beliefs, and behaviors that need to be toppled, pruned, and removed. Openness and Opportunity. With the un-busy-ness of the dormant time, the stories and glories of Summer and Growth have space and time to be told. And gray November and dark December unfold to Celebration—to giving Thanks, to decorating with stars, silver bells, ever-greenery, and warm red ribbons and bows. We celebrate Goodness and Life Everlasting. Promise shines through the gray.

Mesmerizing Middle

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I’m going to begin in the middle. In the middle of our hike, that is. And only for one photograph, one minute of time, one funny little revelation. It inspires all of my hikes, and with reflection, it really is the basis of why I take photos, write this blog, and share it with you all. We walked across a ‘floating’ wooden bridge over an inlet to a shallow pond halfway through our hike at Mississippi River County Park. Duckweed has been covering the slow-moving inlet water and much of the pond for months now. On this day and all those going forward into Autumn, leaves had fallen onto the thick duckweed, creating a collage. I peered over the edge of the bridge, staring into the pea-soup green water. Since the bridge ‘floats’ on top of the water, every movement we made radiated out into the water and duckweed, producing movement and patterns through the bright green medium. “This is kind of mesmerizing,” I told my patiently waiting husband. With his usual dry humor, Chris broke my nature-spell by proclaiming his take on it all, “Makes me want to jump in and go for a swim!” I laughed at the absurdity of it, imagining his rising from the water as the incredible green hulk!

Nature is mesmerizing for me. I see things and wonder…who lives here? How did the tree die? How many young ones have fledged from this high-rise home?

Look at this pearly shell! Scooped up by the water from the sandy shore and placed on this rock for a moment in the long trend of time until a bigger wave sweeps it back to the Mississippi waters.

Seaweed and floating Willow leaves have their own kind of enchantment as the waves move through them.

In the full green of Summer, vines are often overlooked, but at this time of year, they show themselves with changing colors, as with red Virginia Creeper, orange-berried Bittersweet, or yellowing Wild Cucumber. Wild Grape vines and Wild or Bur Cucumber vines can absolutely enshroud all other vegetation or structures with their robust twining and climbing. As some of the other leaves fall, Canada Moonseed vine comes into its own with hanging purple fruit that looks a bit like edible Wild Grapes, but in actuality, is poisonous.

Another common vine is Virgin’s Bower. It is a type of wild Clematis with indistinct, small white flowers. Its fruit and seedheads are the fascinating part of this vine—the wispy tails of the fruit dry into puffs that inspire its common name of Old Man’s Beard.

In the middle of summer, Mississippi River County Park becomes very monochromatic and homogeneous after its enthralling Spring of woodland/floodplain flowers. Few plants are blooming, trails can be wet with rain and heavy with mosquitoes, and the cons often outweigh the pros for hiking there. But Autumn comes, and the park once again embraces its color and beauty.

The shallow pond in the middle of the park reflects the golden trees, provides a home for Painted Turtles, and grows Monet-worthy Lily Pads.

Colors of all shades and hues begin to pop out of the greenery. The process of the energy-producing shutdown that happens to most plants in the Northland is fascinating!

And then there’s the Sunlight. It shines on the color, over the brown seedheads of Monarda and Indian Grass, and through the green leaves of Stiff Goldenrod and others. It is the fire that fuels Spring growth, Summer production, and Fall decline. It entrances us because the Sun is just as important to us as to the plants.

Poet extraordinaire Mary Oliver wrote: “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” It is the way I live my life. It is the reason I started North Star Nature. It is my fascination with all the mesmerizing aspects of Nature that impel me to write my blog week after week for over eight and a half years now. To my readers, I thank you and hope you have been astonished along with me. Nature deserves your attention. It deserves your love. It deserves your caregiving. I hope you have an enchanting Autumn!

Something Old, Something New

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A couple of big things have happened in the last two weeks—we celebrated an old marriage, and Chris got a new hip! The hip came first—I am just amazed at the technology that a robot can help the surgeon take out an old, damaged joint and replace it with a new one that works better. Along with the fact the person walks out the door just hours later! Wow! But just as miraculous is forty years of marriage! It’s a relatively old marriage, though perhaps more middle-aged when I think of my friends who have crossed the sixty-year marriage mark. We looked at pictures from that day forty years ago when we were new adults, newlyweds, new partners. It was a sweet and wonderful day!

Hip recovery requires care, some new equipment, patience on both our parts, practice of therapy exercises, pillows, and ice. This second phase is super important to make sure the excellence of the first phase remains. So we c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y went on an outing this week, packing up the needed equipment for Chris to sit under the old giant Pines at Belle Prairie Park while I took a hike. He looked out over Old Man River whose water overflowed its banks with Spring flooding. Something old—the old River reminds us and ties us to the past—the hard times and the good times.

Something new. New leaves. New flowers. So tender and sweet and pristine. Hope for the future.

Something borrowed. The beavers were busy using the floodwaters to their advantage, borrowing the young trees to make their home. It’s easier to move logs in water than across land. They are building for a long, happy life.

Spring flowers fit for a wedding! Wood Anemone is no flash-in-the-pan flower. It takes a single plant five years or longer before flowering! Commitment and tenacity.

The marsh and the forest are a combination of Old and New. The marsh is always ready to accept the Spring floodwaters, year after year, which in turn nourishes the lovely, brilliant Marsh Marigolds. Their buttercup flowers and glossy, heart-shaped leaves are a swath of sunshine through the Spring forest.

Old bark on old tree trunks shows the signs and scars of age and wear. Living long takes its toll, even on trees. Right beside them grow the young ones with smooth, gray bark—a long life ahead of them. And both get new leaves every year. Renewal is for everyone!

Something blue. Violets were scattered along the trail, warding off evil and giving me nods of good luck.

Surprises. Both of these surprises could be seen from far away at this time of year—before the leaves offer a shield or camouflage. An Oriole nest, a marvel of construction—does it house a nest full of eggs?

As bright as the Marsh Marigolds was a Scarlet Tanager, though with flaming red feathers and contrasting black wings. A handsome gem in the Spring forest!

Then back to the Mississippi River with flowering Wild Plums growing along its banks. The big island trees had their feet in the flood waters, as the new foliage began to cover their impressive Winter silhouettes.

“Ol’ man river just keeps rollin’ along.” Oscar Hammerstein

The wedding tradition of ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ incorporates values and qualities that we wish for every new couple. It honors the long river of the past and the people who came before us, it encourages hope and prosperity for the future, it advises to learn lessons from the people who have already traveled that path, and wishes good luck—to do good and avoid evil. All four values are enveloped in love. For forty years, Chris and I have committed to these values. We have seen hard times and good times with surprises of both. With the scars and signs of age, we know there is always renewal and along with it, sweet hope, like nectar for our souls. We have learned that the old builds the new—what was is the foundation for what’s to come—whether of ideas, emotions, mistakes, or actual physical manifestations. We keep rolling along, building our long, happy life together.