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...]
Begin Spring
Tomorrow is the first day of Spring. Ready or not, here it comes! It seems like we are nowhere close to Spring this weekend as we continue to ‘clean up’ after yet another snowstorm. The roads are icy, the temps are unseasonably cold, the wind chill is downright Decemberish, and there is a lot of snow on the ground in the middle of the yard!
But just like so many things in life, Spring is a process that has a beginning, a middle, and an end—just like a story. So tomorrow we begin Spring. The groundhog did the countdown, and we, as excited children, waited in anticipation for the moment Spring would find us. So what does beginning Spring look like in central Minnesota? There is a change in the position of the rising and setting of the moon and sun—the moon on a monthly basis yet always in a celestial dance with the yearly movement of the sun. The sun is rising and setting ‘nearly’ east and west in its trek toward the Summer Solstice when long hours of daylight in the North of the Northern Hemisphere will shorten our nights.
There are days of melting and days of snowing—a ping pong game of subtraction and addition. But with the beginning of Spring, snow subtraction begins to pull ahead for the win.
Even with a new blanket of a windblown five inches of snow, the sun, from its higher position in the sky, is a steady source of warming power. Even with below freezing temperatures, the sunshine is softening the snow, compacting it with more moisture, and melting it along the edges.
The beginning of Spring, despite the snow, has us looking forward to warmer days when gardens can be planted and canoes can be retrieved from the drifts and winter slumber to glide once again on the ice-free lakes and rivers.
It doesn’t look like Spring, but whether we are ready or not, it has found us!
The beginning of Spring is more subtle than our weary minds and bodies would like it to be. But nonetheless, it arrives. It carries with it the promise and hope for the middle of Spring when the snow is gone, the grass is green, flowers are growing and blooming, and birds and animals are nesting and creating. Then the story of the seasons and us comes to the end of the chapter of Spring and to the beginning of Summer, and so on and so on. It is a sweet dance, like a flowing river, with a rhythm and cadence sung by Mother Nature— ♪ “Here I come.” ♪
An Uncloudy Day
After a long January string of cloudy days, we awakened on Groundhog’s Day to an uncloudy day! From early morning until nightfall, the sun shone brightly on the snow from its angle in the azure blue sky. A whole day of sunlight after coveting peeks and partial showings through the cloudy days! It came with a price, though—the Arctic air that swooshed down from Canada. Not only was the air temperature at a nice round zero degrees, but a northwest wind flew in at seventeen mph making the wind chill more than 20 below. Ouch! I had a strong desire to be out in the sun, but the wind and brittle cold quickly turned my thinly-gloved fingers into icicles and stung my cheeks to rosy red.
But the sunlight was glorious! It lit up places between the trees that had been somber with grayness for weeks on end. I had almost forgotten about shadows! The contrast of bright sunshine on the snow and the blue shadows was sharp and telling. The shadows help show the story of where we are and what’s around us.
Out in the open, the snow was like the desert sand, sculpted and worn by the forces of wind. The blue shadows created their own designs.
A ‘mountaintop’ of snow has covered the roof for months. But even in the chilling temperatures of the Arctic blast, the sun’s strength and warmth begins the slow snow melt.
Winter in the North offers us an overabundance of conditions that challenge us to know who we are. How do we handle the uncontrollable cold and the harsh winds? What do we do with piles of snow and skids of ice? How do we integrate the cloudy stretches and the bright light and dark shadows? Where does it lead us? Where do we go?
After so many cloudy, gray days, the sunshine was so welcomed and wanted. Isn’t it funny how we miss the ordinary things when we are deprived of them for any length of time? Not so funny though—we are fickle humans who want what we want when we want it. But it behooves us to love our lives no matter if the sun is shining or the clouds have hovered over us for weeks or the Arctic winds blast our bodies with frigid cold. This is not to diminish the physiological and psychological benefits the sun can bring us, but a reminder that we each have the power to bring those benefits into our lives, no matter what is going on around us. So it helps to be aware of the grayness, of the blinding brightness, of the blue shadows, of the bone-deep chilliness, and to become cognizant of how we interact and deal with them all. And of course, I don’t just mean the weather.
The Next 364 Days Through Shadow and Light
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?
Dodging Cars and Bullets
Have you ever woken in the morning and even before you open your eyes or move from your last position of sleep you feel weight pressing in on your mind and body? That’s how I woke on Friday. Sometimes it’s a low barometric pressure squeezing in on me; sometimes it’s from the energy-draining not-enough-sleep for a couple of nights; other times it’s a worry, a fight, or an anniversary of something only your body remembers that your mind does not want to recall. It’s when you drag your body out of bed and hope that breakfast and caffeine will boost your energy and dissipate the pressure.
Do animals ever feel that way? How do deer wake and show up for their day? They sleep in the snow and cold, have to forage for their daily food, and at times have to dodge cars and bullets. Sounds like a recipe for having a horrible, no good, very bad day. But I don’t think they do.
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d. I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition. They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago. Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. –excerpt from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
When I was young, I thought animals were easier to understand than humans, so I wanted to be a veterinarian. I loved this poem by Walt Whitman, even in its irreverent way. I argued with Walt’s line that ‘not one is respectable,’ for I had great respect for animals, especially my horses. Before we were married, Chris made me a present of a framed picture of this poem in calligraphy with a drawing of a horse. I recite the first lines often in my head when I feel the pressure of living in our human world.
Chris, in his wisdom of knowing me for thirty-eight years, suggested on Friday that we go to the pine forest in the snow, to where the animals live, to where I could get out of my head and out of my funk, to where the old pines whisper their secrets. I begrudgingly agreed, even as my body wanted to just splay itself on the floor with a blanket. So in the late afternoon, we drove the short distance to Warner Lake County Park to bathe in the solitude of the pine forest.
The little creek that runs into the lake wasn’t frozen, and the trail had been ‘groomed’ for cross-country skiing.
Walking was relatively easy on the groomed trail (not on the ski tracks, of course), but hard work in the short areas where we blazed a trail. Energy returned to my body as we ventured deeper into the woods.
The forest was a constellation of light and shadow, with outlines and crowns of snow.
The late day sun cast long shadows of the long trees. Animal tracks cut across the trails—their footprints leaving the history of their day.
In a small clearing, we saw a shining young pine, enveloped and radiant in the Winter sunshine, as the old, wise guardians surrounded it.
It was peaceful and quiet in the snowy forest—a silky balm for my out-of-sorts mind and body. I was a welcome visitor in the animals’ house, with no host needed. They were willing to share their majestic home with seekers of beauty and peace.
Our lives are a constellation of light and shadow. Some days we live in the darkness, and often we don’t even know what is casting the shadow. It feels like we are dodging the flu, or the axe, or the bullet. The recipe is written, and it seems to spell disaster. But what if the recipe for your day is written in pencil? What if sitting in prayer or meditation erases worry? What if ten minutes of exercise erases pain? And talking to your friend takes away the blues? We are each a shining star, like the radiant young pine tree in the forest. Dissatisfaction melts away to gratitude. The mania of owning things morphs into a willingness to share. Anxiety and worry transform into placid self-containment. The whispered secrets of the ancient guardians begin to work their way into the tracks of our days. And we live like the animals and are happy.