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Our Unique Arithmetic Assignment

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Part of our life learning process is embodied in the statements “I’ve seen this before,” or “I’ve heard this before” or most importantly, “I’ve felt this before.” It goes beyond the situational ‘deja vu’ (literally ‘already seen’) when a person feels like they have experienced something before. This is more concrete, a simple arithmetic of sorts. In the early part of our lives, we do it unconsciously; it is how we learn. ‘I’ve seen this round object before and people say the word ball.’ Fast and furious learning takes place in the next decades with things we’ve seen, heard, and felt. As we grow into middle age and older, we begin to notice patterns in our lives that have become rote. ‘I’ve heard those same words before,’ and we may add ‘too many times.’ We are becoming aware and discerning how those words impact us. And this is when the simple math becomes conscious and truthful—‘I don’t want to hear those words again,’ ‘I’ve seen this scenario before, and I don’t want it to happen again,’ or ‘I am going to change so I don’t have to feel this same way anymore.’ Subtraction. We also have greater awareness of what we want more of in our lives, those sparks of desire that may have been muzzled with responsibilities, time constraints, and unawareness. ‘I’m going to take some classes to feel the thrill of learning again,’ or ‘I’m going to learn the words to that song I love so I can sing it anytime.’ Addition. It is a profound lesson in authenticity when we become aware of our unique arithmetic assignment and incorporate it into our lives.

On Thursday I drove to a place I have seen before. The prairie–wetland–woodland trail at Saint John’s Arboretum is familiar to me. I don’t really remember how many times I’ve hiked it, which is of no consequence to any further time I am there, for each and every time there are new things to see along with the familiar friends that bring me joy. This was the first time I had been there with so much snow, the first time I had snowshoed the trail. It was a crisp 23 degrees. We had had rain two nights before, so the deep snow had an icy, pockmarked crust. The metal on the snowshoes s-c-r-i-t-c-h-e-d against the snow with each tread. My noisy steps alerted the waterfowl in the open creek, and I heard them before I saw them. It’s a great, wonderful sound I’ve heard many times before—the heralding honking of Canadian geese, the throaty warning of Trumpeter swans, and the more indistinct chattering of Mallard ducks.

There was another sound I had heard many times before—the rattling trill of a Sandhill Crane. He stood on the frozen embankment of the flowing creek, looking like an unhappy camper, wondering why his return flight to Minnesota had landed him in the frozen tundra. He ruffled his feathers and called out in irritation.

I was the intruder everyone was talking about—the geese voiced their faux alarm, but not one flew away. The Trumpeter swans were more sensitive and took to flight along with their vocal dismay.

Mr. Sandhill Crane kept up his rattley chatter as he surveyed me walking closer and all of his waterfowl friends below him in the creek.

Then he slowly ambled away from the creek into the stalks of cattails, pretending to find a morsel of food to peck at but moving on with disappointment.

I left the wetland and shoed through drifts and a broken, uneven path to the forest. With a deep sigh of contentment, I knew I had felt this way before, and it was good.

The dark-trunked Maple trees threw shadows on the deep snow, but I knew they were warming up for Spring. With daytime temps reaching above the freezing mark, the sap was beginning to stir in their roots. The below–freezing temps at night settle it back down, and that temperature gradient becomes the ‘pump’ that gets the sap flowing, ready for the harvesting for Maple syrup. I also imagined the Spring Ephemeral wildflowers under the soil, under the snow, that would be blooming before the trees could even unfurl their leaves. Old friends that are always a joy to see.

Circling around to the other snow-covered boardwalk that spans the wetland, I heard the waterfowl chatter again, along with some nearby Crane talk.

This time, there were three red-headed cranes in the cattails! It looked like a mated pair and their colt from last year. The offspring may migrate back to their usual spot with the parents, but once the nesting begins, he will be ‘chased away’ to begin his solitary life for two to six more years before he finds his lifetime mate.

Addition and Subtraction. The way of Nature. The way of Winter into Spring. The way we learn and discern. Most everything I saw, heard, and felt on my Thursday snowshoe hike was familiar to me, and I welcomed it into my life once again with a resounding “Yes!” At the same time, new details of deep snow, new birds, and Spring clouds made my experience ‘something more.’ We have to be careful not to fall through the ice of expecting our surroundings to change because of our displeasure. Mr. Sandhill Crane had some unfortunate seasonal timing in his migration and nesting schedule, but he will have to ‘wait it out’ while the sun and tilt of the Earth do their work. We want to be conscious and truthful about our own lives, our own words and actions. It is the responsibility and privilege that Life bestows upon us. Good luck with your assignment!

Grow With It

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I remember the hard work of growing up. I remember the hard work of growing other humans for those first nine months and for the twenty years after that. At the time, I didn’t even realize that those two things were happening simultaneously—as I stewarded the growth of my children, I myself continued to grow and develop.

It’s hard work to grow. It’s hard work to turn soil nutrients, water, and sunlight into a prolific number of new cells that function in numerous ways in order to reproduce. Plants, insects, birds, and animals are productive from Spring to this time of late Summer. And the fruits of their labors are evident. Flowers, fruits, seeds, and offspring combine to showcase the miracle of an ecosystem where not only is the organism’s genetic material passed on to another generation but the organism or its fruits or seeds are used by others for sustenance for their growth. It truly is a circle of life, a web of interconnected growth, give, and take.

The abundance of growth and production is a visual treat for the eyes on the prairie and woodland trails at Saint John’s Arboretum. Big Bluestem—big as in four to seven feet tall and Bluestem as in the purplish tint to leaves and three-pronged ‘turkey foot’ seedheads—was the predominant grass on the prairie. In all its glory. It provides cover, nesting sites, and food (seeds) for a number of species of birds and is considered by ranchers to be ‘ice cream for cows’ in pastureland. ( I like that depiction.) Gray-headed Coneflowers provide food and housing for butterflies and moths and seed treats for goldfinches and other song birds.

Goldenrods of numerous species are the golden magnets for butterflies and other beetle bugs. Stiff Goldenrod has thick, leathery leaves that look like feathers, especially the basal leaves.

The fruits of the Wild Rose—rosehips—are turning red and are food for birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bears.

I think the winner in cell production in one season is the Compass Plant—look at those sturdy, almost tree-like stems! While the deeply-cut leaves can be up to two feet long, the flower stems can grow up to twelve feet high providing a prairie perch for birds. The sunflower-like flowers provide seeds for birds and small mammals, and the hardened sap can be chewed like gum.

A slightly shorter relative to the Compass Plant is the Cup Plant. It has sturdy square stems with large leaves that clasp the stem and form a cup that catches rainwater and provides drinks for birds and insects.

I was happy to see a few Monarchs in the prairie—knowing they are endangered makes seeing one that much sweeter.

One of my favorite prairie grasses is Grama grass—a short, drought resistant grass with horizontal seed heads that look like tiny brushes.

The ponds were surrounded or inundated by tall cattails, so it was difficult to see the water birds, but I was able to catch a glimpse of a Trumpeter Swan family. They had a perfect place for their July-August molting and regrowth of flight feathers—very protected for their flightless time. Usually the females lay 5-7 eggs in the Spring, so I was a bit surprised there were only two cygnets.

Swamp Smartweed displayed a pretty pink spike of a flower. Dew and rain beaded on leaves of Jewel Weed, sparkling like diamonds. It has a succulent stem with an aloe-like juice that can relieve itching from poison ivy. The seed capsules will explode when touched, sending seeds in all directions. Hummingbirds are especially attracted to the dappled orange flowers, but butterflies and bees also pollinate them.

Shallow water with minimal movement is a perfect place for Wild Rice to grow. The pointed stalks sway in the breeze, heavy with the developing seeds. Zizania palustris (isn’t Zizania a great genus name?) has a higher protein content than most cereal grains and is an important food source for waterfowl and Native American tribes. Minnesota has more acres of non-cultivated Wild Rice than any other state.

Another edible wild thing is Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. These were accompanied by other pretty and interesting fungi growing close by.

Then there’s the beauty of Maidenhair Ferns with stems of shiny, black that make the fronds seem to float in the air—so elegant.

Late blooming flowers like Joe Pye Weed, Asters of all kinds, Rough Blazing Star, Rattlesnake Master, and Anise Hyssop are imperative for nectar supplies for Monarchs and other butterflies, bees, and Hummingbirds. The gift of beauty and the gift of food.

Joe Pye Weed
Aster
Monarch butterfly on Rough Blazing Star
Rattlesnake Master
Tiger Swallowtail butterfly on Anise Hyssop

The hard work of Spring and Summer is in full display as flowers produce pollen and nectar, fruit is developed, seeds are formed, and babies grow. The circle of life is turning. The interconnectedness of flora, fauna, and humans creates an invisible web that ties us all together. As we enter slowly into a new, old season, it gives us an opportunity to pause and give thanks for the incredible burst of growth of new cells, new skills, and new fruits of labor. It is a time to celebrate the hard work—of Nature and of ourselves. All of Nature, including ourselves, take the resources and predicaments we have been given and grow with it. Poor soil, rich soil, drought, abundant rainfall, shelter, partners, wind, war, famine, predators, encroachment, mentors, protectors—so many variables. But we all grow with it, whatever it is. None of us grow by our own volition—the web of genetic material, family of origin, environment, occurrences, teachers, and friends all contribute to our growth. It is a miracle of Life, in all its glory.

Portraits of Hope

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Hope is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops at all- —Emily Dickinson

I usually love Earth Day. We all have so much to be thankful for living on this good, green earth. Sharing the beauty and goodness of the flora and fauna that surrounds us and sustains us is a great pleasure of mine. But I’m not feeling much hope this year—when the western half of the United States is in a continuing drought, short on moisture and water, and battling wildfires at all times of the year. Such loss and destruction. When the evil of an unprovoked war is tearing apart a country and killing thousands and thousands of innocent people. Extreme loss and destruction. When ‘mysterious’ illnesses and causes are wreaking havoc on our bee and insect populations, and more recently, on people’s health. Who is benefiting from such harm? It is overwhelming. It makes my small contributions to science, goodness, and beauty seem fruitless.

I gathered words and pictures from magazines at the New Year to make a 2022 vision board, and on it I placed a picture of a pure white feather with Emily Dickinson’s first line from her famous poem: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” I feel like I need it more now than even in January when I was hoping the pandemic would finally abate.

And then, things with feathers kept showing up for me this week—when I was looking out the window while eating breakfast at home and during a short, quiet walk at Saint John’s Arboretum. The corner of the house roof was a ‘cooing perch’ for a male Mourning Dove—his throat would puff out, stretching the ruff of feathers, and the calm, lonely coo escaped from his body without opening his bill, without any words. Most surprising was the patch of pastel iridescent feathers that were displayed when his throat was ballooned with air—a handsome fellow with a peaceful song.

Cardinals are so expressive with their crest of red feathers. Carotenoids from fruit and insects are responsible for the red pigment. Often during Winter or after molting, their back feathers turn a gray color until the richness of Spring when they change to brilliant crimson.

The ice was gone from the lakes at Saint John’s Arboretum, and an immature Loon swam all by himself in the big lake. His head feathers were transitioning to the shiny black of adults, and his eyes were still black instead of red. Pretty feathers of hope.

On one side of the boardwalk through the marsh swam a protective male Canadian Goose. His watchful eye and wary honks let me know that he was not going to go far from his companion.

She was on the other side of the boardwalk, peeking over the rushes. I’m sure their nest was not far away.

A nesting pair of Trumpeter Swans was hiding in the cattail rushes, almost unseen.

Feathers were everywhere. Portraits of hope. My Earth Day sadness is still clinging to me, and I don’t see a pathway to change with all the turmoil, disdain, and division in the world. But if hope is the thing with feathers, my soul has been reminded of that with abundance this week. With each bird I see or feather I find, I will be reminded of hope. With each song or coo I hear, I will remember to have faith. With each pair of loyal companions making a new nest for a new family, I will observe love. Mother Nature’s hope, faith, and love never stops at all.

Flying Solo

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I’m flying solo for awhile, and it’s a new experience for me. I acknowledge the many women in the world who do so on a daily basis whether from desire, need, circumstance, or the roll of the dice. And by flying solo, I actually mean hiking solo—I still have my partner around for the rest of my life. But Chris is out-of-hiking-commission for a couple months until he gets a new hip. The wear and tear of decades of physical labor is now calling the shots and winning the pain war.

I am an intrepid partnered hiker—I don’t worry about getting lost or about bothersome insects or about getting too tired or hurt. The natural world is my home, so to speak. It feeds my soul. But something happens to me when I need to do it alone. My irrational fear takes over—that something-bad-is-going-to-happen fear that has plagued me for most of my life. It rises up from my belly and takes control of my breathing and heartrate, and it hijacks my mind. The good news is I have been working on ‘overriding’ that very ingrained behavior for more than a decade now—I see it for what it is, take back control of my breathing, and talk back to the fear voice. So…all of that happened before I even got out the door to hike at Saint John’s Arboretum this week.

Chris is a patient hiking partner—he stops and waits when I see something interesting to photograph, he comes back to look at really unusual things, and he points out artistic perspectives that I miss. The kids tease me, wondering how many hours per mile we’re doing when we hike together! At any rate, literally, it didn’t matter when I was by myself. But I missed having Chris with me to share the sights, signs, and sounds of Spring—and I ended up telling myself that I would be sharing those sights and signs with you readers of North Star Nature—like you were with me. The stirring calls of Canadian geese greeted me at the trailhead—the return of the geese and Trumpeter Swans is a sure sign of Spring, a satisfying sound to hear.

I was thrilled to see the dried remains of last year’s Compass Plants—it takes many years to get these prairie perennials established. Their twelve-foot high stems are matched by tap roots that burrow down to fifteen feet in the ground. It takes a strong foundation for such tall plants!

The distinct, deeply cut basal leaves of the Compass Plant are its namesake—during the growing season the leaves stand up vertically and orient themselves with their flat surfaces towards the east and west to avoid the intense heat of the peak sunlight.

The upper stem of the Compass Plant produces several sunflower-like flowers. The shaving-brush-like seed pod holds the seeds that are favored by many species of birds. In fact, the whole plant is an ecological home to over eighty different species of insects that live on or in the plant!

Old things, Fall and Winter things, still dominate the landscape at this time of year—cattails that have gone to seed, nests that held eggs and young birds, ice-covered lakes, golden Ironwood leaves, and snow-covered trails in shady places.

But the melting snow reveals some encouraging signs that are truly only impressive when compared to the last four months of frozen landscape. Each small sign of green and growing reminds us of what is to come and whets our desire for the new season.

The melting snow also reveals some unusual finds. Bones are an important food and nutrient source for animals during Winter. All the flesh and most of the cartilage had been chewed off this bone, along with the marrow that could be reached from each of the ends.

One of the trunks of a double Maple tree was inexplicably broken about fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. My guess is a sap ‘explosion’ occurred on a freezing night during these warm days/cold nights that are imperative for the flow of sap (and thus for the collection of sap for maple syrup.)

A Crow lost a handful of feathers in some kind of recent scuffle—the feather was too pristine to have made it through a snow-covered Winter.

Bright yellow-orange is a hike-stopping color at this time of year! Perhaps this is Yellow Brain Fungus—it’s growing on decaying wood with plenty of moisture from the melting snow.

Thanks to my friend Gail who sent a post about snow fleas, I noticed these little jumping critters! Snow fleas aren’t really fleas but are able to jump several inches like fleas. They are actually tiny arthropods called springtails. (And they don’t bite.)

As a Winter color-deprived observer, I liked the colors of these rocks on the trail! Celebrating the simple pleasures of the season!

On this first day of April as I wandered alone through the prairie, wetlands, and forest of Saint John’s Arboretum, the seasonal change was palpable. The ice was melting, water was flowing in spots, waterfowl were pairing up, sap was flowing, and green things were growing. No fooling, Spring is here.

Growth—whether greening of the flora, developing of the fauna, or the expansion of our inner knowledge, resources, and strength—has its seasons. Sometimes we willingly and proactively choose to expand our comfort zone, and other times Life’s circumstances do the choosing for us. Flying solo is a choice many make intentionally, and just as often, that ‘choice’ befalls people who had no desire, will, or capacity to go it alone. But death happens, divorce and separation happen, war unfortunately happens, and all sorts of other disruptions. As unfamiliar as it is for me to hike alone without my partner of forty years, it is a small thing compared to what many other people are going through. And yet, it stretches me. It forces me to confront my irrational fears while at the same time acknowledging that solo hiking for a woman has its very relevant dangers (as does walking alone in many urban settings.) It’s at times like these that it’s helpful to burrow down deep into the foundation of our Selves—the taproot of our being—to find the strengths and skills we possess that show us the way. Old things always fade away to new green and growing things—we are no exception. I am celebrating and sharing with you the simple, colorful pleasures of the new season.

Darkness Brings Promise

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Spring sunsets look like promise to me, which seems backward—one would think sunrises bring promise with the beginning of a new day. So I’m not sure what it is exactly that makes me think that, but I do know promise arises from some very dark situations.

Fire-scorched earth greeted a friend and I when we arrived for a morning walk at St. John’s Arboretum. It’s rather shocking to see acres and acres of blackened prairie and wetland. There were no more smoldering embers, but the acrid smell of smoke and ash swirled into the air and into our nostrils with the stiff breeze. The trail was the line of demarcation as we walked—on one side was the black earth, on the other side the brown and greening prairie.

Among the old, brown grass and new, green shoots, we found a clump of Pasque flowers—early bloomers of the prairie. The pale purple flowers were closed; the long, silky white hairs that covered the whole plant shone in the sunlight. The state flower of South Dakota, Pasque flowers are dear to my heart. They are known by some as May Day Flower.

Prescribed or controlled burns of prairies are a common tool to manage the land. Fire destroys invasive and woody plants, thus improving the native plant community. It quickly returns nutrients to the soil by way of the ash as opposed to years of decomposition of accumulated dried grasses.

A yellow-stemmed willow, a woody plant, is out of place on the prairie. While the matted, dried grasses provide protection for perennials over the cold Winter, it takes much more time for the prairie to ‘turn green.’ The black, burned side soaks up the sunlight, which warms the earth, the root systems, and the growth crowns of the grasses and wildflowers that remain. As stark as the burned side looks now, it will be lush and green before the other side. There is promise in fire.

So although it doesn’t look like it, much remains after the fast-burning prairie fire.

Since it was a relatively dry Winter without much snow, and early Spring was also fairly dry, the ‘wetland’ of cattails and rushes could also be burned this year.

But on the other side, the old, brown stalks of cattails and rushes gave cover to the nesting waterfowl. This young-looking Canadian Goose was frozen in her long-necked posture when we walked by on the boardwalk. At first I wondered if she was injured, but later I realized that she was probably just alarmed for her nest of eggs.

Her mate flew in as we walked on, so we backtracked to see that the female was in the cattails, probably at her nest. A nest full of potential.

As we left the prairie and wetlands, we entered the forest and saw what I was hoping to see—blooming Leatherwoods! The tubular yellow flowers hung from the tough, flexible branches of the understory shrubs.

This little Leatherwood tree looked like a child to me—fresh and bright, strong and pliable beside the tall, mature forest trees. The embodiment of prospects and hopes.

A fallen tree had scattered across the trail. It was unusual in that it had been so far-decayed while standing. Usually a dead tree falls and most of the decay process happens on the ground. The light amber wood of this tree was dry and crumbly, like a Jenga tower tumbling to the ground.

Bright, vibrant Fan Clubmoss and Shining Clubmoss grew from the old leaf litter, like miniature Cedars and Pines. Evergreens keep hope alive even through the longest Winters.

A small hanging nest, last year’s nest, was visible on the bare, budded branches. There will be new nest building and some re-use of old as the Spring promise of new eggs and new baby birds unfolds.

Nature embraces and expresses duality in most every aspect—the dark of night and the light of day, fire and ash and new, green growth, exposure and protection, decay and flexible growth. Should we think our lives would be any different? We are a part of Nature, her sons and daughters who start from eggs and grow and develop with protection and vulnerability. No matter what scorches us, our roots remain, and we can rise like the Phoenix from the ashes. That’s how sunsets show us promise, how first flowers display hardiness, how the young goose reveals potential, how Leatherwood demonstrates flexibility, and how the Jenga tree explains the cycle of Life.