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Peace of the Pine Forest

May 29, 2022 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

I’ve been crying a lot lately—not for me and my station on this good, green Earth, but for other people. I cried for the victims of Putin’s war—the mothers and children who fled their homes, the fathers and brothers who stayed behind to fight, the old and infirmed who couldn’t flee and were bombed to death, and for every lost life and destroyed city. The tears escape my eyes when I watch the news or see the headlines—it is my knowing that what I am witnessing is antithetical to Goodness. Last week it was for the grocery shoppers in Buffalo, New York who were targeted and killed because of their skin color. This week, the tears flowed again for the young students and teachers at Uvalde, Texas. It could literally happen at any school at any time. Even the mass shootings happen so frequently that the mourning for the one before has hardly begun before it is ‘lost’ to the coverage of the newest one. Not to mention all the other, pervasive deaths by violence. Not to mention the perverse political rhetoric around the ‘reasons’ for the deaths. It is soul-crushing.

I know for sure that the fallout from each one of these violent losses of life is far-reaching and will be long-lived. Many of the victims, the families, the first responders, and the witnesses will carry the burden of trauma with them for their lifetime. The price we as individual persons and as a society pay for violence is unbelievably staggering. In the midst of a political culture that is not doing all it can to help prevent such tragedies, an individual person can feel overwhelmed and impotent in the face of it all. What do we do? Let me begin with a story that presented me with an important lesson.

Seventeen years ago when my father-in-law died, my brother-in-law sent a message to us that ended with “Peace be with you.” I was already in a state of activation—death, grief, loss, change—and I remember exclaiming rather indignantly to Chris, ” How can we have peace at a time like this?!” I did not understand at the time that my brother-in-law was offering a gift to each of us individually—that in spite of our loss and grief, we could have the comfort of peace. I did not accept that gift at the time—I didn’t know how—but since that time, I have not forgotten that offering. I have tried again and again and again to find peace within myself in the midst of my own pain and loss and of that of the world’s. A substantial part of finding peace in a time of crisis or a reaction to it, is learning to calm down our activated bodies—and when a person has an ingrained trauma response, it takes lots of practice to change. One of my practices to calm down and find peace is to go to the woods—I did it intuitively as a child, and I do it intentionally as an older adult. I find peace in the Pine forest.

So we went to Warner Lake County Park where I left Chris and his healing hip to sit beside the lake. He could see the Pine forest across the water. He was in the midst of the noise and exuberance of young adults who were already free for the summer and were anxious to sunbathe and swim in the chilly lake water. I tried to appreciate their exuberance even as I gladly walked away from their noise. Come walk with me into the forest.

According to florgeous.com, Violets symbolize honesty, protection, dreams, healing, and remembrance. May it be so. Peace of the Pine forest be with you.

The Tallest Shining Example

April 5, 2020 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

The Tale of Three Trees—A Folktale

Once upon a time, three little trees stood in a forest high on a mountain, dreaming of what they would be when they were grown. The first little tree looked up at the stars twinkling like diamonds in the night sky. “I want to hold treasure,” it said. “I want to be filled with gold and decorated with jewels. I will be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!” The second little tree looked down the mountainside at the ocean far below. “I want to be a strong sailing ship,” it said. “I want to travel mighty waters and carry powerful kings. I will be the strongest ship in the world!” The third little tree said, “I don’t want to leave this mountaintop at all. I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me their eyes will raise up to heaven, and they will think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world!”

Years passed, and the trees grew. And then one day, three woodcutters climbed the mountain. One woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, “This tree is beautiful! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the first tree fell. “Now I shall be made into a beautiful treasure chest,” thought the first tree. “I shall hold marvelous treasures!” Another woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, “This tree is strong! It is perfect for me.” With a dozen swoops of his axe, the second tree fell. “Now I shall sail mighty waters,” thought the second tree. “I shall be made into a strong ship fit for powerful kings!” The third tree felt its heart sink as the last woodcutter approached. It stood straight and tall and pointed bravely towards heaven. But the last woodcutter never even looked up. “Any kind of tree will do for me,” he muttered. With a dozen swoops of his axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter took it to a carpenter’s shop. But the carpenter was not thinking about treasure chests. Instead, he cut and carved the tree into a simple feedbox. The once-beautiful tree was not filled with gold or decorated with jewels. It was covered with dust, and filled with hay for hungry farm animals. The second tree rejoiced when the wookcutter took it to a shipyard. But the shipbuilder was not thinking about mighty sailing ships. Instead, he hammered and sawed the tree into a simple fishing boat. The once-strong tree was too weak to sail the ocean. It was taken to a little lake, where every day it carried loads of dead, smelly fish. The third tree was confused when the woodcutter took it to a lumberyard, where it was cut into strong beams and then left alone. “What happened?” the once-tall tree wondered. “All I ever wanted to do was stay on the mountaintop, grow tall, and make people think of God.”

Years passed, and the three trees nearly forgot their dreams. But then one still and silent night, golden starlight poured over the first tree, as a young woman placed a newborn baby into the feedbox. “I wish I could make a cradle for him,” her husband whispered. The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the clean and shining wood. “This manger is beautiful,” she said. And suddenly the first tree knew it was holding the greatest treasure in the world. And then one humid and cloudy day, a tired traveller and his friends crowded into the small fishing boat. The traveler fell asleep as the second tree sailed quietly out into the lake. But a thundering storm arose, and the second tree shuddered, knowing that it did not have the strength to carry so many passengers safely through the fierce wind and rain. The tired traveler awoke. He stood up, stretched out his hand, and said with a strong voice, “Peace, be still.” The storm stopped as quickly as it had began. And suddenly the second tree knew it was carrying the King of heaven and earth.

And then one terrible Friday morning, the third tree was startled as its beams were yanked from the old lumberyard. It flinched as it was was carried through an angry, jeering, spitting crowd. It shuddered when soldiers nailed a man’s hands and feet to her. It groaned as the man cried out in agony and died. It felt ugly and harsh and cruel. But at dawn the next Sunday, on the first Easter morning, the earth trembled with joy beneath the third tree, and it knew that God’s love had changed everything. It had made the first little tree a beautiful treasure chest. It had made the second little tree a strong sailing ship. And every time people looked upon the third little tree, they would think of God. That was even better than being the tallest tree in the world.

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I wasn’t thinking about Easter when Chris and I started our hike two weeks ago at Fritz Loven Park. The dark, bubbling Stoney Brook was picturesque within the snowy banks. The Pine trees rose high into the clear, blue sky. It was a beautiful brisk day, more like Winter than the newly-announced Spring. I was zooming in on some ice over the creek that sparkled like a thousand diamonds in the sunshine (no justice for sparkles in this photo).

A few steps beyond the ice, I pointed and exclaimed, “Look at that cross!”

The sticks and broken ice/snow chunks had fallen–mashed–piled–converged–lined up so that a wooden cross was outlined against the white snow in the dark water. To the left of the cross was an ice cave, like a tomb, I thought. Interesting.

There were fallen logs all over the park, but there was one by the creek with its bark stripped off, ragged, and hanging in shreds—like the flesh ripped off someone’s back in a whipping, I shuddered.

The Passion continued to instill itself in our hike. A towering, lone Pine tree, pointing bravely towards heaven, was crossed by a still-live Birch tree. I have no idea how they got into this position, but the striking thing to me was the s-c-r-a-p-i-n-g of one live tree against the other—as the Birch fell or as the wind still blew it to and fro. Wounded.

As we circled the park towards Upper Gull Lake, three large trees growing in a cluster reminded me of the picture book I read to the kids when they were little—The Tale of Three Trees. Surrounding the three trees were a host of golden-leaved Ironwood trees—like a shimmering aura in the sunlight.

Steps away from the three trees lay a pine knot cross, not uncovered by the melted snow, by somehow placed on top of it. Deer tracks and wood debris were around the cross but still didn’t tell the whole story. Pine knot crosses form when a pine branch rots away—the knots are where branches formed on a larger branch or trunk, where the wood is more dense and hard, and thus last to rot. When I worked at a church camp in the Black Hills, we would find them to give to special people in our lives. I haven’t seen such a perfect one in forty-three years….

Towards the end of the trail, I spotted an old, gray, weathered stump that had been there for a while. Most of the bark had peeled off, leaving the smooth gray wood. A chunk of the gray wood had fallen away revealing a puzzlework of rusty-brown-golden-amber art. Even after death, this tree was showcasing Nature’s beauty.

I confess I am in heaven on earth every time I’m out in Nature. There is so much to see, to wonder, to ponder, and to appreciate, and at the same time, it calms my nervous system, grounds my anxieties, and tunes me towards the power that is greater than all of us. But our Lenten hike two weeks ago lassoed my attention towards the cross and what that means for each of us. The folktale of The Three Trees has lessons, too. These dreams we have to be the most beautiful holder of treasure, the strongest ship in the ocean, and the tallest, shining example of God—and how years pass, and we wonder what happened. Yet, as the years pass, we grow—we learn and change, struggle and transform, and often end up becoming something entirely different in exactly the right way. The Power is greater than all of us: it’s the diamonds in ice, the healing for wounds, the angels of light, the art after death. Behold the treasures of our hearts and lives, the strength of our resolve as we navigate our trails, and the tallest, most shining example of God-in-us that we can be. Behold!

Lovable Hermits

March 29, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

Have you ever asked yourself to see a situation from a wider perspective? Easy question to ask, but difficult, so very difficult, to actually do. I’m reading The Book of Joy—Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu with Douglas Abrams. Abrams writes, “The Dalai Lama used the terms wider perspective and larger perspective. They involve stepping back, within our own mind, to look at the bigger picture and to move beyond our limited self-awareness and our limited self-interest. Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors….When we confront a challenge, we often react to the situation with fear and anger. The stress can make it hard for us to step back and see other perspectives and other solutions….We (can) see that in the most seemingly limiting circumstance we have choice and freedom, even if that freedom is ultimately the attitude we will take.” Fear and stress, anger and limiting circumstances sound very familiar to all of us, all of a sudden, in this changing world.

I’ve always appreciated a ‘big picture’ approach, but only on the basis of a multitude of information from many small observations and facts (science). The big picture requires us to look beyond what we see (and believe). Our hike at Fritz Loven Park last weekend was an unfolding of that process. The trail circled the bottom of a tree-covered, almost snow-bare hill. Warm, crunchy leaves and bright sunshine belied the deep snow and cold temps of the hours ahead.

As we walked along the flatlands by the fast-flowing Stoney Brook, I noticed that most of the trees were young compared to a small number of very large ones. I wondered if this area had flooded. One distinct and eye-catching tree was a large Cottonwood, who would thrive having wet feet, so to speak.

But as we walked up toward a ridge, I then wondered if there had been a fire at one time. Often the tallest, strongest trees can survive a fire that consumes the smaller ones.

It wasn’t until the trail crossed a wide swath of nothingness (and stumps) that I realized the area had been logged. Logging was the predominant industry in northern Minnesota starting in the late 1800’s. Virgin timber was cut in this area around Gull Lake, and a railroad was built in order to transport logs. And in the summer of 1894, Fred Oscar Loven was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Though tourism is now a major industry in the Northwoods region, logging continues. Large wooded areas will reside beside a clean-cut swath or a shaggy area of young saplings or brush that had previously been logged.

Even through the deep snow, we could see evidence of the destruction of a forest and the life and vibrancy that remained. Dried ferns and wild flowers were visible beacons of the coming Spring when Nature effortlessly performs her miracles of new life.

Our trail through the park had been groomed numerous times throughout the winter for cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. It was packed down and relatively easy to walk on—not too rough and not too icy. The snow pack beyond the trail was also hard enough to walk on, and I asked Chris to use his walking stick to measure the depth of the snow.

It will be a little while until all of it melts…

The trail of Fritz (Fred) Loven’s life is sparse on details (that I could find), but one mention came up from the Pro Football Reference. He played guard one season with the Minneapolis Red Jackets in 1929 at the age of 35. Pro football before the NFL. We do know that Fritz’s trail three years later led him to 80 acres of land west of Nisswa that was his home for 43 years. He lived in a cabin with no electricity, running water, gas, or telephone. The ‘lovable hermit’ (may we all be lovable hermits during this time) didn’t have a car but traveled by foot, snowshoes, or boat.

His greatest contribution, in my opinion, besides his wish for his land to become a park, was that he normally planted 400 trees each year! Most people underestimate or take for granted the true value of a tree. Fritz Loven was a bower billionaire—he lived and worked under the shade of the existing trees and eventually, of the ones he planted—and we are the beneficiaries of his generosity and vision.

Like most ‘big pictures’ of any given situation, the larger perspective of Fritz Loven and his park is complicated. Signage on our hike told us that we were crossing private property at some points, though we didn’t know exactly where that was. Was the logging on the park land or on private property? Did the city need funding from the logging in order to maintain the park? It was sad to see incredible giant Pines and Oaks beside the clear-cut areas. How many trees that Fritz planted were cut down for timber? Who is replanting? Along with the logging, there was also damage from storms, these extreme weather events that are becoming common-place due to climate change. ‘Every situation we confront in life comes from the convergence of many contributing factors.‘ What are the facts? What are the observations? How do we look beyond what we see at any given moment and more importantly, beyond what we believe?

Fritz Loven was the guardian of the beautiful little trout stream, the keeper of the forest, and protector of the trees. He had faith that the trees would grow, the fish would reproduce, and that his vision and work would be a place for people to enjoy decades and decades after he was gone. With the fear and stress of our present coronavirus situation, how do we step back from our limited self-awareness and our limiting self-interest to see the larger perspective? Within our own minds, how do we tamp down the fear in order to see the factors that converged to get us into this situation and the solutions to get us out? We are the guardians of our own bodies and minds, and collectively, we are the guardians of our earth. Faith is how we look beyond what we see. Openness is how we look beyond what we believe. Love is how we show up for ourselves, one another, and for our sustaining Mother Earth. May we be lovable hermits at this time and have all three.

The Next 364 Days Through Shadow and Light

May 26, 2019 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

When we were young married kids, I remember the anticipation and excitement of an upcoming special day—Chris’ birthday or our anniversary or Christmas. I planned ahead making gifts and cards, cakes and surprises. Fast forward a dozen years to after we had three kids, and I remember, as I’m sure Chris does, that I was sick for his early January birthday for years in a row. I had planned gifts and cakes and cards for our three children’s December birthdays and Christmas and was just worn out by the time January arrived. Once everyone was in school, the same thing happened with our mid-May anniversary—the end-of-school busyness preempted the anticipation of our anniversary—wait, how many years has it been now? Luckily we followed the belief system of Ruth, Chris’ Mom, who declared that one special day meant nothing compared to every other day of the year. Mother’s Day? Treat your Mom with love and respect every day. Anniversaries? Show your love and respect to your partner daily. I know there were special days when we endured some disappointment, for whatever reason, but we had the next 364 days to show that person what they meant to us.

The week before last, we celebrated our thirty-seventh anniversary. No more end-of-school busyness with kids, but this time it was LIFE that took away the energy and excitement of a celebration. We were slogging through our days—too many things felt heavy and out of control. So we went to the woods, to the pine forest, to the place we’ve been before, where we knew the healing balm of Nature would give us respite for a little while. One of the first things we saw along the trail were bright yellow Bellworts with their hanging, nodding heads.

We walked through deciduous trees with their newly-emerging leaves, passed by Cedars and blooming Elderberry shrubs…

until we got to the Pine forest, in all its glory.

The first towering evergreens were Scotch Pines with their peeling bark towards the top of the tree that exposes butterscotch-colored trunks. Only the mature trees that had peeled away the onion layers of carefully crafted bark revealed the rich, golden treasure of color that identified the tree.

Red Pines made up the majority of the forest with their scaly, gray bark that ‘reddens’ with maturity. Evening sunlight streamed through the trees, striping the pine-needle-covered trail. We walk through shadow and light all the moments of our lives.

At times, it really is hard to see the forest for the trees. The trees are up-close, obscuring our sight, demanding our attention. Our lives shrink down to a narrow focus, often fear or survival-driven—it is the way our mammalian brain works.

So what do we do? We notice there are other things in the forest besides trees. Growing up through the old pine needles, cones, and twigs is a shade-loving Columbine that will soon show its intricately-shaped flower to those who notice.

I stop and touch the warm bark of a tree. There is sap coming from a wound—it has become thick and sticks to my hands. But it is fragrant with the very essence of the Pine, as are the layers of shed needles that we walk on. The living, breathing, fundamental essence of the Pine tree fills our nostrils with the most delightful perfume. I breathe deeply, and my headache slips away.

We notice and become aware of the future. A decaying Pine stump exposes the interior structures that built and maintained the tree during its long life. It really is a marvel of engineering—thank you, Creator. I like the dense, twisted wood where a branch was, where a knot would be if it was planed down into a board. That spiral of wood is often the last part to disintegrate back into the soil.

We take a closer look at the shadow and light bands of our lives. We have been through tough shadow times before, remember hon? We have been in this place before. We came through those shadow dark times to light once again.

Then, as we walked along, there in the forest, I saw a burning bush! A young pine was lit in sunlight, burning with brightness!

Here I am, on holy ground.

Not wanting to leave the luminosity of the burning pine, I wondered where we should go next. What path? How? Why? We continued to slowly walk the pine-cone-strewn path—those old fruits with new seeds. We saw vibrant young pines growing at the foot of the wise ones and the sun shining on them all.

We could see the forest, the hallelujah forest, with the old ones, the young ones, the sunshine, the bark, and the needles, lifting a song of life straight up to the sky.

But then we heard a crow cawing us back to our bodies, back to our lives, back to our headaches and questions. What do you see from your vantage point?

We saw footprints that led us back to the bridge that returned us to our car, to our real and present lives. What do you know from trekking the path before us?

It was an anniversary to remember. It was a path we had walked before, yet as always, the same things bring new things. I had bright flowers and sweet perfume—that soul-filling pine perfume. Some of our wounds were temporarily clotted with the thick sap of it. It is a fragrance that makes a person know they are alive. I was grateful for the relief. We had stillness and singing, stillness and movement as we walked together through the cathedral of Pines.

In thirty-seven years, we have peeled back quite a few layers of the carefully crafted bark of our previous years. It’s a gift to craft and a gift to peel back the parts that are no longer needed. What a privilege to see the golden treasure underneath. So here we are. Standing on holy ground. What does the luminous voice from the burning bush tell us? Where do we go? What do we do? Where is this land flowing with milk and honey?

Gonna Get Burned

May 20, 2018 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

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

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

We all probably know this pain, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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