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A Picture of Calm and Quiet

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Yesterday Chris and I had a mission: to explore strange new lands, to seek out new sites and old civilizations, and to boldly go where no coronavirus has gone before (us). We headed north to Crow Wing State Park near Brainerd, Minnesota. We actually had been to this park in August of 2014 for a short camp-out and hike. We chose a trail we hadn’t been on before, and of course everything looks different in Winter! The Red River Oxcart Trail follows the Mississippi River as it bends around this peninsula of beautiful forested land.

There was no walking across the Mississippi River like we had done a couple of weeks ago. Ice still covered most of the River, but a couple of ribbons of dark, flowing, open water burgeoned forth towards Spring and St. Paul.

This site is the confluence of the Crow Wing and Mississippi rivers. The Crow Wing River splits before entering the Mississippi, creating an island in the shape of a wing. Early French explorer accounts had translated the name into Crow Wing. This area of land had long been a favored hunting and meeting place for the Dakota and Ojibwe nations, and it became a famous fur trading location.

The snow on the trail had been snowshoed and walked, so the path was packed down and rough. The snow pack to the sides were mostly hard enough for us to walk on, but every once in a while our foot would break through the surface snow and sink in to almost a foot deep.

We walked between the ice-covered River and the forest of towering Pines and ancient Oaks. It was exquisitely beautiful.

We came to a clearing where we learned we were walking on a boardwalk of the old town road. This was the site of the old village of Crow Wing where the fur trading post had developed into the foremost trade, travel, and political center of the region. By the 1860’s, it was hostel and home to over 600 people, with stores, warehouses, saloons, hotels, and churches.

The town of Crow Wing in the 1860’s

Fur trader and developer Clement Beaulieu and his wife Elizabeth built this house on the hill in 1849. The booming town of Crow Wing began its decline in the 1870’s when the railroad crossing was built up-river where the town of Brainerd grew. The Beaulieu house was moved in 1880 and occupied until the 1980’s, when it was donated to the Minnesota DNR, moved back to its original location, and restored to its original design.

We continued along the Red River Oxcart trail and came to the place where the oxcarts would ford the River. At that time, cargo was brought from the north by oxcart, then transferred to wagons for the rest of the trip to St. Paul and vice versa.

Our trail brought us around the peninsula to Chippewa Lookout, then into a Pine forest.

The forest and the River beyond were a picture of calm and quiet. The sun and hiking had warmed us from the original chill at the beginning of the trail. The last two hours had felt like we were explorers in the wilderness…

…so I was surprised when we suddenly saw a stone chapel in a clearing! The Father Pierz Chapel, named after the first Catholic missionary of the area, is now in its third or fourth iteration from the log structure that was his first church.

For our late lunch, we sidled into the snow-enveloped picnic table, careful not to slide on the ice beneath our feet, and munched our veggies, nuts, and fruit. It had been a good day.

For over two hours we had hiked the woods without seeing anyone else. Thoughts of the burgeoning Covid 19 virus and its wake of disruption and destruction evaporated from our minds. There is a whole world beyond disease, the stock market, panic hoarding, and anxiety that waits for us to explore. Nature offers us a calm and quiet place to rest our fears and jitters—seek it out. This, as in any other time, is when a confluence of knowledge (both past and present) and compassion can create an island of security. Go boldly with those virtues. Nourish yourself. Say a prayer. Walk the walk. Mission accomplished.

A Sure Sign

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Have you ever looked back at a season or a year and wondered how you got through it? I’ve had a few of those times in my life. A number of things had happened in this last year, when I felt like I was at the bottom of a dog pile on a football field where heavy body after heavy body slammed down on me and crushed my body and spirit. I was trying to hold on to the ball, but at times I couldn’t even tell where the ball was, whose hand was on it, or if I would breathe again.

I’m not sure my eyes had even opened yet when I heard it—the sound of Spring. As the day was just beginning to show the pale faintness of light, I heard birds chirping. I love waking to that glorious sound after the silent winter. It is a sure sign that Spring is on its way. Even though we had blustery snow showers that first singing day, the next day was sunny and in the forties. The snow melt continued in earnest.

The sun is noticeably stronger and higher in the sky now, and even on days below freezing, it dissolves the snow away from the driveway.

It’s not a pretty time of year as all the dirt and grime crusts on top of the melting snow, but there is that promise of green grass.

As the snow melts, I’m always intrigued to see the evidence of all the little creatures who spend their winter under the snow. They must be happy to see the sun, too!

The circles of warmth around the trees show that it’s time to wake up from the cold hibernation of Winter.

A female Downy Woodpecker flitted from tree to tree. Like me, she may be thinking “I made it through Winter!”

There was even a puddle of water in the birdbath for the birds, as Nature’s ice and snow sculpture melted.

We still have a ways to go…

That was Friday. The weekend has been warm and sunny. The snow banks have pulled farther away from the driveway and trees. The snow has softened and hardened at the same time—softened the frigid, rigid architecture that held the trillions of snow crystals together in a Winter palace and hardened the snow pack by compressing the air pockets and sinking the snow.

Spring is in the air, in the birds, in the snow, and in me. Looking back, I wonder how I made it through, how I got out from under the snow pile of heaviness. Looking back, there were circles of warmth from people who helped me on a certain day at a certain time, and that warmth sustained me for a few more days. One day at a time, one hour at a time, if need be. But I also realize that somehow I did manage to hang on to the ball—like the benevolent hand of God who believes in us all, helped me do so. The Spring will come. The birds will sing again. The grass will turn green. I still have a ways to go, but I see the Sun, I hear the birds, I am waking up, and I can breathe again.

Lombardy Poplars and the Lombardi Trophy

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Battles are won in the hearts of men. –Vince Lombardi

When we looked at our new place, the first thing I noticed was all the trees surrounding the open yard. The second thing I noticed was the tall, slender Lombardy Poplars spaced evenly against a backdrop of evergreens. I wondered why someone had chosen to plant them. Of course I was seeing them at their worst—dry, faded brown leaves clung to the weedy branches of the columnar trees. They do not have the beautiful Winter silhouette of Oaks, Maples, or practically any other deciduous tree. In fact, they are on the ugly side. I know why people plant them—they are fast growing (up to six feet/ year), so they make a screen or windbreak in the shortest possible time. Lombardy Poplars are native to Northern Italy—one can imagine them looking stylish alongside a villa in the rolling countryside. In central Minnesota, alongside the Pines and Spruces, they look out-of-place. They also have a terrible resume—they are short-lived, often only 15 years, they are susceptible to pests and diseases, they have shallow, spreading roots, and they are messy. The weak wood breaks easily, the male tree produces abundant pollen, the female tree produces cottony seeds that blow around, and they send out suckers that are hard to get rid of. So every morning when I eat my breakfast, I look out the window at the specimens of my prejudice. Their elegant name and origin don’t rescue them from my dislike.

Last weekend we hit the road to Kansas City. The Kansas City Chiefs were in the Super Bowl for the first time in fifty years! The excitement and anticipation exploded throughout the City and region. Two super fans in our family were anxious to be among the ‘sea of red.’ We left in the frosty morning. It had snowed an inch or two overnight, and the trees and fence lines were outlined with that delicate layer of new snow.

Iowa had less snow, but at a certain point, the sky and land blended into one, and the farm places looked like floating islands in the frosty, foggy air.

We made it to Missouri as dusk was beginning to envelop the countryside.

The next morning, in Kansas City, it was shocking to see the sun and green grass!

The Chiefs played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I in 1967, but lost to the Packers and their coach Vince Lombardi. In Super Bowl IV, the Chiefs beat the Vikings and brought home the championship trophy. It wasn’t until the following year, in 1970, when the trophy was named the Vince Lombardi Trophy in honor of the coach who had won the first two Super Bowls and who had recently died from cancer. There were many years in the following decades when the Chiefs fought their way into the playoffs, but the championship game eluded them—until this year! With the great coach Andy Reid and the incredible talent of the young Patrick Mahomes, the Chiefs won the Super Bowl in an amazing comeback in the last minutes of the game. Kansas City Chiefs fans were ecstatic! Fifty years of waiting.

So what does the Lombardy Poplar tree and the Lombardi Trophy have to do with one another? Only the similarity of their names—and the fact that both have been on my mind these last weeks. The Lombardy Poplars don’t belong to us—we are not the decision-makers on their place in the world. I co-exist along with them, messy or not, ugly or not, worthy-in-my-mind or not. It’s humbling. Coach Reid and young Mahomes didn’t win the Super Bowl for themselves—they both have big hearts and a keen sense of history—they won it for the team, for the Hunt family, for all the other players in the previous fifty years, and for the dedicated fans who cheer them on every Sunday. It’s humbling and incredibly powerful. Hail to the Chiefs and to those with big, humble hearts!

Snowed Under

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I cannot count the number of times I have felt snowed under in the last months—even while the grass was still green, even when the leaves danced with color. The weather has now caught up with me. Since our big ten inch Thanksgiving weekend snow, it has been piling up—four or five inches here, a couple inches there. It looks and feels (with below zero temps) like the heart of Winter, even though it’s been less than three weeks since we’ve seen the brown ground. We are already snowed under.

The snow piled up on the branches of an old Cedar tree by the garden, pinning them to the ground. Being snowed under feels heavy.

Snowed under Cedar branches

The heaviness can infringe on others nearby; in Summer, the Cedar branches protect the Ninebark from direct sun, but with the heavy snow, the Cedar crashed down onto its slender branches.

The young Cedar fared no better; its whole structure is bent over with the weight of the snow.

Being snowed under feels lonely. Even though the death of a loved one affects many people, each person has to struggle with the grief in their own heart, in their own time. What’s visible to the eye does not even begin to represent what’s below the surface.

Being snowed under trips a person up—the path ahead is no longer clear, obstacles are hidden, footing is insecure, and it’s easy to stumble and fall.

Even the deer, who generally follow the same paths in Summer, seem to be disoriented with the heavy snow cover.

Being snowed under makes things seem blurry, like our previous clear sight has been lost, like we’re not exactly sure what we’re looking at, and even where to set our sights.

Then comes an intervention—it can come from a time of silence, a prayer, a call from a friend, a loving hug, or a walk in the invigorating cold air—and we get a reprieve from the heaviness.

We gather our courage and our strength—even when it doesn’t feel like we have any—and start digging. We are reminded or we remember that we’re good at shoveling, that we’ve done this before, that this too shall pass….

Just like this squirrel who remembered or sensed that he had buried an acorn in that exact spot where he dug through the deep snow and under the brown grass to get to his treasure.

There have been many times in my life when I have felt snowed under—caring for three young children while dealing with Lyme disease, the loss of loved ones and dreams, and the humbling, radical, difficult job of facing myself and my life and coming to terms with it (though a never-ending job.) I am good at shoveling, though. It’s heavy work, no doubt. It’s lonely work, for sure. I stumble and fall all the time. God knows I often do not see or think clearly. But at the heart of the winter of my soul is Love. It intervenes when I need it. It takes away the heaviness. It gives me courage and strength when I feel overwhelmed. It brings people into my life that will listen, lift me up, show me another perspective, and even help me shovel. Love is the treasure.

A Whisper of an Idea

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It kind of starts with a whisper of an idea that floats through our consciousness but doesn’t stay for long. These thoughts come and go, we rationalize—nothing serious. But the idea makes its way into our mind again… and again. It begins to p-u-l-l us forward. We find ourselves wanting ‘that thing’ that someone else may have, or we blurt out “I wish I had that!” or “I want to do that!” Eventually the idea takes up residence in our head. Now, there may be some clear-headed, mentally and emotionally competent people who recognize the invitation and smoothly and rationally execute the plan to ‘get that thing.’ I am not one of those people.

In fact, once the idea takes up residence in my head, I start doing all I can do to evict it. “It’s too late…,” “I’m pretty sure flowers don’t bloom in the snow…,” “That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard…,” “How in the world would that work?,” “That does not make sense to me…,” ” I don’t think I can do that….” Doubt, fear—make that Fear with a capital F, procrastination, denial, and ‘good sense’ take over, and it seems like the little whisper of an idea doesn’t stand a chance against the Goliath of my backtalk.

But let me tell you about the little flower that blooms in the snow. Ten days ago, I walked through the woods when it was still the season between the seasons, and I stopped in delight when I noticed the Witch hazel shrub was full of tiny yellow flower buds that were beginning to open. I knew this was the time, but I had forgotten!

budding flowers going into Winter

The leaves were still holding on, and the tiny buds and flowers were easily overlooked.

But look at how exquisite these tiny flowers are! The genus name for Witch hazel is ‘Hamamelis’, which means ‘together with fruit.’ The flower blooms at the same time as the fruit from the previous year is maturing. How unusual.

Farther along the path, the brilliant berries of the Winterberry shrub, a deciduous Holly, could not be missed.

Then the whisper of an idea, who seems to be defeated by my Goliath backtalk, calls in the power of the source from whom the idea has come. If the p-u-l-l isn’t going to work, we’re going to need some Push! The Push usually comes in the form of (seemingly) random events or occurrences that cause pain. In other words, buckle up, we are about to navigate a rough road, because pain is the ultimate motivator.

Ten days after ‘finding’ the Witch hazel flowers, ten or more inches of snow have landed on the spidery blooms.

Blooms in snow

Although the brown leaves remain, the snow makes the flowers more ‘see-able.’ (Hmm, maybe this idea has some merit…)

These flowers are tough—covered in crystalline snow and ice and weathering cold winds, yet still retain their delicate shape and Spring-like color. The Witch hazel flowers are like the ideas that call us forward, the God-thoughts that help us become a better, more complete version of ourselves.

Not only does the whisper idea have to deal with my Goliath backtalk, but once the painful Push comes into play, it also has to reckon with my Scandinavian stoicism. Stoicism has many strengths and can literally get a person through a difficult period, but it also tends to plant our feet from moving forward and to steel our minds to a different way of thinking.

The bright Winterberry, not to be missed, is like our daily lives. It is seen, lived, acknowledged, dealt with, conscious, and present.

Another common name for Witch hazel is ‘Winterbloom.’ I think our whisper ideas are supposed to bloom in our lives; in fact, I think they are just as ‘programmed’ as the winter blooming of the Witch hazel—meant to be. But these ideas are hard to see, often forgotten, dismissed by Goliath thought patterns, and overlooked by our bright and present daily lives. Maybe that’s why we need Winter—so we can see them better, so we can allow them to p-u-l-l us forward, so the discomfort can Push us through the stoicism (and fear) to transformation. We can be maturing fruits and blooming flowers at the same time. It’s been almost a year of some serious Pushing and even longer that the whisper ideas have been p-u-l-l-i-n-g me forward. I remember now! Flowers do bloom in the snow!

In the Midst of the Storm

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Everyone was getting ready for it. The news people said it was another bomb cyclone headed for the upper Midwest. Who even knew what a bomb cyclone was? Why is this new term in our vocabulary, much less twice in a month’s time? Snow removal equipment that had been optimistically ‘put away’ for the season was dragged back out. Parents were expecting yet another snow day off of school. How many does that make? April 10th was the day of preparation. The birds and animals knew something was up. Lots of feeding, flurry, and frenzy. By late afternoon, the snow had begun to fall, and cancellations were being announced for just about everything for the next day.

Early in the morning of April 11th, the wind came up with a rage. It whistled through windows, forced itself through cracks in the house, moved the heat out and replaced it with a cold draft. Good thing it was April and not January. We had some inches of snow overnight that promptly got rearranged with the northeast wind. I was surprised how many birds were out trying to feed in the storm. The suet cake feeder was flung from side to side, its protective roof askew, but a Red-breasted woodpecker and a large Pileated woodpecker clung to its mesh sides.

I marveled at how long they both swung there, holding on and grabbing bites of fat and seed. Finally the Pileated woodpecker rested on the off-wind side of the Maple tree. What an incredible and unusual bird!

Dead branches and pine cones dislodged from the trees and tumbled across the yard. A White Pine branch planted itself, and the snow filled in around it.

Dark-eyed Juncos and Sparrows braved the wind to eat seeds that had blown from the feeders. They faced into the wind and only occasionally did I see one tumble across the snow.

A couple took refuge behind and under a Spirea shrub to conserve some energy and eat in peace.

At mid-morning, we had thunder and lightning and bits of hail that pelted the windows. Every type of precipitation fell that day—snow, rain, sleet, and hail, and all with the accompaniment of the fierce wind.

Early afternoon the sky and snow turned an eerie yellowish-brown color. Along with all the debris that had blown off the trees, there was now a layer of reddish-brown dirt covering the snow. Later I learned the dust was blown all the way from Texas on this cyclone of a wind.

It was hard to tell how much snow/precipitation we had that day with all the changes in state. It’s one of those things we usually take a silly pride in keeping track of—knowing how much snow or rain, how cold or hot it is on any given day. It records our days in a very concrete way—each of us our own scientist. But on this day, it didn’t even matter. It was a Spring mess we just wanted to get over in order to get to the Spring we desired.

By Friday morning, the winds had calmed down, but the snow continued. The critters continued to feed and scratch and sing—a Spring feeding with all the singing—a difference worth noting.

Along with the singing was the unmistakable sign of the imminent and unstoppable Spring—the swollen, red flower buds of the Maple tree.

After the storm, AccuWeather announced that we did not just survive a bomb cyclone—it was a ‘monster storm’ and a ‘powerhouse blizzard’—but technically did not qualify as a bomb cyclone. The pressure needs to drop 24 millibars over 24 hours of time to be considered a bomb cyclone—this one only dropped by 20 millibars. So…there…we…go. We were out of the woods on the backside of the storm. Technicalities aside, the storm was real. If it looks like, sounds like, and feels like a bomb cyclone, then so be it. In weather, we are fortunate to have meteorologists studying and forecasting what’s to come. Science is real. If only we had such forecasters for our own lives. We could get ready. We could prepare ourselves. We could make plans, stock up, let go, and drag out whatever equipment we would need for the upcoming upheaval. Instead we are caught in the raging wind, sometimes tumbled around; we hang on, find some peace, do what we have to do. We plant ourselves in a new reality and let the chips fall where they may. We are battered, yet brave. In the midst of the storm, there is singing—along with an imminent pull towards the future. It is a difference worth noting.

UnSnowed

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When we lived on our little farmstead in Missouri in our younger years, we had a trencher come and dig in a water line. The machine slices into the earth making a narrow but deep gash in which to lay the water pipe so it doesn’t freeze. Once the pipe was in place, there was a slight mound of extra dirt in a line across the field. After a rain, Chris and Emily walked along the cut path. Emily noticed a beautiful, blush-colored spear point laying on top of the soil. Unearthed by machine and rain. After all that time.

In the last three weeks, we have become unsnowed. After what seemed like a long, snowy winter (not really so long as many others), the culprit has mostly disappeared in a short amount of time. Just when we think that things we don’t like and time move slowly! Change does not often adhere to our time schedule. As a snow-lover, it is leaving too quickly for me—even as the cold temps this weekend have slowed the loss and even as a part of me desires the warmth and greenth of Spring. In my fickleness, I miss the bright snow-light of the morning. After all that time.

From our last ten-inch snowstorm to unsnowed—just three weeks in time.

I discovered some green Pachysandra in the unsnowing—our eyes and memories ‘forget’ what lies underneath the real and compelling recent past.

Where did the snow go? With the frost still in the ground, the melted snow made its way down the hill to the River. The high water just about touched the old railroad bridge as ice floes and foam bubbled from the dam.

In places, it was hard to distinguish the foam from the snow.

The old mill dam was covered by a dark, smooth sheet of water that crashed over the short drop-off into a frenzy of voluminous, white-capped churning.

We caught sight of an approaching ice floe that had been dislodged from the upstream lakes and sent on its northern trek towards the Mississippi.

It was rather mesmerizing to watch the floating ice draw near the dam, change course in the current, and break into pieces as gravity and churning water broke the tenuous bonds and instantly changed the state of ice to the state of water and vapor.

Upstream more blocks of deconstruction floated quietly by, unsuspecting of the turmoil that lay ahead.

A short ways upstream, past one more highway bridge, a boat ramp accepted excess water, just as all the lower-lying areas of all these Midwest flooded rivers have done. There is no choice in the matter.

High above the River on the bluff, where the tips of the Spruce trees rise above the Oaks, is where we live, where the snow melted, where the water ran from.

An evening silhouette of Alder cones and catkins stood beside the River, against the golden-hued trees on the opposite shore.

Squiggly, golden reflections of winter-weary trees shone on the water, bypassing the blunting, matte ice still clinging to the shore. It is time to see ourselves again.

Snow has ruled our lives for the last three and a half months—there is no choice in the matter if you live in Minnesota. (Only three and a half months—not six, for those who believe our winters are unreasonable.) It is not unusual or unexpected. Seasons unfold in unmistakable ways. And now the snow is (almost) gone. We have been unsnowed.

With longer life comes the opportunities to change our states. I have been undone, unnerved, undecided, and uncomfortable. I have felt unworthy, unsettled, unsafe, and unaccepted. Events and issues in my life have been unexplainable, unbearable, unforeseen, and unfair. And I have also lived my life with unwavering hope, unceasing love, unbridled joy, and unmitigated faith. What happens within us when things are unspoken, unresolved, untenable, and unbalanced? What happens within us when we become unburdened, untangled, unmasked, and unafraid? The state of our mind and body changes. Our eyes and memories can forget the recent or distant past, and we can unearth the treasure of who we are. We can see ourselves again. After all that time.

Unfinished Business

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Remember that childhood game used to decide who gets to do something or more often who doesn’t have to do something? Rock, paper, scissors? Count to three while pounding one fist in your other hand and on the third count you make a scissors, rock, or paper sign. Paper covers rock, scissors cut paper, rock crushes scissors. That’s what our mid-March weather has been like! If we had hopeful thoughts of Spring, Mother Nature crushed those ideas last weekend with a storm that dumped ten inches of snow on our accumulated heap. Winter has some unfinished business.

The snow was wet and heavy and smothered the evergreens with its power. Branches bowed to the ground, broke from the trunk, and got stuck in the snow.

The heavy hand of Winter was not letting go of its reign without one last(?) battle.

Three days later, Spring’s rains, backed by a whoosh of just-warm-enough temperatures, cut through the snow like a warm knife through butter. The rains came, and the snow melted.

The official beginning of Spring is Wednesday, and she means business. Though pushed back, she will not be denied. Snow and ice are no match for the liquid warmth of her rain.

We’ve had a ceasefire in the last couple of days in the battle between Winter’s unfinished business and Spring’s compelling unveiling. The temperatures have ducked down below freezing again, slowing the melting and flooding while laying booby traps of slick, icy patches. Beware of where you step.

But we have another player in this battle of the seasons—the power of the Sun who has returned to our hemisphere to play. Sun covers all with a renewed power. He works on the snow even with Winter in control of the temperatures. Sol joins hands with Spring to move us forward. He reveals the dirt of Winter that was somehow unseen in these months of snowy beauty. The fireball excites the dormant current of energy stored in every tree and shrub, and the warmth of that energy melts a ring around each trunk.

The melting snow reveals another season with a smidgen of unfinished business. Autumn leaves are sandwiched between layers of snow, skeleton-like in their loss of chlorophyll and organic matter. Perhaps Winter moves along their decay, so when the green grass takes over in a flush of Spring, the old leaves will finally be integrated into the soil, completing that part of the cycle once again.

We still have plenty of snow and a fair amount of time where the battle of Winter and Spring plays out. It is familiar and necessary. It is the way of Mother Nature, with unfinished business from each season slowly and surely becoming integrated into the earth. How do we handle our unfinished business? There are pieces of our past that seamlessly integrate into who we are as a person, other pieces are up for examination and debate, and still others are hidden, denied, or ignored—the past that won’t let go of us—our unfinished business. How do we know it’s unfinished? It still affects us—nightmares, illnesses, insomnia, overreactions, projections, and repetitions of similar events like accidents, to name a few. These pieces need to be brought into the light of day, questioned, listened to, and accepted. It is the most loving thing we can do for ourselves. Bit by bit, story by story, day by day, tear by tear, the finishing happens. It becomes integrated—it dissolves into our souls, minds, and bodies—completing that part of the cycle in order to feed our next season of life.

On the Path to Being a Good Neighbor

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Chris and I bought our first place when we were in our late twenties. We had a young baby, two horses, a number of cats, and lots of energy. Our place included an old farmhouse, an even older-looking barn, a cellar, an outhouse, a dirt-floored garage, and twenty acres. It was perfect to us, and with youthful enthusiasm we set about to build a new corral and put up new pasture fence for the horses. At the back of our property lived an old man—he was a small little man made more so when his wife spoke to him with a big, disapproving voice. At one time, he had some cattle back in a pasture behind us, so there was an old woven wire fence that ran along the back border. Therein lay our dilemma. When the property was surveyed before we bought it, the survey pole marking our land was four or five feet on the neighbor’s side of the old fence. Where should we set the sturdy corner post for our new fence? I remember we asked the realtor what we should do, and she advised us to put the post on the surveyed corner of our property. So we dug our deep hole with a post-hole digger, careful to keep the whole post on our corner of the property. We tamped in the dirt and congratulated ourselves on how sturdy it was! We set the brace post and called it a day. Not long afterwards we noticed the neighbor had cut the top off our big, sturdy post! And we got a very official letter in the mail from a lawyer for our neighbor saying we were trespassing on his property, and there would be dire consequences if we did not remove the post and stay off his land! I was upset and confused by this turn of events—we were conscientiously trying to do the right thing, and we had already made an enemy of our new neighbor.

A couple weeks and a number of snows ago, I strapped on snowshoes for a walk in the delicious sun and cold. It was one of those boldly invigorating days. The snow was light and fluffy, and I sank a number of inches with each step I took.

But I was not the first one out in the new snow! Some little creature, perhaps a mouse, made his way from the wild plum tree to nowhere! He either went under the snow, made his way back on his exact same tracks, or was plucked from the snow from above.

The tracks under the bird feeders left evidence of a busy night.

Where do rabbits live in Winter? In a palatial snow-covered brush pile!

There are plenty of brush-pile igloos for everyone.

The downside of having housing for rabbits is their restaurant choice! They know how to make enemies with the man of the house.

By far the most abundant tracks were from the deer. They foraged through the woods, pawed at the snow, nibbled at branches, and bedded down under cedar trees—their every move etched in the snow.

My snowshoeing destination was the granite rock overlook that was a rest stop decades ago as part of the highway system. It overlooks the Sauk River as it runs into the Chain of Lakes. Only the deer and I were spectators at this time of year.

On my way back, my snowshoe prints blended in with the deer prints—I was the one traveling on their territory.

Back in the yard, shadows from allium flower stalks darkened the snow.

Feather prints in the snow allude to the capture of another little rodent. Snow tracks show the movement and activity of the creatures that roam around our yard and the woods.

As young, naive kids on the first place we owned, we thought we were doing the right thing. As the old established neighbor, he felt we were trespassing on his land. As it turned out, we backed down and built our fence on our side of his fence—not on the survey line. The posts we put in remained in his unused pasture, a symbol to us both of the questions of what it means to be a good neighbor and what constitutes land ownership. We also got schooled by him about being a good neighbor when our hay field had a hearty bunch of Canadian thistles growing in it. Thistle seeds care nothing for fence lines. (To be fair to us, we had left them at the request of the county after they had released beneficial insects to combat thistles.) As I snowshoed to the overlook, I trespassed on an abandoned lot and on an easement deeded to another before getting to public land. The cross-country runners and a bevy of high-schoolers do the same when the weather is nice. The deer path has been used by others for decades before we moved here. Deer, rabbits, and other wildlife come and go as they please—they care nothing for property lines either. And though Chris curses the critters who destroy his young trees, we know that we live with them as neighbors. Who is encroaching upon who? It’s a good thing when we can stand tall in our integrity and look carefully at our shadows, those buried hurts and disappointments that we disown in ourselves and often project onto others. With sweeping certainty, we judge them unfit. Too often others pay for our wounds. On this journey of life, we learn what we didn’t know before—about ourselves, others, and the world. We can hope our transgressions are forgiven, we can pray to forgive those who trespass against us, and we can learn to be good neighbors.

Snow and Steel

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Don’t curse the weather. –Anna Andersen

This may not be a very popular stance in lieu of the last two months—but I’m not unhappy with Winter. I think we are exactly where we should be. In fact, I’m pretty happy with it! The previous two winters were dismal in the snow department, and I do admit that I was a little whiny about that at the time. This is Minnesota, the North! We normally have extreme cold and plenty of snow—it’s what we sign up for when we live here. That being said, I also live with a person who daily gets up super early, drives through snow to get to more snow, to move the snow, to sweep the snow, to shovel the snow, to put down ice melt, to take the complaints about snow and ice, and comes home—to more snow. He is not very happy with our record-breaking February snowfall. He’s ready for it to be gone. His mood does not improve when I tell him how beautiful it is!

Friday we had more snow—the lightest, prettiest, fluffiest snow with a crisp, cold temperature. Hello to March!

I kind of like to shovel—there is a soothing rhythm to it. Push the snow, lift, throw, pivot, walk back, push, lift, throw, pivot, walk, repeat again and again. It’s aerobic and strength-training all in one. It takes an hour or two to do our driveway, depending on how much snow is there. Friday evening while the snow was still falling, it was so silent, the flakes muffling the sounds. I was startled by a car going by, suddenly right there, with no approaching sound. Shoveling can be a meditative movement, a silent communing with Nature—if you let it.

We have paths through the snow—to the compost bin and to the bird feeders. The paths are packed with snow, and an occasional wrong step sinks me thigh-high, filling boots of any size with cold snow.

The garden is full of snow—up to the top of the fence. Snow is a good insulator—we had lost some perennials in the last couple of years because of frigid temperatures and too little snow. It also provides needed moisture for the soil and plants for the coming growing season. The down side is the deer and rabbits have little to eat except for trees and shrubs that are above the snow line.

Spring and summer do seem far away when the signs of summer—the canoe and patio—are buried in snow. But there is a rhythm of activity and rest that the seasons force upon us.

The bank of snow by the house occurs when we ‘rake the roof.’ We haven’t done it in years, but when we have this much snow, it helps prevent ice dams from occurring and possible water damage inside the house. It’s a hard job—the rake is long-handled and unwieldy, and one has to stand and walk in deep snow while pulling the snow off the roof. Not much meditative magic in this job.

A couple of other jobs that we undertake with this much snow is clearing snow in front of the mailbox so the delivery person can get close enough to put the mail in the box. The snow plow piles the snow around the mailbox—and we shovel or snowblow it away. We are also asked to shovel the snow away from the fire hydrant in order to have the hydrant available to fire fighters if they should need it at our house.

In a way, snow is magical—if the temperature is just warm enough, the moisture falls as rain. With below-freezing temps, these miraculous crystals form and gently fall from the sky! Snow can be light or heavy, soft or hard, dangerous or fun. And in a couple of weeks, it will melt and be gone!

My Grandma Anna sometimes chided my Dad to not curse the weather—that weather was the source of their livelihood. She didn’t downplay the hardship that weather can bring—and back then, she knew about hardship. But she knew the same weather that brought too much snow or rain, or not enough, was the same that brought sunshine needed for crops to grow, the breeze to dry the wet soil, and once again, rain to nourish the plants. She was wise and steadfast in her faith. Winter and snow can temper us, teach us prudence, propel us to do things we don’t really want to do, and remind us that Nature is not here to do our bidding. There is a season for everything—even the hard things. To temper steel is to improve its hardness and elasticity by rounds of heating and cooling. Perhaps that’s what the seasons—the heat of summer and the cold of winter—do for us. Hard hearts soften, soft hearts toughen, good judgement overcomes selfish wants, and unfounded fear and restriction give way to peace and openness. Like steel, we become more resilient. Like Nature, we become closer to God.