nests Archives - NorthStarNature

Winter Nesting

December 5, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

It’s a thing, you know—nesting. It usually refers to when a woman is beautifully curved and round in late pregnancy—when she has a natural instinct or urge to prepare her home for the impending arrival of the baby. It may manifest as cleaning, arranging, organizing, or buying furniture and clothes. It is a way to practically and mentally prepare for the birth of a child. It helps a woman feel in control of her environment, to prepare a place that feels safe and secure for her and her baby. Most animals do a similar ritual of preparation for their offspring by building nests or dens in protected places. This flurry of activity is usually done in Spring….but let’s think about nesting in another way….

We returned to Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. I was hoping to see a lake full of waterfowl preparing for their long migration. The Platte River was beginning to ice over, the River and ice formations curving between and around the banks of golden slough and prairie grasses.

Under the ice and under the mud in the River are turtles and frogs hunkered down and protected from the cold Winter weather. Safe and secure.

Old logs and thick, coarse slough grasses provide cover and a place to make a cozy, cold-weather nest for small mammals and birds.

High in the branches of a deciduous tree, bare of leaves, was a pouch-like nest of an Oriole. It is a structural phenomenon! The female begins her nest-building with support strands placed around branches—this industrious weaver found some purple twine that worked well for her hanging nest. She gathers long, strong fibers from plants like swamp milkweed for the outer bowl, then uses her beak almost like an awl to thrust and pull the grasses and fibers to finish the weaving process. The nest is lined with soft fluff from Cottonwood trees in order to cradle up to seven eggs. The process takes resources, patience, finesse, and one to two weeks of time.

We saw no waterfowl—no ducks, geese, or swans. Where were they? Had they already flown south? It had been so warm, and I hadn’t seen large flocks flying overhead. What we did see were eagles—three or four of them flew over Platte River and Rice Lake, following us on our trail, it seemed.

A hole formed from a burned out part of a tree, with leaves and fluffy Cattail seeds, could make a warm, protected nest for some little creature.

The Eagle’s nest is another engineering wonder, a dark structure of sticks highlighted by the white Poplar bark branches that hold it.

‘Nesting’ comes from the ritual of nest-building in preparation for the raising of offspring. I propose that nesting happens at other times of the year also. Preparation for Winter produces similar activity—finding and making ‘nests’ to protect creatures from the harsh elements of cold and snow. It is done for safety and protection. As humans, we do Autumn rituals to protect our plants, our equipment, and our animals from cold and snow. We gather wood if we have wood-burning fireplaces, we cover tree roots with mulch and perennials with leaves, we may put straw bales around barns or sheds, and disconnect mower batteries. We may move furniture away from drafty windows, get out the afghans and slippers, buy hot chocolate and herbal tea, and light candles. We gather and decorate for Thanksgiving and Christmas and prepare warm food and baked goods. We are practically and mentally preparing for Winter, for cold temperatures, and for darkness. It is cozy; it is hygge; it is safety and security. May the light shine down on our nests in this season of darkness.

We’re Just Like Birds

June 28, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

After last week’s post about flying dreams, I realized I had an accumulation of photos of the ‘real flyers’—the ones who inspire us to take off, fly high, and soar on the wind—in our dreams and metaphorically in our lives. They go where we cannot go without the aid of a ‘big silver bird.’ They seem to have a freedom and a reach that us ‘grounded’ creatures can only wistfully watch and long for—oh, to be as free and majestic as the Eagle!

And yet, as I looked at the photos, I realized that maybe birds are more like us than we realize (or we like them?) They like to hang out with their family and friends, and life is good on the water.

Some of them/us are loners—we don’t have mates or children or even many friends. We know how to be alone and how to be relatively okay with it. Inner life can take a higher priority than outer life.

Birds have curiosity, like most of us. What do I see? What do I hear? What does that mean for me and others?

They also can be startled, intimidated, territorial, fearful, protective, bullying, and loud. Sound familiar?

Birds spend a huge portion of their time and energy doing the work of providing food for themselves and their families. It takes concentration and patience, know-how and skill, and very often we and they are rewarded for our efforts. But not always…it also takes tenacity and resilience to keep trying when the opportunity slips away.

Housing is a big issue—is this going to be a good place to raise our family? Look it over, try it on, envision our future, determine the safety, can we afford it? Let’s make a nest. Let’s raise a family.

It takes an enormous amount of time, energy, fortitude, worms and bugs (and their for-human counterparts), sleeplessness (and sleep), learning, humbleness, mistakes, forgiveness, patience, and love to raise that family from infancy to independence. The birds have a compacted time frame in which to do so, yet they do it time and time again in each yearly cycle of their life span. They raise their children to fly. They teach them how to find their own food, to stay safe, to expand their knowledge. They teach them to be curious and wary, adventurous and prudent. They protect them the best they can.

They try to ward off those who would take advantage of their young ones with a fierce look and a strong beak.

They are observant and alert.

They model behavior, good and bad, with and without intent and consciousness.

They are proud of their fledglings.

And they love them.

Birds don’t spend most of their time in unfettered freedom, soaring the skies for fun and pleasure. They spend their time doing the day-to-day things that we do—working for food, shelter, and a place to raise young ones, and they use their innate tool of being able to fly in doing so. Maybe we aren’t so different from birds. Perhaps our freedom and reach extend along the ground we humbly inhabit instead of the heavens—to our families and friends, to the ones in solitude, and to the children in our lives. Maybe we are like the eagles—majestic and free.

Transitions of Spring and Life

May 7, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

One of the most poignant and difficult transitions in my life was moving from a household of five to gradually becoming a household of two again. It was much more difficult than transitioning from two to five. But it certainly followed the flow of Life, the reason for parenthood—to raise up offspring in loving care so they would become independent adults living their own lives.

Here in Central Minnesota, we are still in the Spring transition. Signs of the old—winter dormancy and fall foliage—still are apparent even as the new green grows up around the old. Most of the deciduous trees now have small, unfolding leaves, though still looking more bare than there. The Wild Plum tree is white with blossoms, small pink flowers buds are scattered on the Apple trees, and the Daffodils are blooming in their fragrant, cheery yellow beauty. Within a mile of our place are a number of small ponds and wetlands—some only hold water in the spring and dry up during the heat of summer. Others are large enough or fed by springs and creeks that they are the habitat for many different animals all year round. The first small pond had many cattails—old and new—and not much water. But it was home to a solo-singing frog who was later joined by two other voices as I stood nearby taking pictures.

The next body of water I walked by was a small lake populated by waterfowl, turtles, and muskrats. A pair of Canadian Geese swam together at the far side of the lake, dipping their heads into the shallow water, sometimes going bottoms-up in their search for food.

Like the bottoms-up goose, the Lily Pads uncurl by sticking up in the air before laying flat on the water’s surface.

A line-up of turtles were sunning themselves on a mud barge, happy for warmth after a winter of hibernating.

On the other side of the road from the lake was a small pond and wetlands where the new green grass was becoming dominant.

An old nest rested among the new leaves.

Pine-cone Willow galls, made last year, house pink, grubby larvae that pupate in the spring and hatch as adult gnats. The old cone ‘houses’ and the new lime green flowers and leaves are the epitome of this Spring transition.

Transitions are always a little tough, whether going from Winter to Spring or Autumn to Winter, from health to sickness or injury to healing, from a busy, vibrant household to a quieter, calmer environment or from a carefree, me-and-you life to baby makes three or four or more. With each transition of our lives, it’s good to take some time to appreciate the old way, to have gratitude for the things that served us well, and to learn from the difficulties that wrenched our hearts in sorrow or pain. Perhaps that is why Spring is slow in its unfurling. As the old way slips away, we make room for the new. We are happy for the warmth. We shed another layer of our childish ways to become more adult-like. We build a new nest. We join with other voices who know the song we’re singing. With peace and renewed energy, we merge once again with the flow of Life.

This Huge Nest Called Earth

April 22, 2017 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.

–William Wordsworth

Last weekend I was off the internet for three and a half days, and I feel ridiculous for even saying that like it’s some big deal, since I have lived two-thirds of my life on Earth without that technology. (And having lived two-thirds of my life without it, I can honestly proclaim that the internet is a-mazing!) I didn’t miss it; though along with not having tv, I did have a slight feeling of missing out on what was going on in the world. But since most of what’s on the news right now gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach, I was better off not knowing. So what did I do? I visited with my Mom who came for the weekend. I cooked food for our Easter celebration. I laughed with my family around the dinner table. I read a little bit of the Sunday paper. And we all went outside to hike, to take pictures, to walk the dog, to bask in the warm sunshine on a wind-cooled day, and to revel in the emerging signs of Spring.

We hiked at our nearby Eagle Park and were disappointed when we saw no movement of gray fluff or adult guardian in the huge eagle’s nest—the second of three years now with no viable eaglets. We wondered whether it was the age of the parent eagles or if the nearby Sauk River food source was contaminated with something that interfered with the egg development. (Happily, the other nearby eagle’s nest did have a couple of gray fluffy babies and a watchful parent.) The bright-light sunshine cast shadows on the tomb-size boulders scattered throughout the park.

A clump of Pasque flowers, also called Easter flower and prairie crocus, bloomed along the trail.

Golden stands of last year’s prairie grasses waved in the wind with hints of green growing up between them.

Nodding heads of Prairie Smoke flower buds hung from early Spring foliage.

We saw the first Bluebird of Spring at Eagle Park, then later delighted that our pair had returned to the yard to check out the houses Chris hastily put up.

Our Spring crocuses were an absolute sight for sore eyes, a shocking display of regal purple, pure white, and purple striped color after a winter of gray, white, and brown. I couldn’t help but smile and marvel at the sight of them!

Every year, as we come forth into the light of Spring, we are inundated with marvelous, amazing examples of creation, renewal, and transformation. The old, golden grasses give way to the growing green. The birds return to their northern breeding grounds and prepare for raising their young. The miraculous perennials push through the chilly soil for another year of growth and flowering and bearing fruit. We are just another part of Nature’s transforming miracle. We are Easter people. We come together with family and friends. We prepare nourishing food to share with one another. We commune around the table with prayer, talk, and laughter. And then we are drawn outside to commune with Nature, with that from which we come and whom sustains us. In September of 1965, President Lyndon B. Johnson signed a bill establishing the Assateague Island Seashore National Park with these words, “If future generations are to remember us more with gratitude than sorrow, we must achieve more than just the miracles of technology. We must also leave them a glimpse of the world as God really made it, not just as it looked when we got through with it.” Through the miracle of the internet, I commission all of us to become guardians of our little parts of this huge nest called Earth. Happy Earth Day to us all!

Gleanings from January—Moon Shadows on Snow

February 5, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I’m being followed by a moon shadow, moon shadow, moon shadow. –Cat Stevens

January rings in another year with Auld Lang Syne—‘for old times’ sake’—by looking back at what happened during the previous year. And then we begin again. Each month and each day gives us that same opportunity. At the end of each day, we can look back at what happened, check in with ourselves, set our intentions for the next day, and with the dawn, begin again.

We had days of beautiful snow last month—perfect January weather. In the midst of a snowstorm, the bright cardinal gave us a glimpse of the joyous, colorful Spring to come.

There is Beauty in Wintertide when ordinary objects become works of art.

We also had days of unusual melting in January as the temperatures soared and bleakness enveloped the land.

One of the lovely sights of winter nights is moon shadows on snow—a wordless poem that stirs the soul with its artistry and mystery.

Another mystery unfurled in the daytime snow—this ‘snow roll’ and track appeared one afternoon, starting at the down spout and rolling 10-12 feet across relatively flat ground. Now how did that happen?!

This snow-covered nest caught my eye, and I thought of how their carefully crafted and hidden home during the leaf-covered spring and summer was now exposed to the elements and for all to see.

Another month, another day is relegated to ‘old times.’

Old years, months, and days become our history—a story that covers the gamut from bleakness to beauty, from ordinary to art, from predictable to mystery. With our history comes our lessons, but only if we reflect on what happened, what our role was, and how we may have gotten some parts of it wrong. There are times in which we hide ourselves for protection and for good reason, but eventually, as we begin again, we are once more exposed to the elements. And here’s the mystery—we become stronger and more resilient for having done that shadow work in the darkness. Our lives become a wordless poem of artistry and mystery. We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet for old times’ sake, revel in the Goodness of the present moment, and catch a glimpse of the Joy yet to come.

Sorrow in the Wind*

June 25, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I hear the soft wind sighing, in every bush and tree. The sound of my heart crying, when you are far from me.

When we’re apart, my darlin’, there’s sorrow in the wind. When we’re apart my darlin’, sweet sorrow in the wind.

*Sorrow in the Wind, written by American folk singer/songwriter Jean Ritchie, was recorded by Emmylou Harris on her Grammy winning album ‘Blue Kentucky Girl.’ Harmonies by Cheryl and Sharon White, simple guitar picking, and the cries of violin emote the very essence of the song. The word sorrow means distress, misery, and regret associated with loss, grief, disappointment, and sympathy for another’s suffering.

Many of us who have lived with animals know that our mammal friends feel sorrow when a special person or companion is gone from their lives. What about birds? I think we know less about this; however, from watching birds build intricate nests, fiercely protect their eggs and nests, and tirelessly provide food for the tiny young ones, I would guess that in some way, they know the sorrow of loss.

One of our bluebird nesting boxes was occupied by a Tree Swallow. She is a young female, as her plumage is mostly brown and not the iridescent blue and green of a mature bird. She flew from the nest and perched on a near-by tree branch when I took a peek into her house.

What a surprise when I looked in! The nest was lined with feathers of all sizes–my guess is they were goose and swan feathers from the River and wetland areas not far from our hill. Five blush white eggs nestled in the softness.

She cautiously returned to her nest when I moved far enough away.

Two days later, the evidence of a raid spilled from the nesting box.

The nest was torn up, broken egg shells were stuck to feathers and grass, and feathers were on the ground. I don’t know who raided her nest or why. But I felt sadness for her. She had carefully crafted her first amazing feather nest and had laid and warmed the beautiful little eggs.

And then suddenly, they were destroyed. Expectation and hope were dashed.

Nature has its ugly side. Perhaps the raider was the red squirrel who had chewed away at the hole of the nesting box earlier in the season. Maybe it was the aggressive House Wren that has since moved into the nesting box. Perhaps the young swallow couldn’t defend herself and her eggs as well as a mature bird. Who knows? Violence in Nature is often related to hunger and food, territory, or mating.

There’s sorrow in the wind in our world, too. The horror of forty-nine dead and many seriously injured people from the Orlando shooting just two weeks ago is still fresh in our minds and hearts. Dashed hopes and expectations. Destroyed lives. Not to mention the children and staff of Sandy Hook, the co-workers of San Bernardino, students and faculty at Virginia Tech, and the thousands of others who were killed at military bases, colleges, places of employment, and homes. And with each person killed there is a rippling circle of distress, loss, fear and grief among the family, friends, co-workers, first responders, and even bystanders. I hope we are all feeling deep sorrow. I hope we can feel not just sympathy, but empathy for those who are suffering. What if it were our child, our husband, our wife, father, mother, or loved one? The sound of our hearts crying should transform our daily lives to spread love, not hate, to practice patience, not annoyance, to commit to self reflection and peace, not blame and violence. Only then will the sweetness of the sorrow be revealed in the resurrection of faith, hope, and love.

Listen to Sorrow in the Wind

Walking Through Winter

February 19, 2016 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Winter can be a tough season, but like last year, this winter has had minimal snowfall and relatively mild temperatures. This has allowed us to hike the trails of nearby parks with comparative ease. A couple of weeks ago we ventured out to Wildwood County Park for a morning hike. The park has three and a half miles of cross-country ski trails, but the only other people we saw were walking their dogs. The snow was slick and wet since temperatures hovered above the freezing mark. Deer and other animal tracks made their own paths through the woods, crossing the hiking and skiing trails with frequency. The woods were mainly old growth maples and oaks with ironwood as the predominant understory tree. The vertical lines in the bark of an ironwood contrasted with the horizontal lines in an adjacent birch tree.

We saw the ice-covered Kraemer Lake through the trees…

and bright blue sap lines from Wildwood Ranch that would soon be tapped into the towering maple trees to harvest the sap for making maple syrup.

We saw evidence of a very busy woodpecker–most likely a pileated–with his recent drillings.

The next weekend we went to Eagle Park and Rockville County Park to hike and check on the eagles. Small flocks of Canadian geese and Trumpeter swans flew over us as we walked the trail.

Then one of the eagles flew to their nest in the center of the park. Soon the mate glided in carrying a large stick to add to the already huge nest.

Both worked on getting the new branch in just the right place.

Later they hopped up to their perch above the nest and surveyed their territory. This pair didn’t raise any eaglets last year–I’m not sure if the eggs never hatched or if the young hatchlings died for some reason. But they are back this year, adding to their nest, getting ready for their next brood.

A mile or so away, the other nest of eagles who raised three eaglets last year, were also adding sticks to their nest in preparation for their next offspring.

Winter can be a tough season. Weather-wise, this winter has been fairly easy, but in other ways, it has been hard on me: losing a parent to death, losing children in the ways we do as they leave the nest and make their own paths, and losing a little piece of ourselves as each of those things happen. And so, step by step, I am walking through winter, hiking through the heartache, and letting Nature and the Creator work to fill up the holes that were drilled into my heart. I will pick up another branch and add it to the already huge nest of a life I have built. I will look forward to the new creations of Spring, and soon I will be able to tap into the sweetness that life also brings to each of us.

Prayer Without Words *

January 12, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Saturday morning was crisp–in a single-digit-degree-Fahrenheit kind of way. The winter birds were flitting and diving to the feeders, then to the snowy ground that was polka-dotted with the fallen black oil sunflower seeds. Chris had an NPR show on the radio, and I drank my exquisite Ely Gold tea. I’m notoriously bad about understanding song lyrics–or knowing who the artists are, for that matter. The music of a particular song caught my attention–it felt emotional and a little haunting to me. Then the words ‘prayer without words’ registered through my morning thoughts, and I felt a connection to the past days and weeks since my Dad’s death. It hadn’t even been two weeks yet–why did it feel like it had been much longer than that?

I used that amazing thing called the internet and instantly found the lyrics to the song considerably titled Prayer Without Words by Mary Gauthier. In spite of my ears hearing lyrics about bird’s high notes and shooting stars, I realized that she wrote about a much darker place than a father’s death. With a tad bit of gratitude that my darkness was because of a natural death after eighty years of living, I still turned the phrase ‘prayer without words’ over and over in my mind.

Here are a few of my prayers without words from the last couple of weeks.

Nature is praying all the time without a single word. Thank you, Creator, for the warmth on a cold winter day. Thanks for the bronzed sunlight that illuminates us at day’s end. Thank you, O Great One, for Light that penetrates the darkness. Thanks for the home in which we live and raise our offspring. And thank you, Wise Emmanuel, for the endings in our lives that give rise to our new beginnings.

*Prayer Without Words by Mary Gauthier from her Mercy Now album

Bluebird of Happiness

July 21, 2015 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

The BLUE-BIRD carries the sky on his back. –Henry David Thoreau

Flashes of blue can be seen in our yard at any time of the day. This is the first year a pair of Eastern Bluebirds has used one of our bluebird houses for their grassy nest. We have four houses placed around the yard, but the location has to be just right for bluebirds. The house wrens are not so picky so have usurped a number of the bluebird houses, even though they have their own petite abodes in the maple trees. Bluebirds can have more than one successful brood each year, so this one in mid-July may be their second brood.

Both the brightly colored male and the more subdued female hunt for insects to feed their young. They perch high on electric lines, in trees, or on posts. They spy their prey from sixty or more feet away, then swoop to the ground to grab the unsuspecting insect and quickly fly back to their perch. Most of the time, the parents alight on their house or on a nearby post right before flying into the nest with the food.

Countless insects of all sorts are delivered to the babies’ gaping mouths…

…and just three days later, they have opened their eyes and developed more feathers. Sixteen to twenty-one days after hatching, these helpless chicks will fly from the nest.

Bluebirds have long been a symbol of happiness, hope, and renewal. Legends, poems, plays, songs, and stories have been written about the inspiring bluebird. What is it about these beautiful little thrushes that have aroused such appeal and even have prompted a National Bluebird of Happiness Day on September 24th? They are a welcome harbinger of spring after a long, cold winter. Their brilliant azure color is uncommon in the natural world, so the flashes of blue are noticeable against the green. The population of bluebirds severely declined up to the late 1970’s due to loss of nesting habitat and nest competition from starlings and sparrows. The North American Bluebird Society was formed in 1978 to place bluebird nesting boxes across the country, and since then the bluebird population has recovered. Do we appreciate something even more once it was almost lost? Or is it the feeling of a blue-sky day, when the air is crisp and clear and the sun warm upon our faces, that is evoked when we look at the sky the bluebird carries on his back? When I see the flash of blue, I feel a deep happiness to have such beautiful birds living in our yard. When I see the parents working so hard to provide food for their babies, I feel hope that another generation will populate our natural world. And I carry that happiness and hope to you so that we may all experience soul-filling renewal. What do you carry on your back for the whole world to see?

Gleanings from June 2015

July 1, 2015 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever come perfect days….Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten. James Russell Lowell

The long, light days of June have slipped by, and we really have had some perfect days! The combination late Spring/early Summer brings warm, wonderful weather, incredible plant growth, exquisite flowers, and animals intent on nesting and raising their young. Life murmurs and glistens all around us, subtle yet extravagant, common yet miraculous.

Wild Geranium is a delicate woodland flower that graces the paths through our woods.

False dandelion grows in our woods, though I have also seen it in full sun along the road ditches. A cluster of small, dandelion-like flowers sways atop a two-foot stalk.

Our sun garden displays the glorious Penstemon digitalis ‘Husker Red’. It has dark maroon foliage and shining white flowers on tall stems. You can see why its common name is Beard tongue; the sterile stamen (one of five stamens) is lined with tufts of small hairs.

One of my prairie garden flowers–Amsonia or Bluestar–looks perfect in front of the wispy prairie grasses and the Western South Dakota petrified wood.

One of the critters that walked through our June yard was a Western Painted Turtle. She quickly ambled through the dewy grass until she saw me–then she stopped as I got pictures of her. She was likely on her way to her nesting place where she digs a hole with her hind feet and deposits her clutch of leathery white eggs. Incubation time is 72-80 days, and since we live so far north, the hatchlings stay in the nest until the following spring!

Tiny wild strawberries and our larger cultivated ones turn a shiny red in ripeness–a sweet treat for whoever finds them first.

Outside the screened-in porch, the chive blossoms line up like children at the schoolyard.

And speaking of the screened-in porch, my re-do project is on bird delay! A robin thought the unscreened cross beam would be a perfect place for her grass and mud nest. There are three hungry baby birds in the nest in spite of the sawing and hammering going on below. Staining and re-screening will have to wait until the young ones fly from the nest!

A couple of other creatures seemed to want a glimpse of human life inside the big wooden box with windows. I observe Nature every day–do we ever think about the creatures observing us?

All I can say to the little critters is that I definitely need to wash windows!

I liked this photo of Leopard’s Bane against the Norway Spruce tree. The flower is spent, on its way to decay with petals drying and falling off and with ants crawling on it. It is up against the supple new, green growth of the spruce tree. A study in contrasts.

But there is beauty in the ‘spentness’ of flowers, too. Dried blue blossoms of the pretty variegated Jacob’s Ladder reminds us that the bridge between heaven and earth includes the worn out and expended of us who are just a little farther along on our journey.

Perennial Blue Salvia in its ‘spent’ state provides food for a pair of American Goldfinches. It is in its prime time of nourishment for others, though its peak visual beauty is past.

So June encompasses the fresh, invigorated newness of plants, flowers, and creatures and also those in decline. Like all the seasons of Nature and of Life, change is always happening, whether barely discernible or a drastic metamorphosis.

Perhaps the rarity of a perfect day in June is not so rare after all. Perhaps every common day holds miracles waiting to be seen and heard. Where ever we are on our journey, whether ready to fly from the nest, in the perfect place, or in a spent state, we have gifts to offer the world and one another. As the murmur of angels ascending and descending beside us, escorts us on our journey, it is our faces that glisten on each perfect day.

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