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...]
Our Unique Arithmetic Assignment
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!
Food and Refuge
Food. It has been my refuge for way too long. When things feel out of sorts, or stressful, or downright scary, I reach for food. I learned early on that food was comforting—with good reason—eating food, especially certain kinds, releases ‘feel good’ chemicals in our brain that really do make us feel better. It’s science. Well, it may be science, but something went wrong in how I use food. For most of his life, my Dad would say he eats to live, not lives to eat. It’s simple, but oh so hard for those of us who have substituted food as a coping mechanism for all things distressful in our lives.
Food. It is what Sandhill Cranes leave the refuge for. Our trip to Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge, while it included a hike at fire-damaged Blue Hill, was really to see the gathering, or ‘staging’ as they call it, of thousands of Sandhill Cranes. These prehistoric birds (fossil records from millions of years ago) gather here from northern breeding areas to rest and eat in preparation for their long migration to Florida. (The count on 10/29 was over 11,000.) At night, the cranes roost in the wetlands of Sherburne, and at dawn, they take to the skies and fly to neighboring fields that have been harvested for corn or soybeans. Like a bear before hibernation, the cranes feast on the grains to sustain their bodies for the long flight.
There are six subspecies of Sandhill Cranes, some migratory and others non-migratory. The Sherburne species is the Greater Sandhill Crane, standing at four and a half to five feet tall with a six foot wingspan, but only weighing between ten and fourteen pounds! The mated pairs stay together for life and both help incubate and raise the one or two young ones that hatch after a thirty-day incubation time. The young ones with their awkwardly long legs are called colts.
As dusk approaches, groups of cranes fly from the fields to return to the refuge.
There was a lot of chatter. I wondered if there were ‘leaders’ who decided when it was time to fly and what the signal was to do so. I did notice that some would flap their wings on the ground, like an impatient ‘time to go,’ while others were still very invested in consuming more corn.
At a clearing on the edge of the refuge lands, we parked to watch the mini-migration back to the roosting grounds. Wave after wave after wave of different sized groups flew over our heads and to both sides of us. We didn’t notice how long this deluge of chattering cranes continued, but we did eat our picnic supper under the constant serenade of the Sandhills.
Sandhill Cranes and animals in the wild ‘eat to live.’ It takes an inordinate amount of their time to find and consume the food that sustains their lives. The abundance of harvest gleanings at this time of year is the Cranes’ needed fuel for migration, just as the fall ‘fattening’ period is for other animals facing a tough, cold winter. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I ‘live to eat,’ but food has definitely been my ‘go to,’ my refuge, as a coping mechanism for most of my life. I know I’m not alone. So how does one leave the refuge of food and find sustenance elsewhere? The same can be asked of alcohol, drugs, gambling, and any other addiction, though food falls into a unique category in that one actually does need food to survive. Abstinence does not work. Therefore, the impetus of change needs to occur on the inside. How can I stretch out that time period between the uncomfortable, distressful feelings and the act of reaching for food? What could I possibly do that would make me feel better in this moment than half a bar (or more) of dark chocolate? In my experience, it takes an inordinate amount of will and often a lot of pain (either physically or emotionally) to initiate that will. It has so much to do with self-love and feelings of worth and self-compassion and ‘but I deserve…’ and ‘who has my back?’ (chocolate always has my back) and what’s easy and what’s hard and wave after wave after wave of very real feelings that in reality have nothing to do with food. And therein lies the answer—a new refuge is needed, and I can be its creator.
Gleanings from July–Animal Behavior
Animals have always been such an important part of my life. When I was very young, we had a menagerie of farm animals–Holstein dairy cows, a black Mustang horse, chickens, cats, dogs, pigs, and sheep. Later in my growing up years we had a rabbit, ducks, cats, dogs, and horses. (I tend to leave out the hamster who I did not like–he was too squishy and mouse-like.) Horses were the best; I loved everything about them–brushing their dusty coats and tangley tails, feeding them sweet feed and fragrant hay, saddling and riding them through fields and woods, and even cleaning out and shaking fresh straw into their stalls.
July has not only been a month of flowers, but one of animals, too. The young Bluebirds who fledged the nest have been swooping to the ground to pick up insects, then quickly flying back up to tree branches, just like their parents.
The chattering House Wrens are on their second brood of young ones and spend most of the day hunting for insects for the hungry houseful. (See my post of wren babies fledging from the nest.)
When I was weeding the garden one day, a Leopard frog leaped out from under the kale and hid in the grass.
Have you ever seen your reflection in the eye of a frog?
Mother turkeys and their young broods have been wandering through the yard and woods, scratching and pecking for food.
A call from Chris one morning alerted me to come check out a field close to his work. I pulled into a field driveway, walked across the road, and saw a large community of Sand Hill Cranes! There were about forty in all, gleaning the kernels from the grain field.
Sandhill cranes mate for life, choosing their partners based on spring mating dancing displays. They live for twenty years or longer.
The young ones stay with their parents through the winter and separate the following spring, but can take up to seven years to choose a mate.
A pair of sentries closest to me, but still on the far side of the field, started making alarm calls as they watched me.
The others slowly began gathering and walking along the edge of the field.
This photograph of beautiful bird behavior, after the sentries sounded the ‘beware’ call, illustrates a variety of responses. The one in the middle is ‘shaking it off,’ the two adults in the back right seem to be discussing the problem–“what do you think–is that figure holding the black box really a threat?” and the young ones in the front are following directions–“walk to your left.”
I was fortunate to witness another display of articulate animal behavior in our front yard the other day. I saw a doe with her fawn grazing along the edge of our yard. (Look at the line of spots on either side of the spine.)
The doe stayed in much the same spot, and I hoped she wasn’t munching on the hazelnuts Chris recently planted. She was as sleek and healthy-looking as I’ve ever seen a deer, so she must have been eating nutritious food. (Hmm, some of our hostas had been eaten down to the stems…)
The fawn wandered out in front of the doe.
Soon he ventured out into the mowed part of the lawn, bucked, and kicked up his heels.
With cautious curiosity, he walked to the crabapple tree and nibbled on a few leaves.
Suddenly, something scared him, and he ran as fast as he could back to his mom! Immediately she started licking him. He stood close to her and continued to graze as she licked his back, reassuring him that he was okay. After a few minutes of that, he slowly pulled away to wander on his own again.
Then they slipped back into the woods.
I have learned many things about myself and life from all the animals over the years. Anyone who has ever been astride a horse that is spooked by something, knows in his/her body what the fight or flight response feels like. Consequently, one learns how to soothe the horse and let him know that he’s okay. If you have seen a mother cat caring for her kittens–nursing them, hunting for them, cleaning them, keeping them safely hidden when small, and teaching them to be on their own–then you know what parenting entails. We often forget that we are one of the many animal species and that we have much in common with them. So watch closely in the presence of animals–we can see the reflection of ourselves in their eyes.
Biking and Hiking Where the Wild Things Are
Our copy of Maurice Sendak’s classic picture book ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ is tattered and worn, the shiny gold Caldecott Medal sticker peeling along the circular edge. I would hate to guess how many times we read it. The story is about play, actions, feelings, imagination, and processing. (If you are unfamiliar with ‘Where the Wild Things Are,’ click here to see a YouTube reading of the book.)
These wild things in Max’s imagination are at the opposite end of the spectrum to the literally wild things in Nature. And before I go any further, I must give due respect to the multitude of places across the world that are much more ‘wild’ than here in Central Minnesota. Nonetheless, all it takes is a bike ride or a hike close to home to encounter the wild things.
We can cross the highway down the hill from our house and ride the twelve-mile bike trail to the west. Redwing blackbirds sing from their cattail podiums and frogs chortle in the wetland area strewn with Yellow Water Buttercups.
Farther down the trail, the Sauk River flows from the Chain of Lakes where the geese and the pelicans float. Beware–if you were a fish, he’d eat you up, he loves you so.
Down the ditch, across the busy highway, through trees and grass, I saw the strange walking movement of a family of Sandhill Cranes. These red-masked, five-foot-tall birds with a wingspan of nearly seven feet are formidable defenders of their young ones. They survey the world all around them for tasty frogs, snakes, insects, small mammals, and grains. Their distinctive trilling call draws your eyes skyward during spring and fall migration.
Last weekend we hiked through Rockville County Park to discover we are six baby eagles richer than we were a year ago. The family of five, with all their yellow eyes and terrible claws, sat peacefully in their lofty nest, watching as we walked around their prairie.
Golden Alexander, a member of the carrot family, is a host plant for Black Swallowtail caterpillars. It has a wild, beautiful scientific name–Zizia aurea–one that is meant to be proclaimed out loud! ZIZIA AUREA!
Be still and look at this beautiful little butterfly on the most common of all wildflowers.
The exuberant wildness of Prairie Smoke drifted in the breeze. The nodding pink-red flowers stand up and open up after pollination and has a seed at the base of each feathery plume.
The other eagle’s nest is on the edge of the forest, and the three young ones sat patiently waiting for their parents to return with supper.
As we walked through the forest towards the Sauk River, we saw ferns that grew and grew and grew until they were as tall as we were!
We saw a woodland plant that looked like Solomon’s Seal, but it had a different flower from the ones that hang from the underside of the arching stems. When we got home, I looked it up–it’s False Solomon’s Seal–I was both right and wrong.
We all possess the magic trick of staring into our own eyes, letting our imagination run wild, and believing it to be the truth. We become the king of our own wild imaginations. We like being in charge of the wild rumpus that ensues. But like Max, we eventually become lonely, and something from far away entices us to give up being king. Our ego cries, “Oh please don’t go.” But we say “No!” Amid the terrible roars and gnashing of teeth, we step into our true self and sail back to where Someone loves us best of all.
Gleanings from August
This impressive display of purple coneflowers Chris planted at the College of St. Benedict reminds me of a crowd of people at an outdoor concert–all shapes and sizes enjoying the sunshine and gathered for a common purpose. In the case of the coneflowers, their common purpose is Beauty! August and sunshine and purple coneflowers! Earlier that day while at St. John’s Arboretum, we saw flying sandhill cranes and a pudgy chipmunk who didn’t seem the least bit concerned that we were treading on his home territory.
An evening August visit to Eagle Park revealed bursts of bright sunflowers amid the prairie grasses and a pair of sandhill cranes but no eagles.
One of the most interesting flowers we saw on the banks of the Mississippi River was the Obedient Plant. It is so named because the individual flowers on the showy spikes can be moved around the stem and will stay where you put them!
One of my favorite flowers we have at home is Joe Pye Weed. It is also a native plant to eastern and central United States, including Minnesota. It is close to six feet tall and has large pink-purple blossoms on dark red stems. We planted it in a relatively sunny clearing in the woods. And I love its common name–said to be named after a Native American healer who cured the settlers of typhus with the plant.
August brought many visitors to our yard–the doe and her spotted fawns, the wandering posse of turkeys, shy pileated woodpeckers, and the many wrens who hatched their young in the birdhouses. Another visitor announced his presence one morning with loud screeches. This young Cooper’s hawk was in an ash tree right outside our door.
And we are getting hints of fall–red leaves on sumac, clusters of white asters, and white berries on red stems of the gray dogwood.
Whether we are one of many in a crowd or a solitary individual, we have a purpose at any given time. Whether we are flying through the sky or planted in a sunny spot, we are part of a larger community that needs our gifts. As summer winds down, may you find purpose, the voice to share it with your community, and time in each day for appreciating the Beauty of Nature.
On the Wobegon Trail
It was a beautiful day for biking–sunny with a light breeze, warm but not too hot or humid. We headed for the Lake Wobegon Regional Bike Trail, not far from our house. It is the Lake Wobegon of Garrison Keillor’s storytelling on A Prairie Home Companion radio show–where “all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” Even though we’re transplants, I like to think we fit in. Manned with sunscreen, water, homemade granola bars, and the camera, we set off on our journey.
The Wobegon trail is 46 miles from St. Joseph to Osakis on an old railroad line. It winds through areas of prairie, rolling farm land, woods, small towns, and lakes. We saw sheep and cattle, including the little Black Angus calf and his mama. I tried to get him to turn my way, but he was probably looking at frogs or something much more interesting.
We saw prairie grasses and wildflowers including Wood Anemone, Yarrow, Wild Rose, and Prairie Phlox. Yellow Goatsbeard was abundant along the trail–some in their morning bloom of yellow, others in their dramatic dandelion-like seed heads.
Shimmering stands of ferns carpeted the floor of a wet, wooded area.
I saw a giant of a plant that stopped me in my tracks! It was six or seven feet tall with a dill-looking flower and huge leaves. I identified it as Cow Parsnip, a member of the Parsley Family.
When we got to an open area again, Chris spotted the gray-brown shapes I was hoping we would see. Picking their way through a corn field was a Sandhill Crane and her chick. As I was getting pictures of these two, we heard the rolling, low bugle call of two others as they flew overhead. The mama and her chick walked between the field and a grassy area. All of a sudden they were dive-bombed by a red-winged blackbird. Mama crane ducked her head then waited for her chick to catch up to her as the blackbird flew away. Then they calmly resumed their walk.
We passed a number of small lakes, streams, and wetlands, then rode between Middle and Lower Spunk lakes. Middle Spunk has a swimming beach and many homes surrounding it. Lower Spunk has a fishing dock, public water access, and more wild area. A red-winged blackbird greeted us from his perch when we walked out on the dock.
The Yellow Pond Lilies were beginning to bloom from their floating homes. The pencil-thin water weeds that grew around the lilies threw shadows that zigged and zagged darkly on the wavy water, looking like an abstract painting.
At about mile 12 or 13 of the Wobegon trail, we encountered one of the highlights of the trip–a Showy Lady’s Slipper–the State flower of Minnesota. It is a type of orchid that grows very slowly, taking up to 16 years until first flowering and is very long-lived–50 to 100 years. Lady’s Slippers have been protected in Minnesota since 1925, as they are a rare find.
After seeing the Lady’s Slipper, we turned around to head back. It was afternoon by then, and the sun was warm. The breeze of gliding along the path felt good. I don’t know if it was the weather or the air rushing through my nose, but I noticed so many scents. It was like, when biking you go through the scents, instead of the scent wafting to you. Maybe it smells stronger that way. I noticed the wild rose sweetness, the heady hay smell of alfalfa and sweet clover, the damp coolness of the woods, and a brief acrid smell of skunk. I smelled tobacco when a boy around the age of twelve?! rode by and fresh, clean soap when a tall man glided past us. The lake smelled fishy and weedy like a lake should, and the pasture like cows and manure.
And the sounds seemed amplified and sweet. Many different bird songs serenaded us–the chatter of wrens and the stark call of the pileated woodpecker. At one point I realized how quiet it was except for the birds. Then we rolled by a grove of poplars, and they loudly cheered me onward with their quivering leaf ensemble. (My leg muscles needed a little encouragement by that time.)
So what piqued our senses? Nature herself? Was it my quest to find good nature pictures to share? Or was it the opportunity to be away from the normal daily drone of tv, radio, computers, and phones? Perhaps our senses are bombarded by our man-made surroundings–and it is not what our bodies and souls need. So we can take wisdom from the Sandhill Crane–duck our heads, stop and re-group with our loved ones (and Nature), and calmly walk on.