Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Recalibrating From the Old to the New
Out with the old, in with the new. It’s literally true when it comes to time—2019 ended and was out of here at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. The new year had arrived. Some people live their lives with that mantra in a myriad of ways—old clothes out, new clothes in; old furniture out, new furniture in; old relationships out, new relationships in. But what happens when the old things don’t go out before the new things come in—or more importantly, what happens when a person moves on to the new thing without processing the old? An easy example is the mail—the new mail comes in to that place on the cupboard or table. Organized people process the mail—junk goes in the trash can or recycling, bills go on the desk, magazines go on the coffee table where they will be seen and read, etc. Not-so-organized people soon get a pile where things get buried at the bottom, bills can get lost until past the due date, and magazines don’t get read.
I know about piles. (I’m organized about certain things and not-so about others.) I know about getting rid of the old (and keeping it), and I’m not that enticed with the newest, shiniest ‘new’ thing. Time (and maybe mail) is the only consistent flow of old and new in my life. But when the old year ended, we did something big—we moved from our old home. When the new year began, the new decade began, we were living in a new place. We didn’t time it that way, but it happened that way. The pull of ideas started long ago—those questions: what would it be like if…, I wonder if that would work…, how would it feel if we did this…? Questions can be ignored, especially if they make a person uncomfortable. But Life can get more insistent. So I started to de-clutter—we needed to do it anyway, I reasoned. I read Marie Kondo’s book—does it bring me joy? Don’t forget to thank the things that had served me well. Ugh. I wasn’t very good at it. I was nostalgic about so many things—about all the art projects the kids and I had done together when they and their curious, creative, beautiful minds had brought me so much joy during my stay-at-home years, about the papers and projects and awards they earned during their school years as they grew into these amazing people, and about all the work I had done in grad school—boxes and boxes of research articles I had read, papers I had written, and data I had gathered. The Old was staring me in the face after being tucked away in boxes since our last move. Paralyzing.
There is a ton of research out there about why our brains and bodies react as they do. Being ‘paralyzed’ comes from the ‘freeze’ aspect of ‘fight, flight, or freeze’ in the trauma response—we all (including most animals) tend to react primarily by one of those aspects when something seems overwhelming to us. But what to do with that…. I was fortunate to have some important people around me who could help me look at the big, paralyzing Old stuff in a different way. But it wasn’t easy. I balked. I cried. I resisted. I rationalized. With time and grace, understanding and encouragement from those around me, I was able to look at the Old stuff, determine what it represented to me, accept that those qualities and memories existed even without the stuff, and let it go. As the move materialized, I ran out of time to process it all, and I was determined to do more of that work once we moved.
There was another aspect of the move that needed processing—leaving all the beautiful trees and perennials that we had planted. I had the urge to take pictures of each specific one, bragging about how big it had grown, how beautiful its branches were…and I even started to do so…
Each one had a story and a timeline and a beautiful quality and an imperfection—and we loved them—and there were hundreds of them that we had planted after all the work of removing the horrible Buckthorn. With Chris’ expertise and love of growing trees and perennials, with his hard and dedicated work with the Buckthorn puller, and with my patience and tenacity for pulling weeds, we had created an oasis among the Oaks. Did I mention how much we loved them? Yet under the arc of time, that flow of old to new, year after year, we were reminded that we had done this before. We had cleared and planted and weeded and pruned and created four beautiful places in three different states in our life together. It’s what we do, it’s a big part of who we are. I also realized that I have told the stories and shared the photos of our amazing plant family over the last six years with this blog. You have shared in our love of this great, green Earth.
A friend of mine has a book that I read cover to cover when I was in the midst of confronting the Old —Ten Poems to Say Goodbye by Roger Housden. Housden wrote about poet Jack Gilbert and his love for Santorini, Greece—“Santorini as Gilbert knew it entered not only his eyes but his sinews, his very cells, like anything we have loved. It is alive in him still, not just in memory, but in his being…” Chris and I carry our Old places—the trees and plants, the houses, the people we have loved—in our cells and sinews, in our very being.
Worth the Wait
I remember being nine months pregnant with our first child…and waiting. Patiently waiting. It had been a relatively easy pregnancy, and I was still feeling well. My last day at work was my due date. One week went by…still waiting. Everything was ready—except for the baby apparently. Another week went by, and the doctor began the induction. Nothing. He reluctantly gave me another week…for waiting.
I feel like we are doing the same thing with Spring this year. We are waiting; a learned patience is holding the reins in an easy, yet expectant way. Like the baby, there is no doubt that Spring is coming. All the signs are here. We are so close! It is time. Of course, we need to clarify the definition of Spring—what it is that makes us think Spring is finally here. I think most would say that we need leaves on the trees and some early-blooming flowers to finally breathe a sigh of relief that Old Man Winter will no longer be knocking unexpectedly at our door. And while the trees are still winter-esque in their bare silhouettes, there is evidence that our waiting time is soon over! Each branch has swollen leaf and/or flower buds. Perennials are pushing their way up through Fall’s leaf litter. Brown is still the predominate color—but not for long! Delivery time is nigh!
Three weeks after her due date, the doctor informed us that one way or another, we would have this baby—today. No more waiting. Mother Nature is on the precipice of the birth of Spring, in all its glory. Once the birthing process begins and progresses, there’s no stopping it! But wait—for just one moment—think about all the biological processes that are taking place while we wait, the things we don’t see, the marvels of pregnancy and development. Therein lies the reason for our learned patience, the reason for the waiting, the reason why we are not the ones in charge of the timeline. Things are happening while we wait. Soon enough, we will forget about the anxious waiting and the pain of birth when we hold our miracle baby. Soon enough, we forget about the cold and snow and brownness of Winter when the green and sweetness of Spring suffuses our senses. With a nod and a prayer to the Power that is greater than all of us, we breathe in the delicious smell of new baby or new Spring and let out a sigh of recognition that indeed, it was worth the wait.
To All Those Who Came From Mothers
Our very being, essence, health and happiness depend on Mother Earth. –David Suzuki
Where and how do we begin? What is our essence? To whom do we owe our health and happiness? Yikes! These are deep questions! On this Mother’s Day, there is no need to overwhelm ourselves with an endless pool of existential inquiry, but maybe we should at least dip our toes in. Only some of us are mothers, but all of us came from mothers. We all know at least half of the equation. We were all mothered in one way or another—the judgement of how that turned out is only for each one of us to determine in the journey of our lives. Of course, that journey changes if and when we become mothers (and fathers) ourselves and when we lose those that brought forth our life. And so it goes…
The essence of life is Springing forth. The change that happens in one week’s time is mind-boggling and mind-humbling—we are dealing with a force so much bigger than ourselves. The greening of the grass seems simple compared to perennials pushing up and unfolding from the earth and dormant trees exploding with flowers and new leaves. We really are fortunate to witness such miracles, do you know? Look at the fresh flowers and tender leaves of these two types of Maple trees:
Blue Jay mates were foraging for food this week, vocalizing their pleasure of Spring mating and nest-building.
Linden leaves began the filling-out process of changing the trees’ skeletal silhouettes to geometrical shapes.
The Rabbits were in a frenzy one early morning, darting here and there, perhaps for no other reason than Spring is finally here!
Tiny new Wild Strawberry flowers opened up as the only-days-old Magnolia flowers wilted, browned, and fell—a miniature birth and death cycle that leads to the next step in the biological process—the formation of fruits and seeds.
Two surprises showed up this week that had me rushing for the camera—it’s exciting to see something that one has never seen before! We have had many types of woodpeckers frequent the feeders, but I had never seen a flashy Red-headed Woodpecker until this week.
Another morning flash of color attracted my attention—a Red-breasted Grosbeak.
Mayapples, Epimedium, and Lily-of-the-Valley arose, appeared, and unrolled from the earth, from where there was nothing visible before.
Standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window, I see the ‘Prairie Fire’ Crabapple has a white cloud of Wild Plum blossoms surrounding its dark burgundy leaves and flower buds.
Spring marks the beginning of a full cycle of emergence, growth, development, seed formation, offspring, transformation, decline, and death. It’s the new time, an exciting time, a time that makes one frenetic with energy for no good reason other than Winter is over and Spring is here! Mother Earth’s pregnant potential showcases beginnings and alludes to the essence of Life. She provides sunshine and vitamin D for our health and brings us smiling happiness and wonder. In the midst of all of this, there is each one of us and our half of the equation. Our being, where once there was nothing, was brought forth by an egg and a sperm, was developed in the nourishing cloud of a womb, emerged into this mind-boggling, mind-humbling world, and then developed and filled out into the shape of our essence. We are mothered by mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, grandmas, grandpas, friends, teachers, mentors, and others—we deserve to be cared for, respected, listened to, and loved and to give those things in return. If we determine that we have fallen short of that, we must remember that we are dealing with a force that is so much bigger than us—the God-force of Life itself, where all things are possible. As we live into our half of the equation, let us give thanks for all the caring Mothers in our lives. We really are fortunate to be such miracles.
A Return to Balance
It was a week for the emotional highs and lows record book. Aaron finished the stone patio outside our screened-in porch, and we had our first guests and first fire in the fire ring. A new marriage began. Cancer took a life. Progress was made to honor my Dad’s life and passing. There was a fight using old wounds as swords inflicting new wounds. A baby was born.
It was a week of highs and lows in Nature’s world also. The pinnacle month of summer brings a great abundance of flowers fit for wedding bouquets, table decorations, or just panoramic beauty. But the weather was dry—the grass was turning brown, the rains were missing us, and Chris was busy running the sprinklers.
Last summer our sun garden was dominated by Rudbeckia, but this year is the Year of the Purple Coneflower!
Fragrant Lavender flowers attracted butterflies and bees. Hummingbirds are also seen almost every day when the Hostas are in bloom.
The top leaf of the Ligularia, a plant that suffers here without plenty of water, is enveloped with a spider’s web and nest for the young ones. New birth on a tiny, yet prolific scale.
Daddy Longlegs was resting on a leaf hammock, renewing his energy for the continued search for food.
Aaron made a balanced rock sculpture by the path at the edge of the yard. This will be the location of a new bed of Eastern Blue Star after Chris dug out an invasive white-flowering plant that served us well for a while.
The heat and dryness has taken a toll on some of the ferns, with parts of fronds or whole fronds drying up and turning brown—Nature’s self-pruning.
The Daylilies are in their full glory; this one is providing a rest stop for a Grasshopper.
The mulched path through our woods is a favorite trail for the turkeys as they browse for food. We don’t usually see them, but this time one left behind a part of herself.
With all the watering in the dry and sunshine, every once in a while, there’s a rainbow.
Mother Nature has a way of providing balance, of bringing things back to homeostasis, of allowing rest and renewal, then energy and growth. We are made the same way. Every moment of every day our bodies are regulating temperature, minerals, hormones, water, and blood sugar to bring us back to homeostasis. It truly is a miracle. So what happens after days, weeks, or months of being enveloped in a web of worry or suffering from lack of love or realizing that an invasive presence that once served us well no longer does? The answer is sometimes harsh in the process of saving the whole. Parts of ourselves dry up, a sort of self-pruning in order to make way for eventual new growth. We lose parts of ourselves along the journey, often without us knowing but other times with hard, intentional work. And hopefully the parts we lose are the old wounds that persist in hurting ourselves and others. Then we add rest, creativity, good food and fun, self-care and self-love so we’re no longer beating ourselves up and running on empty. And ever-so-gradually, we return to homeostasis, to balance, to ourselves, and to Love.
This Glorious Day!
Dear Nature Lovers,
Just wanted to share this glorious day in Minnesota with you! Spring is now bursting out all over the place in our yard and woods!
Love, Denise
Hostas, Ferns, and Lily of the Valley
Brunnera
Hosta leaves
Virginia Bluebells
Maple leaves
Purple-Leaf Plum
Iris
Apple blossom
Pagoda Dogwood
Crabapple
Foam Flower
Jonquil
Ajuga
Larch tree
Dandelion
Epimedium
Ostrich Fern
Candles on White Pine
Bergenia
Oak flowers and leaves
Spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm.
–John Muir
This Huge Nest Called Earth
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!
Minnesota Micro-Springery
A microbrewery makes small batches of specialty beers that showcase particular ingredients, a certain season, or theme. The craft brewery in our little town, for example, makes a seasonal beer called Sugar Shack Maple Stout, made with maple syrup that is harvested by the monks and others at Saint John’s Abbey Arboretum and Forest just a skip and a hop from here. (We helped tap trees a couple years ago—Welcome to the Sugar Shack—for the making of that syrup—Sap to Syrup.) Whereas traditional breweries make millions of barrels of beer each year, US regulations permit microbreweries to make no more than 15,000 barrels per year. Microbreweries concentrate on quality, flavor, and techniques. According to www.hopandwine.com, “Every day is a delicious science experiment at a microbrewery.” I love that!
On this 2nd day of April, Central Minnesota is a Micro-Springery. Small batches of Spring can be found if one looks closely. Later Spring will be lush with greenness everywhere, overwhelming the senses with millions of Spring things. But for now, Spring is slowly unfolding in a delicious awakening. Join me for a tour of the neighborhood Micro-Springery.
Aspen tree catkins have emerged, like fuzzy caterpillars hanging from the branches.
Common Yarrow, with its fern-like, aromatic foliage is one of the first perennials to grow in a sunny location. The leaves can be used for a hop substitute and preservative for beer-making! (ediblewildfood.com)
Beautiful, iconic Spring Pussy Willow! If we don’t protect this shrub with fencing, the deer will eat it right down to the ground. Luckily it is resilient and grows back quickly.
The buds are just breaking out of the beautifully-barked Serviceberry.
Wild geraniums with hairy, red-tinged foliage from last year and pristine new green leaves are a shade-loving perennial that blooms early in the growing season.
Blue Flag Iris, another early bloomer, pushes out its triangular leaves through last year’s debris.
Hazelnut catkins hang like dangling earrings, adorning the shrub in Spring splendor.
Pungent Allium, with their frost-tipped leaves, will bloom in the middle of summer with their distinctive purple-ball flowers.
Red clusters of Maple tree flower buds will open before the leaves develop and appear.
Henry David Thoreau wrote, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” Microbreweries don’t brew beer just to have beer, they want it to taste amazing. Mother Nature doesn’t give us Spring just for aesthetics, but to teach us how to fly in the wind like the catkin pollen and seeds, how to be a common human being and do extraordinary things, how to be beautiful and resilient, how to have a splendid protective covering and let your gifts emerge, how to bloom early, in the middle, and late in your life, how to push your way through last year’s debris, and how to adorn yourself with loving splendor. Mother Nature shows us, with all her seasons, that life is one delicious science experiment after another. I love that!
Gleanings from September—One Way then Another
I’m not very good at making decisions. I try to avoid the shampoo aisle at Target. I will think about all the possibilities and outcomes of choosing a particular thing, then look at the alternative in the same analytical way. One way, then another. Pros and cons lists. No wonder nobody likes to shop with me; heck, no wonder I don’t like to shop! It’s exhausting! Ask me to go somewhere? Let me think…. I also tend to make decisions based on how it affects other people in my life, which of course, is usually pure speculation on my part. I suppose that beast Perfectionism is involved–I don’t want to make the ‘wrong’ choice, but the beast’s offspring Procrastination often ends up the winner.
Ah, September! It is a month of one way, then another. The days are warm and sunny, then chilly and rainy. It is State Fair fun, then back-to-school schedules. It is green leaves, then daily changes to red, orange, and yellow. But there are some constants in September, like the does and fawns who make a path from the woods to the apple tree to eat up the sweet, fallen treats. Mmm, apples! And the fawns ‘losing’ their spots as their winter coats grow in long and thick.
September most often houses the Harvest Moon–the full moon that falls closest to the Autumnal Equinox.
Obedient Plant blooms in September. Each individual flower on the square stem can be moved one way, then another and remains in the new position.
Monarch Butterflies get late season nectar from the pretty Sedum flowers.
Tall, wispy-stemmed Cosmos flowers outside our picture window sway one way, then another in the breeze.
September brings the combined family groups of Wild Turkeys to our yard and woods. We can hear them scratching through the leaves on the wooded hillside searching for acorns before they emerge and stroll through the yard. The young ones are almost as big as their mothers, and they all make an impressive troupe.
They walk in a trailing group, heads down, pecking at things as they go. The mothers stand sentry to the group with raised heads, looking for potential danger.
Then they see something! A couple of the young ones see it, too.
The sentries stop and watch as some of the unsuspecting young ones head down the driveway. A black dog runs down the road, not seeing or minding the young turkeys.
Quickly the whole troupe turns around and walks in the other direction with purpose. No time for grazing with the threat of a dog around! They take a different path through the woods on their daily grazing journey.
September ushers in the harvest season–a time to reap that which has been sown. All the plants and animals, including ourselves, follow the instinctive, unconscious ways of Nature to prepare us for the winter season. We pick apples and pumpkins, corn and squash–whether from the orchards and gardens or from the markets and stores. We make sure we have our winter coats and boots. We check to see if the furnace works–and if it doesn’t, the freezing forecast moves that to the top of the ‘important and urgent’ list, beating Procrastination. Maybe this season for me is the season of ‘pretty darn good’ instead of perfect. Perhaps my internal sentry needs a vacation. The Autumn season ‘lets go’ of one way of doing things and shows us another way, a different path. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1.
A Woman and Flowers
Where flowers bloom, so does hope. –Lady Bird Johnson*
We were married on a glorious day in the middle of May, and three weeks later I received a dozen red roses from my new husband for my birthday! It was the first time I had ever been given a dozen roses, and I remember how carefully I unwrapped the double layer of tissue paper in the long, white box to see the velvety red flowers. We have a photograph of that young, smiling, newlywed me holding the box full of roses. Four, six, and ten years later my husband gave me and each of our sweet newborn children an exquisite arrangement from the fabulous Licata’s Flowers, now in Lee’s Summit, Missouri. I know there must have been a few other times that Chris surprised me with flowers, but store-bought flowers quickly fell to the bottom of our priority list.
You’ve heard the saying “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime,” haven’t you? The same goes for a woman and flowers. In every place we have lived, my horticulturist husband has planted perennials, annuals, and flowering shrubs in abundance. From early spring until late fall I can look out most any window of our house and see flowers blooming! July is peak season, and I have included some of what’s blooming in our gardens.
A pink Asiatic Lily found its way into my prairie garden this year. It looked pretty with the Blue Flax flowers.
Lavender has beautiful gray-green foliage and spikes of lavender flowers, all with a delicious, relaxing fragrance.
Queen Anne’s Lace floats on long, slender stems along the east side of our yard. They tip their heads to greet the morning sun.
I like how this single stem of Queen of the Prairie, which lies partly in the shade of a neighboring shrub, shows the progression of tightly closed buds to fully open, frothy pink blossoming.
Lantana is an annual in Minnesota–one that I try to keep alive inside during the long winter. Look at how each tiny flower in the cluster unfolds from a rectangular envelope.
Allium, commonly called ornamental onion, comes in all sizes in mostly shades of purple. It shares space with a bright yellow Daylily and the second blooming of Perennial Blue Salvia.
Purple Coneflower, a prairie wildflower, begins to open, complementing the Queen Anne’s Lace.
Daylily flowers, slowly opening in the morning light, grace us with their beauty for only one day. The curved stamens look like candles with their flames aglow.
Getting a bouquet of flowers from anyone makes a person feel special–I smile just thinking about those times. But there is also something amazing about walking outside into the yard with scissors or pruners in hand and choosing my own bouquet. I greet the morning sun along with the flowers and walk through the dewy grass in my blue rubber boots. The birds are chirping, and the poplars are gently singing. Sometimes my bouquet is a tiny gathering of fragrant Lily of the Valley that I put in a small, old bottle by the kitchen sink. Other times I collect long stems of Lilies, Rudbeckia, Phlox, Baby’s Breath, and ornamental grasses and arrange them into a large, heavy vase. It is a sweet and satisfying act of love for myself, my family, and anyone who comes into our home. I am grateful to my husband and to Mother Nature for giving me flowers to share space with every day for so many months of the year.
*Lady Bird Johnson along with Helen Hayes founded the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center the year Chris and I were married.
A Study in Variability–Rudbeckia
Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher. –William Wordsworth
All Rudbeckia. All unique. What a joyous sun garden!
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