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Magical Reflections

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I’d hate to try to count the number of times in my life that I’ve employed ‘magical thinking.’ Developmentally, it’s a common occurrence with young children—the line between creative fantasy and reality is blurry. But adolescents and adults commonly find themselves with false beliefs about how their thoughts, actions, or words can cause or prevent undesirable events. I remember my Grandma believed that her worrying would prevent ‘something bad’ from happening. Chris’ Grandma believed her daily prayers brought her son home alive from World War II. Is it ‘magical thinking’ or ‘a belief?’ Is it a problem or a solution? Is it superstitious or factual? (Hmm, seems like we can all relate to a good amount of that in our world in the last few years.) Magical thinking is a common indicator of trauma. It’s a form of dissociation, a coping mechanism employed by our psyches in response to an overwhelming event. It’s an attempt to feel more in control when we feel totally out of control. So I don’t disparage magical thinking—it’s been a major player in my coping-mechanism toolbox.

The definition of ‘magical’ from Oxford Languages is ‘relating to or resembling magic’ (as in supernatural or mystical) or ‘beautiful or delightful in such a way as to seem removed from everyday life’ (as in extraordinary or incredible.) I’m not much interested in the former definition, but the latter describes so many things I discover in Nature!

Last weekend we hiked at Moose Lake State Park. It’s a relatively small park established in 1971. They have a beautiful park office that houses the Agate and Geological Center which displays Minnesota’s state gemstone, the Lake Superior Agate. On the Rolling Hills trail, we wound through towering Pines with an ethereal carpet of Meadow Horsetails—it looked like the homeplace of fairies.

Dark red fruit known as ‘haws’ loaded a thorny Hawthorne tree. It has hard and durable wood, edible fruit, and is the subject of many legends and myths. The Hawthorne tree is an emblem of hope and is said to heal a broken heart.

We passed by Wildlife Pond but did not see any wildlife. Instead we noticed beautiful White Water Lilies still blooming in the Autumn water.

White Water Lilies represent rebirth and enlightenment—an extraordinary occurrence in a person’s spiritual journey. They are a symbol of peace, love, and harmony—a magical blessing for anyone.

Across the trail from the Wildlife Pond was a smaller, more hidden pond where ducks and geese lazily swam and dove, bottoms up, to find food.

We heard the distinctive call of a Pileated Woodpecker before we saw him. They are not easy to capture with the camera. As a ‘spirit animal,’ the Pileated Woodpecker symbolizes strength, resilience, and determination.

The rather magical transformation of leaves was displayed with every step we took. The Maples were dressed and dropping their cloaks of red, orange, and yellow.

The Birch and Aspen were beginning their metamorphosis to golden yellow.

A tiny little environment of moss and mushrooms blossomed under the fallen leaves. Who else lives here?

Round-lobed Hepatica leaves were conspicuous through the leaf litter. These hardy leaves turn a rich burgundy color, persist through the Winter, then wither away when the lavender-blue flowers begin to bloom in early Spring. The new leaves unfold after the flowers bloom. The dark color and shape of the leaves reminded people of the human liver (thus the name Hepatica), and at one time was used by herbalists as a ‘treatment’ for the liver because of this connection. Magical medicine?

I noticed a large, golden-tan mushroom that had been eaten. At first I thought it was from a larger animal, but then I saw the shimmery shine of slime and dozens of snails attached to the underside and stem! Not an everyday sighting.

At one section along the trail, the Birch trees were bowing, creating an archway fit for royalty. As ordinary citizens, as lovers of Nature, as flawed and seeking humans, we marched under their humbleness with honor for them.

I have always thought of Autumn Quaking Aspen leaves as golden coins scattered on the ground—an abundance of riches, not for the taking but for appreciating.

A few Asters were still in full and fresh bloom, reminding us all that blooming happens in different seasons for everything (everybody.)

In contrast, Fireweed had bloomed, fruited, dried, and released its seeds into the wind with the help of fluffy cotton. Fireweed is a plant that represents rebirth and resilience, since it is one of the first to grow after wildfires. The lake-side Swamp Milkweed had also released its seeds, the empty seedpods creating a bouquet against the water and reeds.

The amazing afternoon sun and clouds were reflected on Echo Lake (echo lake).

Reflections of what we see in our lives and echoes of what we say are really the basis of our magical and not-so-magical thinking. As parents it is our responsibility to help our children ‘see’ things in a more realistic way and to ‘hear’ the facts and make sense of this world, while at the same time honoring their visions and words at whatever stage of development they are going through. It’s a huge, challenging endeavor that I know I had failings at, as hard as I tried. As loving, caring adults, it is our responsibility to do the same for ourselves and in our community of life and work. When there is a vacuum of loving exchange, a hole of information that could help us ‘hone’ our thoughts and ideas, that’s when we are left to figure it out on our own. To me, that’s what magical thinking does—it helps us try to figure out a situation in our own heads. It helps us identify our needs and wants—they are plainly being played out in our heads. The challenge is to straighten out our skewed thoughts and move them from our heads to our real life—easier said than done. Trauma in childhood can be crippling for life. Magical thinking is our good faith attempt to try to repair it. It’s part of our healing process. There are many things we employ in our lives that are not based on facts and reality of the moment—hopes, dreams, faith, prayers, affirmations, and our magical thinking. They are all a part of our nonfactual spiritual journey. Nature, with all her magical, delightful, and extraordinary creations and moments, is an integral part of my spirit, healing, and reality.

Waiting for What We Want

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I remember the bubbling, hard-to-contain excitement I felt in grade school as the large round clock face inched its way towards the end of the school day. It wasn’t with a sense of relief that I moved towards that bell ringing, because I loved school and learning, but I looked forward to the other things in my life that were also meaningful—horses in the pasture by our driveway, cats and dogs at our home, and acres of woods behind our house where we built forts and made trails. My first way of learning. It’s hard to wait when something is pulling you forward.

I would not be stepping on anyone’s toes in stating that Minnesotans are anxiously waiting for Spring. She has shown up on the calendar, in the snow melt, and maybe in some moderating temperatures, but we have seen snow, freezing high temps, and barren ground. At least with waiting for Spring, kind of like watching the clock at school, we know with certainty that it will come.

On the 21st, one month after the official start of Spring, I walked at Saint John’s Arboretum in the hopes of seeing Spring come bursting forth. I found a scroll of Birch bark—did this hold the secret script of Spring’s timeline?

I found one patch of snow still on a shady stretch of trail. I found the reassuring green of moss covering a sloping bank and the first ‘flowers’ of the season pushing up stalks of spores from the soft bed of moss.

I found some green Fern fronds and a few trails of Wild Strawberries that had maintained their ‘greenness’ under the blanket of Winter snow.

I found a hardy Thistle rosette that had stubbornly thrived under the snow.

And on the prairie, I searched high and low for the early-blooming Pasque flower to no avail, but I did find the green leaves of Prairie Smoke under the old grass litter—a small signal of Spring hope.

But that was it—beyond the tough little Pine seedlings that survive the snow burial of Winter which actually protects them from extreme cold and nibbling rabbits and deer. Gotta love them!

So I waited another week—one 60 degree day and some rain tricked us all into thinking this was it, but the cold returned, the sun hid behind pouty clouds, and we all waited again. Then on Thursday, I noticed a change! Leaf buds were showing and swelling and even opening! Lilacs, Gooseberries, and Elderberries! Oh, my!

Scarlet Cup mushrooms, the first showy color that peeks from the forest floor, are one of only a few mushrooms that can grow when conditions are below freezing. They have been in their chilly element these past weeks.

In a day’s time, some sort of perennial Lily did finally burst forth, growing inches in hours! Now that is truly Spring!

This weekend has been rainy, though still below-average temperatures, and will be the game changer. The grass looks greener overnight, enticing the rabbits and deer to munch on the vernal goodness. And the Crabapples will soon be blooming!

The wait is not over, but the things we want from Spring—warmer temps, leaves, green grass, and flowers—are manifesting as I write. It’s hard to wait for what we want. We live in such an instantaneous self-gratifying world (thanks technology), and it has trained us to be impatient when things don’t go our way. But waiting for and anticipating something that is exciting for us can be a gift in and of itself. I remember wanting my own horse but having to wait for years before I had earned enough money from cleaning out stalls at our neighbor’s horse farm. I remember wanting to be married to Chris, to see him every day but waiting in different states until our wedding day. The conditions have to be right—for Spring, for buying things, for getting married. And sometimes, we don’t get what we want—the conditions are never just right, our will or desire is not enough to overcome the odds, another person is unwilling or unable, or things are so beyond our control that we cannot get what we want or even need. But the things that pull us forward are limitless—the Spirit of the Universe never sleeps. Spring will arrive, then Summer, Fall, and Winter. It may not be on our time schedule of wants, but it will happen. That’s reassuring. Waiting also gets us out of our own heads and our thinking that we are the Kings and Queens of the world. We are not. We have things to learn—patience may be one of them. And sometimes, oftentimes, the outcome—whether a flowering Spring, a wonderful horse, or a beautiful marriage—is definitely worth the wait.

The Day the Sun Stands Still

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The first thing to greet us as we pulled into Wild River State Park was a most unusual sign! “Please, BRAKE FOR SNAKES.” Nobody would need to tell us to do so—we Brakes are a snake-loving family, especially our son Aaron. You could say, “Brakes for snakes” and be perfectly correct!

Chris and I were going camping on the Summer Solstice for the first time, just the two of us, in over three decades. It was an experiment. Did we remember how to do this? Could we do it? Would we want to do this again? And most importantly, could we sleep?! Since it was a Monday, the campground had plenty of available spots; we checked in, parked in our campsite, and headed out to hike after a brief rain shower.

We hiked along the Old Logging Trail, a paved bike/walking trail, to the Visitor Center where we had our picnic lunch, looked out over the trees to catch a glimpse of the wild St. Croix River, and learned how Vice President Walter Mondale had worked tirelessly to protect the natural resources of Minnesota and the United States, including the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act in 1968 that helped preserve this river. We left the paved trail and walked toward the River after discovering a colorful and unique Chicken of the Woods mushroom.

The trail dropped from the ridge through fern-covered hillsides and milkweed patches teeming with butterflies. There is something exquisitely beautiful about the fair pink and green ball of about-to-bloom buds of the Common Milkweed flower.

The trail turned and followed the River for over a mile and a half and would bring us back to the campground. The St. Croix River is a large river originating in northwest Wisconsin and creating the boundary for Minnesota and Wisconsin for 130 miles of the River.

King of this part of the River is an Eastern Kingbird. The genus-species name is Tyrannus tyrannus, an indication of his territorial behavior. He will harass crows, hawks, even Great Blue Herons who ‘intrude’ on his territory.

The ‘backwaters’ of the St. Croix were interesting little ecosystems of sometimes stagnant water, beaver activity, damsel and dragonflies, and pretty patches of Forget-me-nots.

Black-Winged Damselfly
White Tail Dragonfly

We heard the distinct ‘talking’ of an eagle to its young ones. Looking up, I could barely see the nest, but then discovered who was doing the ‘talking.’ It was an old-looking eagle—pale eyes and rather disheveled feathers—who has seen many more humans than humans who have seen him.

St. Croix River was used as a means of moving logs from the northern forests to the mills during the logging era in the late 1800’s. A pile-driven dam was constructed at this site in 1890, so logs could be let through at an even pace, after they had experienced numerous, humungous log jams that halted production at the mills. The last ‘log drive’ was in 1912, and the dam was removed in 1955.

When we returned to the campground, a deer was wandering through the trees between the campsites with no cares about the people wandering through. I practically had to shoo it from the door of the outhouse when I went there…where I was greeted with a sign and warning about other visitors.

Okay—fair warning. We set up our humble campsite and settled in for the longest day of the year. As the sun disappeared behind the trees around our campsite, I decided that I wanted to get a picture of the sunset on the Summer Solstice. We drove to an observation deck that overlooked the Amador Prairie—after stopping for the deer that were crossing the road.

The prairie was full of deer looking this way and that way, running, leaping, and grazing.

The sun was still shining so brightly on the horizon that I could barely look at it, so I found other things to look at while we waited for the sun to set. The almost full moon was already high in the sky; a couple of bucks with velveted antlers roamed the edge of the woods.

The purple flowers of a tendrilled Vetchling(?) picked up the purple color in the sundrenched spears of Bluestem grass. It takes a long time for the sun to set on the longest day of the year. I was over taking pictures of deer. I lounged against the boards while looking to the west into the bright orb of sun. I joked to Chris, “Where’s that bear when you need him?!” Not two minutes later, as he looked over my shoulder, he very matter-of-factly said, “There’s a bear over there.” What?@! I turned and looked at a very dark, moving object way over by the trees.

Sure enough, there was my bear!

But it wasn’t a ‘he’ and it wasn’t just one. It was a mama bear with two little cubs bounding along with her, mostly hidden in the tall grass.

Solstice is derived from the Latin words sol meaning ‘sun’ and sistere meaning ‘to stand still.’ On this day, the North Pole is tipped directly towards the sun, making it seem like the sun is standing still.

We didn’t see any snakes that day, but we experienced the exquisitely beautiful about-to-bloom season of summer. Or are we more like the Swedes who celebrate the Solstice as midsummer, the height of the warm, sunshiny season? However it falls, the longest day does hold some magic worth noting. The magic of empty-nest experimenting with pre-children pastimes. The magic of flowers and butterflies, birds and dragonflies, wild rivers and sweeping prairies. But most of all, for me that day, the magic of seeing my first bears in the wild—just when I needed them.

Tattered

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If I were a butterfly, my wings would be tattered. It hasn’t been wind and rain but storms of other kinds that have wreaked havoc on my body and devastated my heart. Like the butterfly, the longer we live and the more life experiences we have, the greater the chances of being tattered.

Sometimes life is just plain hard for oh-so-many reasons that are out of our control—coronavirus, job loss and the cascade that comes from that, certain illnesses and losses of relationships. It feels like we are pushing against the status quo, defying gravity, carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders.

At times we get stuck and wonder how the heck we ended up in this place. ‘I did not sign up for this.’

Life can turn us in circles, bind us in the weeds, trip us up, even as we are working hard to do the right thing.

Then there are those times, thankfully rare, when we are immobilized, frozen, stuck in a web of confusion and uncertainty. We are cocooned. The life we have known is taken from us—we dissolve from the person we used to be….into….nothingness….for a while, at least. The grief and despair of being wretched out of our old life and long-held beliefs is a bottomless well—or so it seems at the time.

But there is a bottom. In fact, it is constructed for each one of us—it catches us from our seemingly fatal fall in the exact right way, often without our awareness. We are still flailing and desolate, fighting against the constraints of change.

Do not be afraid—you are on the right path. Don’t struggle against the struggle.

But what helps with the struggle? Good nutrition of body, heart and soul—food, love, and meaning.

Sunlight…

the heartbeat of Mother Nature…

beauty…

support for our well-being and growth…

and knowing we, like all of God’s creations, can get through tough times.

Where do beauty and respect abide? Struggle is a part of the human experience. It is not for nought. Struggle helps us learn. It refines our beliefs. It is an opportunity to better ourselves and our world. It is meant to be a reckoning of who we are and where we stand in this Earthly creation. So while struggle is deeply and profoundly personal—it is only ourselves who are peering down the deep, dark well of whatever is tearing apart our hearts and souls—it is also God’s call to us to reach beyond our personal reclamation. We are citizens of the community, the church, the state, the country, and the world. In reckoning and reclamation comes a responsibility to our fellow citizens—not responsibility for, but to—and to our Earth. We are not here to take, use, discard, abuse, and misuse the lives of other people or the resources of our planet. Our personal freedom is tempered by our collective responsibility. Therein lies beauty and respect. So let’s celebrate tattered wings, storms of struggle, and hard-won inner battles. Let’s reach out during this Covid time with food, love, and light. Let’s know deep in our bodies, hearts, and souls that like the old Oak tree, we can get through tough times and that there is a landing place from which to rebuild. Fly, though your wings be tattered.