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The Last Time

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How many times have you wistfully uttered the words, “This is going to be the last time….”? It seems to carry a fair amount of meaning for most of us when we are going to do something we love for the last time or see a dear one for the last time. I remember knowing my third pregnancy would be my last and thinking with great conscious intention I was not going to wish away one minute of it. It helps us savor the time and armors us with resilience, e.g., when morning sickness strikes day after day. I also know there can be great gladness, celebration, even a ‘good riddance’ when something happens for the last time when we are ready for it to be over and done.

Last Sunday I wanted to go snowshoeing, thinking it would be our ‘last time’ to do so this year. It has been a great snow year, and Chris and I have had the best snowshoeing Winter ever. And I kind of hate to see it go. Chris, however, has already crossed over into the ‘good riddance’ category for this year’s snow. It cannot melt fast enough for him (even though as I write this we are cleaning up from an April Fool’s Spring snowstorm with another one on deck for Tuesday and Wednesday.) Chris reluctantly agreed to my ‘last time,’ so we drove north a little ways to Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. The parking lot was slushy and muddy and had a large puddle of standing water! (What?!) The trail had been groomed for skiing, but the sun had deteriorated the snow so much that we didn’t heed the rules to ‘stay off the tracks.’

Anything lying on the ground soaked up the warmth of the sun and sank into the ripples of mushy snow.

The wetness of the snow was like a drag on our snowshoes. It was a few degrees above freezing but seemed warmer in the light of the sun. We shoed toward the trio of Poplar trees that surrounds an eagle’s nest, sure that we would see the eagles busy with their egg or chick tending. But no one was home, and for the first time at the park, we didn’t see any eagles anywhere.

With the draggy snow, we decided to cut off a section of the trail by going cross-country. The wet-soaked snow packed with each step, so we didn’t sink in very far, but it still took more effort than going on the groomed trail.

Back into the Oak savanna forest, we saw the trees that had been burned inadvertently by a prairie fire. One standing tree was burnt on the inside, making a home available for some creature. Others were burned all the way down.

We saw lots of woodpeckers flying between the trees, but Rice Lake was still covered with ice, so no waterfowl floated or flew about.

The Willows around the lake were red, but not one fuzzy gray bud was showing yet.

As we circled around the lake towards the Platte River that flowed from it, we realized that it, too, was still frozen with ice. I thought maybe a strip of the River would be ice-free and flowing, then wondered if that was why there were no eagles around yet.

About three-quarters of the way around the looped trail, I started to falter. I would stop and rest, then go on for a short distance, then stop again. I totally ran out of gas after slugging through the wet snow for an hour and a half! Luckily I had packed a snack of pistachios and dried cranberries, so we stopped to re-fuel and get some water. While we were standing there, I saw movement in a tree by the River. There was the flat white face and pointy nose of an Opossum!

As I got closer, he tried to ‘hide’ behind the tree branch, almost like ‘if I don’t see you, you can’t see me.’

Once I circled around the tree, he realized he couldn’t hide. I noticed his frostbit tail and ears. Possums do not hibernate during the Winter, though they do find a den to stay in, so perhaps he made his Winter home in one of the burned-out trees. Their ‘bare’ tail, ears, toes, and nose are susceptible to frost bite. He probably wishes he could go south for the cold, snowy months and is most likely saying ‘good riddance’ to the last of Winter. I threw some nuts and fruit onto the snow at the base of a tree for our Minnesota marsupial.

After my re-fuel, I was ready and able to finish our trek—it’s amazing how quickly food energy can replete our muscles and mitochondria. I hoped the possum would feel better after his snack, too. I was a bit concerned that the eagle’s nest was empty, but maybe our timing was wrong for this particular place. And therein lies the mystery—we never really know the timing of most things. We have trends, averages, predictions, and hopes, but the Universe is large, and we are not in charge. At the same time, we tend to ‘feel better’ thinking we are in charge, and it helps us to ‘make meaning’ of firsts and lasts. Many ‘firsts’ stay in our memories for our lifetimes—the first time we met our partners, the first time we saw our babies, our first job, car, pet, house, etc., etc.. And when we predict our ‘lasts,’ it gives us something we need at that time—gratitude for the people and things we love, resilience to get through a tough time, hope that things will be different and better soon, or hope that we can survive when things are changing against our wishes or norms. Grace gives us these ‘coping mechanisms’ that move us along the trail of time and offers us another ‘first’ when we let go of the ‘last.’

I am celebrating nine years and 476 posts since I began North Star Nature! Thanks for coming along on the trail with me! (Not the last time!)

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!

Knee-deep in Snow and Peace

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I have always been intrigued with people who say they don’t take any stock in people’s praise of their work….if they did, it would follow they would also take to heart the criticisms. Just think about the ramifications if that is expanded to praise and criticism of who we are as a person. This opens up so much about who we are and how we operate in the world. At one level, it sounds like a lofty, enlightened realm-of-being, when one is so grounded in who they are and what they do that it truly doesn’t matter what others think. They do their good work regardless. On the other hand, there are callous, uncaring people who do what they want to do for their own purposes, who couldn’t care less about what others think or the very real consequences their actions may have on other’s lives. It’s kind of a mind-boggling philosophical humanity question, but I bet most of us have struggled with the themes of praise and criticism at some time in our lives and how it relates to our work and to our being.

I have inadvertently been a people pleaser most of my life—I didn’t consciously choose such a role, but I actively wanted people around me to be pleased—with themselves, with the circumstances, with me, with everything. I doled out praise thinking everyone wanted and needed to be affirmed. (Not sure that’s really in the past tense.) Exhausting work, as it turns out. Thankfully most of us age out of that to a great extent as we choose whether our ‘limited’ energy goes to others or to our own well-being. My challenge has been how to do that and still be a force of goodness to the people around me and for the world. I know I’m not alone in that rigorous challenge.

As overwhelming and existential as these questions are, I have slowly realized (and was recently reminded by my friend Mark) that the inner quality that needs to be cultivated is peace. It’s not about giving and receiving praise. When I was younger, I really had no idea what ‘peace’ even meant, let alone how to manifest it in my own life. I take that back—I did want to be a peacekeeper in my people-pleasing role. I did desire external peace—no conflict, no chaos, no discord, no disturbances. No kidding. My job is easier now that I can work on bringing internal peace to myself. A big part of that is accepting and respecting all the former iterations of myself with all the flaws and foolishness that I embodied. Another part is actually experiencing peaceful places. I love the stripped-down winter woods that lays bare the essentials—blue skies, brilliant white snow, and textured gray-brown wood of the trees.

The clear sky and sunshine illuminated another essential—our shadows. To come to peace, we must know and accept our shadow side. Easier said than done.

For peace, we have to allow decay and death to happen—to old ideas, to old ways, to old things and people who have lived their lives with valiant strength and their God-given goodness.

For peace, we must come to terms with the people in our lives—those in the past and those who surround us now. That may be an uphill climb.

Peace is living into who we have become with age and experience. The travails of life may swirl around us, but they don’t overwhelm us as much as they did when we were younger. Humbly accept the power of you.

Peace is climbing the hills, letting the shadows slide down behind us.

Peace is letting the sunshine soothe and warm us like a humming lullaby.

Peace is turning a corner when others choose a different path.

Peace is having faith in the seasons of life.

Peace is glimmering silence for thought and introspection.

Peace is being curious, moving forward through fear, and letting your creativity imagine finding an enormous praying mantis in a snowy forest.

Peace is standing knee-deep in snow along with the wild things that are just as curious about us.

Peace be with you all.

Bent in Suffering

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“We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.” –Winston Churchill

We cannot escape suffering in our lifetimes. We will all have to endure pain, distress, or hardship in some form. Many of us can get a couple decades under our belts before we know the harsh reality of suffering; others are well aware of it as children. Watching the news this week has once again made me acutely aware of suffering around the world. The earthquakes in Turkey and Syria have caused such extreme physical destruction and pain, and therefore emotional and mental suffering, for hundreds of thousands of people. Like the Russian war on Ukraine did a year ago and continues to inflict. Like the Covid-19 pandemic did in the last three years across the globe. Like the drought is in East Africa. It seems like suffering itself is becoming a pandemic.

Last Sunday was an absolutely beautiful day! The sky was that startlingly pure blue color that lifts spirits into freedom and possibility. The air was clean and clear, nourishing my lungs with each intake. The temperature was a delightful twenty-three degrees, and the sun was bright and warm. We snowshoed at Northland Arboretum in Brainerd that has 7.5 miles of immaculately groomed trails for classic and skating cross-country skiing and over two miles of trails for snowshoeing.

The heavy, wet snow we had had earlier in the season still blanketed large areas of brush and brambles like elaborate snow forts. The small creek was covered with slushy ice after our extreme cold spell the week before.

As we shoed into the area of the Jack Pine Savanna, I noticed some young Pines were completely bent over from the heavy snow that had originally fallen almost two months prior—and then added upon. The weight of the snow had bent their young trunks, not broken them.

Most of the trees had ‘shaken off’ the snow that had hung on them previously, with the help of the sun and wind. Some still carried large ‘snowballs’ on their strong-enough branches.

And yet, size, age, and identity were not the determining factors of who was damaged compared to who ‘shook it off’ and stood strong. Some of the old ones broke. Some of the Oak trees bent.

Not only were most of the bent trees heavy with snow, they were also stuck in the snow where they touched the ground. And once the snow had crushed them down in the unnatural bend, the accumulating snow just added more weight, more distress, more strain, and less chance of a return to ‘normal.’ I wondered how many would be able to ‘spring back’ to where they were before.

The day was beautiful, the snowshoeing was great, and all along the trail, there were trees in distress—so many of them.

In the moment, I observed the large number of trees that were bent and stuck in the snow and made a mental note to return next summer to see if and how they were able to recover. But it wasn’t until a little later that I realized that I was like the struggling trees. When I had Lyme disease in the 90’s, I felt bent in pain and stuck in uncertainty, as doctors were still doubtful that Lyme existed in Missouri so weren’t fluent in helping me. Much suffering. When I subsequently endured depression, I weathered much distress while stuck in sorrow. Recurring Lyme, deaths, losses, people not believing me, believing in me, or helping me all added to my burden, piled on the snow that was already holding me down. And those were not even the worst of my anguished distresses. Those are still too painful to mention. I was frozen in place, looking out at the world around me from my unnatural position, wondering why I was one of those pinned down while all around me stood beings who seemed unaffected by the storms. Like the trees, was it my position or status, was it my environment, did I have a genetic proclivity, was it a previous disease or wound that allowed such suffering or was I just weak? “Bad is never good until worse happens” is a Danish proverb that infused my family culture with our phrase ‘it could be worse.’ Endure, don’t complain, don’t ask for help, suffer, bear the pain and hardship. So I did and continue to do so, but truth be told, I’m not even good enough at that, or I wouldn’t be writing this.

If we are to draw from the heart of suffering, as Churchill says, in order to find and express inspiration and survival, somehow I think I have done that. Nature has been my inspiration for all my life, and it gives me great joy to share that beauty and wisdom with all of you. Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, “…every struggle is a dance….” The dance includes comfort along with the distress, pleasure along with the pain, peace along with the anguish, delight along with the misery. If I cannot ‘shake off’ the suffering, at least I can reach out and cultivate those qualities that oppose it. So I look up to that pure blue sky to lift my spirit into freedom and possibility. May those of you in suffering do the same.

Chasing the Sun

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I bought a Sting album a number of years ago because of one song—“Soul Cake.” I loved the traditional instruments, the Celtic sound, and the inference that cake could be good for one’s soul—“Any good thing to make us all merry.” I had never listened to anything by Sting before that. The album contains some Christmas carols, but I never listen to it until after Christmas, in the gray days of January. It is titled, “If on a Winter’s Night…” and explores the deep feelings and thoughts that the cold, gray Winter brings to our doorsteps. This year, after Mary’s death, the song that catches my heart’s attention is “The Hounds of Winter.”

“Mercury falling, I rise from my bed, Collect my thoughts together, I have to hold my head; It seems that she’s gone And somehow I am pinned By the Hounds of Winter Howling in the wind.” –Sting

Our goal last weekend was to find some sun—the gray, cloudy days had persisted and resisted any positive forecasts that promised a peek of the happy-maker. “If we go north, we should have some sun by about one o’clock,” I strategized, looking at the weather app. So we packed snacks and snowshoes and headed north to Crow Wing State Park near Brainerd. When we pulled into the cleared parking lot, there were no signs of dispersing clouds, let alone a peek of sunshine. Still hopeful, we strapped on our snowshoes and followed the Red River Oxcart Trail along the Mississippi River.

We were not far along on the trail when I saw a sliding track in the snow. Alternating footprints were on either side of the slide—River Otters had been having some fun in the snow!

Not only was the sun nowhere to be found, the gray sky made the snow look gray—only the darker gray trees interrupted the gray expanse of our visual world. It was stark. It bordered on bleak. The hounds of Winter.

Another Otter slide etched through the snow and disappeared over the edge of the high River bank—that would be an exciting slide! I shoed through the deep snow to peer over the bank and saw his slide trail go all the way across the ice to the open ribbon of water.

Despite the lack of sun, it was a good day for snowshoeing. The temperature was in the low teens, and as long as we kept moving, we stayed warm but not sweaty.

Another Otter slide started on one side of the trail on a little hill, crossed our trail, then zoomed down the River embankment after a little hiccup with a snow-embedded branch. Otters slide on their chest and bellies, and when gravity doesn’t pull them along, they push themselves along with their hind feet.

We stopped for some water and a snack as we looked out over the frozen Mississippi River at Chippewa Lookout, then circled back towards the Old Crow Wing townsite where we had begun our hike.

A circle of Lichens

The history of this park includes the sites of three different mission churches, including one from the Catholic Church, where now stands a small, granite chapel. As we snowshoed past the outdoor alter, the words “Hail Mary, full of grace” came to my mind.

We never found the Sun. The gray Hounds of Winter found us. After the initial shock of a loved one’s death, grief can harry us, like Sting says “the Hounds of Winter, they harry me down.” Everyday life has a different feel, even as there are times when a day’s routine takes our mind away from the bleakness. There are even moments of joy that penetrate the grief like a ray of sunshine. Imagining the otters sliding in the snow gave me that ray of happiness. There is something to be said for living in the grief, in the stark grayness. For in the midst of the gray grief is the reason why we even feel that way—love. With each step forward, the grief is acknowledged and integrated into our being. With each step forward, the love is remembered and held up in gratitude.

The Mystery of Life

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Three days after Chris’ sister’s death day we were confronted with Chris’ birth day. Not that we ever really know ‘what to do’ after the death of a loved one—with our distance from her, we had no physical busy-ness to attend to, and without an impending funeral, no travel plans. We were alone with our thoughts, our memories, and our sadness. And a birthday. It ‘should’ have been a celebration, and when the day arrived, we could not gather our energy enough to do…anything.

I’ve always liked to ‘know’ things—my curiosity naturally led to my studying science. Questions, experiments, data, knowledge. Human nature is just as intriguing to me as the nature of our world, albeit a bit more difficult to explain. But there are things in our world that remain as mysteries, and birth and death are two of them. We know quite a bit of the ‘mechanics’ of both, how babies are made and develop, and even the cellular signaling that takes place before labor begins, and we know the physical signs and signals of impending death. But so much of both of these life transitions falls into the realm of mystery. We cannot get the answers or even gather much data about either one because of the very ‘nature’ of the occurrence.

And then it occurred to me that many of the death days of my relatives fell within days of birth days of my kids—brother-in-law, dad, grandmother, and grandfather. Maybe December is a bad month for dying. Or maybe these mysteries were more linked than we know. But how does a person ‘celebrate’ a Happy Birth Day so close to a Sad Death Day? We did resign ourselves to our understandable low energy on Chris’ birthday, and we figured out a way to honor Mary and our sadness and to celebrate Chris the next day. With no surprise to anyone who reads this, we took to the woods. It was another beautiful snowy day, though some would argue with me about the beauty of yet another cloudy, gray day. We took our snowshoes up to Charles Lindbergh State Park, crossed the bridge, and began our trek through the quiet forest.

But first, we stopped on the bridge to gaze at the ‘ice art’ that had formed with ice and snow and open water. Black and white abstraction.

A snow-laden tree branch had leaned low over the creek and seemed to be a shelter place for animals, as the snow was packed with tracks.

The snowy, abstract creek path cut through the trees, providing life-sustaining water to the winter animals and beauty to the passers-by.

We were not the only ones on the midday trail that day—two young men wearing police vests snowshoed the circular trail, easily passing us with strong strides and pleasantries. We met a wizened old man in only a thin gray sweatshirt that exposed his bumpy, wrinkled neck. He stopped and talked about the young policemen and about his new snowshoes. He wouldn’t want to be a policeman these days and warned about all the drug dealers, even as the distinct smell of alcohol emanated from his body. He didn’t think his snowshoes were working the way they should. We politely tried to troubleshoot for him, but he insisted he would have to return them. Not our usual trail mates.

The silence of the snowy forest allowed us to just be as we needed to be. Sometimes we talked—about the wizened old man (kudos to him for getting out there with new snowshoes!), about the policemen (were they on duty?), about Mary (remember when…)—and sometimes we were as silent as the trees. Moving through the snow, working our muscles, helped integrate the musings, memories, and feelings. The questions, the sadness, the low energy, the longing for connection with those who were feeling the same feelings were all accepted, were all okay, were all confirmed and blessed by the Spirit of the Trees.

Towards the end of our hike, Chris noticed the sky was loosening up—patches of blue began to show. The sun eventually shone through the trees. Chris stopped and faced the low-lying sun, letting the winter-feeble warmth hit his face. It was just what he needed.

Abstraction is ‘the process of generalizing complex events in the real world to the concepts that underlie them.’ It’s not just about art. It’s about life. It’s about birth and about death. It’s about relationships and about ourselves. It’s about simplifying the dizzyingly complex issues that confront us in order to try to make sense of them and attain some peace. Nature is a nurturing domain that facilitates that process of sense-shaping and peace-making.

After our satisfying snowshoe hike, we warmed up at a cozy little restaurant in Little Falls that serves delicious food. We celebrated Chris’ birthday with burgers and carrot cake.

We managed to celebrate a birth day in the aftermath of a death day. I wouldn’t call it a Happy day, but it was a productive day, a satisfying day. There is mystery in death, in birth, in art, in creation, and in God. There is mystery in brokenness, in beauty, in ugliness, and in healing. There is mystery in how they are all connected. The simplified expression of them all just may be Love, which paradoxically may be the most complex entity of all.

Begin, Again, at the Beginning

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I wanted to begin the New Year at the beginning of the Mississippi River—it seemed like a wonderfully symbolic way to leave the old year behind and begin again with the new year. It was the antithesis of the Times Square chaos of people, noise, and celebration; it was the three of us—Chris, Emily, and me, it was unbelievably quiet, and the fiesta was a frolic in the frosty forest on snowshoes. We walked out of the old year and into the new year with hope and the renewal that comes from a flip of the calendar. It is like a universal ‘permission’ to lay down the things we no longer want to carry and an ‘encouragement’ to begin again. Little did we know on that day that in one week’s time we would have to ‘pick up’ what we did not want to carry and begin, again, with another round of January grief.

With the beginning of the Mississippi River is the start of the Great River Road—3,000 miles of National Scenic Byway that runs on both sides of the River at various places through ten states. Here at Itasca State Park is the beginning of the Great River Road; it is the same road we turn off from to get to our home in Sartell; it is the same road that goes through St. Paul where our son Aaron lives; it is the same road that goes through tiny Cassville, Wisconsin where Chris’ folks were born, raised, and buried; and it is the same road that goes through the metropolitan area of St. Louis, Missouri where a little girl named Mary Brake lived at the beginning of her life.

By our second day at Itasca—New Year’s Day—we were getting our bearings. It takes a while to do so when in a new place. It takes a while to do so when death impinges on our lives.

The Great Mississippi River begins at a pile of rocks where water flows from the North Arm of the wishbone-shaped Lake Itasca. It flows north for a time, then arcs east, southeast, southwest, then southeast again until it maintains its southward flow. It took a while for it to get its bearings, too, I guess.

What a fascination (or is it merely function?) we have for ‘crossing’ a creek, a stream, or a River. In the summertime, thousands of people cross the source of the Mississippi on the rocks or by wading in the shallow water. Not fifty yards downstream was a thick wooden plank placed across the mighty maiden river. I wasn’t the first to walk the snowy plank. A little ways down the trail was another bridge where I could see another bridge from which I saw a fourth bridge! I wonder how many bridges cross the 2,552 miles of great, winding River?!

And so it begins….

With our map, our bearings, a good night’s sleep, a wonderful cabin-cooked breakfast, and our enthusiasm for the New Year, we strapped on our snowshoes to follow the two-mile loop of Dr. Roberts Trail. It was narrow and ungroomed, a perfect snowshoe trail. The first stretch was on a boardwalk through a bog. Patches of tannin-orange and brown bog water showed through the snow, and even with its lazy flow, I wondered why it wasn’t frozen like the large Lake Itasca we walked beside.

Beard Lichen that had fallen from a tree

A boardwalk bridge lifted us to a little hill where the Old Timer’s Cabin overlooked the Lake. It was the first building project of the Civilian Conservation Corp (CCC) at Itasca, which began in December 1933. Also notable is the size of the logs—a cabin built with only four logs!

The trail followed the east arm of Lake Itasca and climbed a high ridge. The trees were ghostly with frost in the cloudy, foggy day.

Green Lichens and red Highbush Cranberry berries were almost shocking in their brilliant color compared to the vast white/gray/brown landscape we ‘shoed’ through.

After our climb to the ridge, we descended to a small lake about halfway around the loop. It looked wild and remote.

We continued to pass by giant White Pines, the ‘ancient’ ones in the diverse, frosted forest. It was a snowshoe hike that opened my lungs and strained my legs. When we stopped to rest, the snowy quiet bathed my senses, and it all felt so good.

Towards the end of the trail we saw this little snowman tree—an evergreen wrapped in a blanket of snow—surrounded by his young deciduous friends.

A cluster of Paper Birch trees epitomized our old year/new year weekend. The old Birch had wounds and peeling bark, layers of lichens and moss, and had lost the white luster of a young Birch. The young ones grew from the base of the elder and had been nourished by the extensive root system of the old one. Old and new ending and starting from the same place.

We ended our year in the same place we began our new year, and yet, it still had a different feel from one day to the next. The Mississippi River runs deep in the heart and soul of those who lived and died on and beside the River like Chris’ family had in the little village of Cassville. Chris feels it when he sees the River. My feelings about the River are more primitive, I think. I see it as life-giving water, a metaphoric trail of our life’s flowing journey, a barrier and boundary that stresses us in our quest to ‘move on,’ and a rich source of unbridled beauty. The Great River Road, complete with all its bridges, seems to be our human solution to encompass all of those things. I didn’t realize until I was writing how the The Great River Road, along with the flowing River, has connected our present living location to the Brake homeplace in Wisconsin and to the place where Chris’ only sister Mary began her life.

Mary was born with Down Syndrome, and in the mid-fifties, it was common practice for the medical community to recommend and facilitate the institutionalization of babies like Mary. She never came home from the hospital but was sent to a place on the other side of the state—by the Great River. Imagine the shock and trauma of every member of the family, especially for Mary and Chris’ Mom. Mary eventually returned to the west side of the state, closer to home, and she spent holidays and vacations with her parents and five brothers. Finally, with the social emergence of group homes, she had a real home to live and work in—she flourished at her vocational services job for thirty-seven years and built friendships with her cohorts and caregivers with her loving and outgoing personality. She was a joy to our family and to all who met her in so many ways. Mary’s life ended one week after the beginning of the New Year. She will be buried high on a hill that overlooks the Great River in Cassville. We will travel the The Great River Road to be there.

And thus, we begin, again, at the beginning of a New Year with hope and expectations. We also begin, again, at the beginning of another January of grief at the loss of a sibling, the same as we were just one year ago when Chris’ brother Jon died. But we aren’t really starting at the beginning—the slate does not get wiped clean—but it is a new beginning, nonetheless. Our grief over Mary’s death gets added to the grief over Jon’s death and brother Paul’s death, and Chris’ parents’ deaths, and my Dad’s December death seven years ago, along with the ongoing grief of broken relationships that have a deep river flowing through them with no bridge in sight. What does one do with such grief? It will take a while for us to get our bearings again, but we will. With each grief-filled experience, we have learned that we will get through it, even when the hurt feels unbearable. We have become resilient in a way that wasn’t planned or wanted. It has strained our hearts and made them stronger. It has opened our awareness to the tragedy, joy, heartbreak, goodness, chaos, and peace of living these lives we have been given. And every time we walk in the forest, we will be bathed in unbridled beauty and quiet, and it will all feel so good.

Walking Out of the Old Year

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It was particularly apparent to me this year—perhaps because we were staying the night at a cabin or because it was exceedingly quiet and contemplative: we were ending the old year at exactly the same spot that we were beginning the new year. Obvious, right? But we don’t often think of starting over or being a ‘new you’ or taking a ‘leap of faith’ as happening from the exact same place as ‘old ways’ or being ‘stuck’ or even ‘routine and repeat.’ But I actually liked the idea.

Chris and I, along with our daughter Emily from Texas, ventured to Itasca State Park on New Year’s Eve. It was cloudy, foggy, and frozen as we drove north and west. We checked into our two-room cabin, complete with indoor plumbing, and rented a pair of snowshoes for Emily. There were only half a dozen people or so who had had the same idea as we did. After unpacking, we set out to snowshoe a loop called Dr. Roberts Trail, but even with map in hand, we promptly ‘got lost’ and took a trail we later figured out was the Ozawindib Trail. There was so much snow and frozen haze, closed-down log cabin buildings, and new-place-disorientation that it took us some time and exploring to ‘get our bearings.’ The trail we found ourselves on had been groomed for cross-country skiing with snowshoeing on the sides. It was so very quiet that the noise of the snowshoes on the crisp snow seemed loud.

Itasca is the oldest state park in Minnesota (established in 1891) and protects over 32,500 acres of forests and lakes, including a large area of old-growth Red and White Pines. They have seen many decades of old years go and new years come in their long lives.

Even in the winter season, there is evidence of the sloughing of old ways—leaves, opened pine cones, and peeling birch bark—and the promise of new things to come—millions of tiny, protected buds of new growth.

We trekked to a larger road closed to vehicle traffic for the winter, and there we discovered Mary Lake, which helped us get our bearings, find our place on the map, and turn around when we saw we were nowhere near Dr. Roberts Trail.

Old growth forests have been protected from catastrophic disturbances such as logging or forest fires for over a hundred years and provide a complex biodiversity of plants and animals in all stages of development—from new life to maturing to declining.

We snowshoed back to the empty lodge area and followed a road past the fish-cleaning house, under a walking bridge, to a parking lot with a huge tour boat docked on land for the winter. We walked out onto the lake ice that was covered with deep snow, confident in our safety when we saw the ice road, ice houses, and trucks of ice fishermen.

We climbed a hill up to the walking bridge where we joined the trees mid-height for a different perspective far above the ground and close up to a colorful Red Pine.

Our first snowshoe trek was orienting and invigorating as we explored our surroundings, but we also had plans for a luminous walk that evening. We returned to the cabin for a toasty crockpot supper, rest, and warmer clothes. The illuminated walk was three-quarters of a mile around the Bear Paw Campground. The only vestiges of a campground were the snow-piled picnic tables that were occasionally seen in the background of the strings of lights, but even those looked uncommon and foreign in the foggy, frozen landscape. One young couple with a small child was finishing up their walk when we arrived; otherwise, we had the place to ourselves. It was so incredibly quiet and still. We stopped at various points along the trail, suspending our talk and halting our crunching footsteps to soak in the silence. It was a bit disorienting to be in the dark, in the frozen fog, and in the noiseless forest, but as time passed, it became more comfortable and peaceful. From far away, the lights looked contiguous, but as we walked, we realized there were sections of light and sections of dark. The illuminated spots were light enough to get us through the dark places.

photo by Emily
photo by Emily

That’s how the old year was—stretches of grief, heartache, and worry, then periods illuminated with joy, fun, and laughter. The dark times came from death, illness, and disharmony, and much of the illumination came from our grown-up children spending time and energy with us. At the end of an old year, we can honor the past, whether we considered it difficult or wonderful, for in reality, it is both. It is helpful to explore our interior landscapes in order to get our bearings after a disorienting event. Seeking and soaking in the silence can mute the noisy self-talk that often undermines our well-being, and we can return to peace. Winter strips away many of the distractions—the noisy and beautiful distractions—that sweep us up in the rest of the year. Allow the illuminated times to get you through the dark spaces, and allow the quiet and beauty of Winter to bring you peace as you walk out of the old year.

At the Corner of Deer and Fox

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The world’s suffering makes my heart heavy. When I see the video of all the mothers and children fleeing from their homes in Ukraine, tears stream down my face. The destruction, chaos, and trauma imposed by one unhinged guy is overwhelming and rips a deep tear in my constructed fabric of Goodness. Even here at home where the pandemic has killed nearly one million people—it’s like wiping out all the people who live in South Dakota and then a hundred thousand more. And then there are all the people I know who are suffering with or dying from a cancer diagnosis—is it just me or does that seem to be on the rise? What’s a person to do with all that suffering?

I strapped on my snowshoes and hiked into the snow and cold. Our below normal temperatures this week have preserved the snow cover, beyond the melting of the edges from the strong, March sunlight. The cold felt good on my face, a relief from the hot suffering of people I know and of the millions I do not. Our gathering place around the firepit is still engulfed in snow—only the deer have been wandering through in their quest for food. I followed their path and offered a couple old apples for their browsing brunch. Won’t that be a delightful surprise?!

Deer trails cut through the trees and over fences. The snow reveals some secrets of the other seasons—the travel routes of deer and other animals. They seem to be creatures of habit or perhaps know to take the easiest route—just like us.

My previous snowshoe tracks had been covered with a bit of snow, but the deer had already been using the trail. I felt like I was walking at the Sumac treetops with all the snow that has accumulated over the Winter. Getting off the trail definitely makes ambulating much harder!

In no time at all, at the corner of Deer and Fox (tracks), Nature took over my mind, washing away the thoughts of suffering for the time being.

Rabbit and squirrel tracks zigzagged erratic paths around and to trees, their light little bodies not worrying about sinking through the deep snow.

Last year’s fox den was definitely occupied by someone, with many curious onlookers, including myself.

I’m pretty sure Mr. Possum had been out wandering for food—see his tail track? Maybe he made the old fox den his winter home.

It’s a busy place out there.

Farther along the trail I noticed a dark spot in the snow, so I veered off the trail to investigate. A deer carcass was mostly buried under the snow but had provided many meals for the carnivores of the forest.

There was a deer-sized indentation in the snow where a deer had bedded down for the night, though the bed had a new blanket of snow on it.

I continued on the little road, following one deer trail while others intersected it, coming and going through the trees. A community of animals with their roads, homes, and eating places.

An allee of Pines with its chevron shadows create a perfect corridor for travel.

Spring is already showing its signs, despite the snow and cold. More birds can be heard singing and flitting through the trees, and on the south side of a large Pine tree, the snow has started to melt away from the warm, brown pine needles.

I had added my tracks to those of the woodland creatures as I witnessed the evidence of their Winter lives in the forest. It was a beautiful, brisk day—a perfect day for snowshoeing.

A quote fell into my lap today—timely and serendipitously—from Helen Keller: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” While it is important for us to be compassionate witnesses to the realities of war, illness, and suffering, we must also cultivate and elevate the simple acts of ‘overcoming it’ that we see in the world. I appreciate the news outlets that include snippets of that Goodness that mostly go unseen. Those who dwell on and promote the negative and divisive aspects of our society, politics, and culture do a disservice to themselves and to us all. It’s a balancing act to witness and acknowledge the reality of suffering in our world and to do the same with the acts of overcoming it. Nature is a balm for overcoming suffering, as are gathering places of loved ones who lift us up and simple acts of kindness and offering. Spring is a hopeful, uplifting season—every year it overcomes the harshness of Winter and the heaviness of suffering. Food becomes abundant, new life is nourished, and life energy flows with renewed vigor. Isn’t that a delightful surprise?

The Things We Carry

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Texans are carrying a heavy load this week. Four or five inches of snow, even some ice, does not in and of itself make a crisis. The crisis comes with lack of expectation and preparation. Even warnings—empirical and/or logical—of something possibly happening are often ignored when we don’t or cannot wrap our minds around them. Our brains love the same wired routes our neurons provide for thoughts and feelings that occur over and over again. A pandemic killing half a million people in a year—no way! Mask-wearing the whole world over—are you crazy?! A rioting mob trying to stop the confirmation of a new president in our Capitol—that’s not going to happen! A deep-freeze in Texas—get real! The past year has attempted to re-wire our brains.

So our daughter Emily found herself carrying buckets full of snow into the house to dump into the bathtub. It’s what one does when no water flows from the taps. Luckily she has had experience living in the wilderness where electricity is the lightning and running water is a river. But she humorously disdained her pioneer life in urban Austin—that’s not what is expected, not what she was prepared for in that environment. Not what any of them were prepared for. It begs the question: What are we personally and we as an entity of this country willing to carry? And why?

I carried a backpack on our snowshoe hike at Crow Wing State Park at the end of January. I had realized on a previous outing that I became much more dehydrated while snowshoeing than hiking, so packed some water and a snack for each of us. We also had a place to carry added or subtracted layers of clothing, depending on the weather. The road to the campground was unplowed and barricaded by a pile of snow, so we made our tracks through the flurry of white. The campground was a snow-ghost-town, returning to the forest for the season.

Part of the trail followed the Mississippi River, and we traipsed across a wooden bridge that spanned a ravine that led to the River. That was certainly easier than trekking down and up the ravine in our snowshoes.

bridge

We saw a very large Oak tree by the River that had an old beaver wound on it. Other trees in the area had been taken down by beaver, but what an ambitious attempt on this Oak many years ago! Right above the old wound was a new wound made by a Pileated woodpecker. All living creations carry their hurts and their wounds.

Deer tracks led to a steep precipice high above the River…and went over the edge, down the embankment, and crossed the River. I was amazed a deer would choose such a steep path, but perhaps it was being chased. We do extraordinary things when we need to.

over the edge

A newly fallen nest, last year’s home for some bird family, would not be seen in the brown leafy litter of Fall, but it stood out in sharp contrast to the white, sparkling snow crystals of Winter. Unseen or highly visible often depends on the background, the exposure, and the deemed value.

Fallen bird nest

As I looked at the nest in the snow, my eyes lifted upwards to the treetops where a squirrel’s nest stood out against the sky-blue sky. The home of the sky-bird was on the ground, and the home of the ground-squirrel was in the sky. Sometimes it’s a topsy-turvy world.

We continued along the River, heating our bodies with exertion in the teens-cold chill.

A dark stripe beyond an island revealed the River wasn’t completely frozen over despite most areas with foot-thick ice. Not expected. Dangerous. I hope the deer didn’t barrel across the ice and fall through the crack.

open water

Our single-file trail opened up to a wide road used by snowmobilers. A road that can carry many people.

As we circled back to the campground, we passed through a low-land, a wet-land, a frozen swampy area. The leafless branches of a Hawthorn shrub exposed the sharp thorns that are usually camouflaged with foliage. Along with our wounds, we also carry barbs that we use for protection, but that can inflict harm, either consciously or unconsciously.

danger

Back at the campground, we stopped for a water and snack break. I had felt my energy waning and my throat getting dry on the previous leg of the trail. I was glad that I had prepared for that and carried supplies with us. With water and a granola bar to renew my strength, we snowshoed back to the car.

What are we willing to carry and what makes us, compels us to do so? As parents, as mothers, we literally carry our children for many years. For most parents, whatever burden that may bring is worth it. Worth the energy, worth the time, worth the money, worth the wounds. There is an instinct we share with many creatures to protect, care for, and love our offspring. Add to that intention, education, societal norms, and creativity and child-rearing becomes an honor, an art-form, the work of our lives, and a means of growth like no other.

What are we willing to carry for others? For family members, for friends, for community members, and for strangers? What compels us to do so? Bridges make carrying burdens easier. How do we prepare and build bridges? What things that we carry are we willing to put down? Our thorns? Our wall of defense? Our prejudices?

Our brains like safety. Crises threaten that safety. Creativity and data allow us to anticipate crisis. Preparation ameliorates crisis, and intelligent and caring responses can help restore that sense of safety in a topsy-turvy world. Emily and the rest of the Texans will weather this storm, but just like the host of other crises that have plagued us this past year, we could have done better. The signs were there. The theory and the data were there. We could have been better prepared. Let’s rewire our brains.