snowstorm Archives - NorthStarNature

Begin Spring

March 19, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

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.” ♪

Black and White Wonderland

December 18, 2022 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

“If one more person says ‘Winter Wonderland’….” and he trailed off to silence. I knew the frustration he was feeling—we had been through this for years. I am that person who happily calls this snowy scenario a ‘Winter Wonderland.’ But this was the third day in a row of substantial snow, ice, and sometimes rain—as beautiful as it was, it was also extremely messy and difficult to ‘remove’ from all the places that need to be cleared on a college campus. The snow was heavy, laden with moisture as temperatures hovered for days and nights around the freezing mark. Chris gets up long before the five o’clock hour in order to be on the road—sometimes plunging through unplowed snow, other times following snow plows—to get to work. Then he bundles up to get in the snow removal machine and begins to clear the sidewalks. He and his two full-time workers have a carefully planned ‘execution map’ of their routes. The student workers are taking their finals or have already left for home, so the hand-shoveling gets pushed back on the to-do list. Sometimes the equipment breaks down, and sometimes people all over campus are emailing him to tell him about slippery spots. Welcome to Winter.

Before I worked on our own long driveway of snow removal, I walked out into the black and white Winter Wonderland world. The sky was dark gray and large crystalline flakes fell slowly and softly on the already heavily–flocked trees. It was so incredibly silent. And it felt good—we hardly notice how we are inundated with noise for most of our waking hours and for the toll it takes on our nervous system. Silence is a gift from Mother Nature. But in the midst of the snowing Winter Wonderland was the reality of a black and white world—black tree trunks and branches covered in white snow, black evergreen trees wearing coats of white, the gray sky and white ground.

Our vision and perception of what we see in the world is so fascinating to me. In physiology we learn that the retina in our eyes contains specialized cells called rods and others called cones. We are taught that rods are for night vision—they distinguish size, shape, and brightness but do not perceive color. Cones are for day vision, are highly concentrated in the central part of the retina, and distinguish fine details and all the colors we see. Black and white functions, right? Except why do our retinas contain 91 million rods and only 4.5 million cones when we are basically diurnal animals? What are our rods doing on a day like this one when what we ‘see’ looks black and white?

We do see the size and shape of an Elm tree with its fine, lacy branches…

and how these young, squat Jack Pines covered in snow look like toddlers in snowsuits…

and how the flexible branches of a Paper Birch bend and bow under the weight of the wet snow.

One has to look closely to notice any detail in the black and white snow globe. The snow obscures most of the defining features we see in the other seasons.

Black and white thinking is an ‘easy’ way of thinking. Things are right or wrong, good or bad, helpful or unhelpful. I’m a pro at it. (And notice I did it with the word ‘easy.’) It’s actually an immature way of thinking that we all go through in our development. As we grow, our developing brains are better able to detect nuances, comparisons, contrasts, subtleties, ‘gray areas,’ diversity, patterns, details, and connections—the ‘cone-like’ qualities. (This is what good education teaches us.) But as ‘mature’ as we are in our adult, educated brains, when we are emotionally triggered by unprocessed traumas and wounds, we revert back to our ‘rod-like’, child-like, black and white thinking. Our primitive reptilian brain takes over—it is ’91 million’ strong compared to our ‘4.5 million’ pre-frontal cortex. We are complex and wonderfully made creatures with both rods and cones, with both limbic and cortical regions of the brain, with both immature and mature skills and qualities. But we do not have to be at the ‘whim’ of our triggering emotions—we can use Mother Nature’s gift of silence to calm our bodies and brains in order to notice details, to see all the colors of our situation, and to know that two opposing things can be true (and okay) at the same time. We’ve had a beautiful Winter Wonderland week and a really messy, difficult, time-consuming clean-up. Welcome to Winter and Life!

A Circle of Warmth

December 27, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

I was standing at the front door talking to Emily on the phone when I saw a flash of rusty-red walk through the prairie grass in front of the Cedars. He sat down like the canine that he is as I rushed to end the phone call to get my camera. When I returned to the window, he had snuggled into a little ball in the cozy grass.

It was a chilly and extremely windy morning, and everything about it foretold the blizzard the weather people were warning us about. There was a deep, damp chill, the kind that creeps into your bones no matter how many layers you pull on. The clouds were gray and low-hanging, pregnant with moisture. The wind blew with a fierceness that reminds us mere mortals that we are not in control of everything like we wish to be.

I opened the front door to get a better shot, but the colliding warm and cold air condensed to a fog on the storm door. He opened his eyes to watch me but didn’t move from his circle of warmth.

I thought to myself that this was hygge for a fox, for a wild creature that is always ‘in the elements.’ It was a cozy little space out of the howling wind where he could rest. Hygge (hue-guh) is a Danish and Norwegian word for a feeling or moment of coziness. It is an ‘everyday’ thing, not contrived or fanciful, but special nonetheless. My Danish and Norwegian grandmothers could magically create a kitchen table full of baked goods and delectable treats when we would stop by for a visit. It was ‘just a little lunch’ according to them, but it was a special feast to me, a cozy moment in time and memory.

In an attempt to hygge ourselves for the blizzard, Chris and I made a list and went to the store before the snow was supposed to start. I thought for sure our departure would spook the fox into running away, but the small ball of fur stayed curled in the grass. And when we returned, he was still there but had moved a foot or so into more coverage.

Every once in a while he would look up when he heard a car or the neighbor’s barking dog, but for the most part, it was a time for a Winter’s nap.

At some point, he turned around, curling in the other direction with his back to the wind and the impending snow.

The snow accumulated on his warm fur, then melted, and he licked the moisture off like a cat or dog would after coming in from the wet weather.

The little fox napped and rested in his cozy spot for over three hours, and just as I happened to see him come to the spot that day, I also happened to see him leave. The rest of the day was snowy and blowy with the temperature dropping into single digits with below zero wind chills. I wondered where he found his next cozy sleeping place.

The next morning, Christmas Eve morning, was clear and bright. We didn’t get as much snow as forecasted or as places to our south and east. But I spent a couple hours shoveling the drifts that had blown around the house and up the driveway.

I noticed the fox had returned, walking through the yard…

through the prairie grasses…

to the place under the Cedar trees and had curled up again for a little nap in the sunshine. Perhaps this time he watched me, a form of everyday, ordinary togetherness, even when we are not aware.

Hygge has a number of possible etymological origins. It may come from the Old Norse word ‘hygga’ which means ‘to comfort,’ which may also be the origin for ‘hugge’—to embrace or hug. It could come from ‘hyggja’ which means ‘to think.’ The Danish meaning of hygge is ‘to give courage, comfort, and joy.’ Like a hug does. Like watching a sleeping fox does. Like a Grandmother’s magical, delectable ‘little lunch’ does. In this special, magical holiday season, may we think of others–goodwill towards men. May we give comfort and joy. May we each have an everyday, ordinary circle of warmth—hygge—everyday, yet special nonetheless.

Unfinished Business

March 17, 2019 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

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.

April Fooled

April 15, 2018 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

When I was younger, in those early thirties days when one begins to come out of the rather clueless, self-involved but necessary decade of fun and invincibility, I began to learn about myself. I remember reading a book that described the actions and reasons for what the experts now call co-dependency. I remember being excited to learn this information that made sense of my feelings and interactions with other people! I immediately shared the good news with my best friend, ready to re-make our relationship into a better functioning, more equitable friendship. I was fooled into thinking that information easily translates to action, that this change would be easy, that we both would want this to happen. Instead, it was the beginning of the end of our long and lovely friendship—the very thing co-dependents dread the most. And I was slammed with loss and devastation.

Since Spring officially arrived on the calendar, we have been fooled into thinking Winter was easily going to pass the baton to Spring. Instead we have had single digit temperatures more like January and more snow than we have seen the whole rest of Winter. After our post-Easter snow and the one after that, we warmed up this week and made progress towards Spring—at least in the first step of getting rid of the snow. The deliberate, clipped tracks of a fox melted into a ground-baring trail that disappeared into brown grass. Progress.

By Friday morning, the yard was more grass than snow. Progress!

A flock of Juncos descended on the remains of sunflower seeds. Were they fooled into heading North for their Spring mating and Summer living?

The weekend forecast was already warning us of another big snowstorm, bringing dreadful resignation that Mother Nature is in charge, no matter how badly we want Spring. The early morning sky dawned red with warning. The barometric pressure fell, inducing discomfort in joints and heads. There was uneasiness in the air.

By afternoon, snow and sleet slammed into the house from the north northeast. “Ha! Fooled you! Don’t even think about Spring,” roared Mother Nature. Spring took two steps back towards Winter.

Wind howled through the night and through the next day, crescendoing in gusts to 64 mph. What we believed about Spring was being challenged with might and resistance from the old, clingy, egoistic ways of Old Man Winter.

Sunday morning the wind was still blowing and the snow was still snowing. The sidewalk I had shoveled yesterday was completely covered with a drift even bigger than the one before. Snowflakes flung by the wind stung my face as I walked the dog in my full winter gear.

What to do? Shovel the walk again. Wait until the snow stops. Shovel again. Repeat if necessary.

We have been April fooled. We are starting our fourth week of Spring. Snow should be gone. Daffodils are usually blooming by this time. Ice is usually off the lakes. None of those things. Instead we’ve had a three-day blizzard as we sit indoors eating humble pie. I wish I could profess I was never fooled again after those painful early thirties, but the truth is I continued to be fooled by people, situations, and myself. Most of us tend to take situations and people on good faith, with good intention, with hope and the benefit of the doubt, and that can lay the groundwork for the capacity for things to go wrong. The good news is we keep learning about ourselves, and we make progress. We take two steps forward, then one step back. Sometimes we are flung back many steps by challenges from our old, clingy, egoistic selves and way of life. Change is hard, and change is not linear. Sometimes we drop the baton—again and again. At times we wait for the snow to stop snowing and the wind to stop blowing, and then we try again. So let’s lift our shovels to Progress! Spring actually is on its way!

Gleanings from November—Seeing Clearly

December 4, 2016 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion all in one.

John Ruskin, English art critic 1819-1900

This November was a strange month. Not only was the weather erratic and unprecedented but so was the election and the political climate. (Sigh) All of it is confusing and confounding with smokescreens of battling tweets, false news sites and hacking, entertainment-fantasy-lies versus reality, and those who say to the seers, “See not.”*

The bright-headed Pileated Woodpecker caught my attention in the gray, exposed landscape of early November. His large body of steely gray feathers could easily have been camouflaged, but the red crest of feathers and stripes of white, red and gray on his head and neck created a bull’s-eye through the circular branches of an old Oak. I’m so intrigued by this huge, shy bird. Most often I hear the distinctive, raucous call before seeing the undulating flight and clumsy landing. His strong, pickaxe bill can send chunks of wood flying as he searches for insects.

The mild weather of early November gave us glimpses of colored shrubs and perennials that usually would have lost their leaves via a killing frost by that time. Joe Pye Weed still looked beautiful in its autumn glory, surrounded by red fruit stems of Gray Dogwood and graceful branches of Oak trees.

The last of the golden-leaved trees was the Honey Locust, losing leaves from stems, then losing the yellow sprays of leaf stems from branches. A cascade of loss.

November’s super moon caught the attention of the world, something that gave me great pleasure and hope—that a celestial body could be the focus of attention for a week of time. The moon, stars, sun, and earth—all common denominators for each and every one of us on this planet. But the focus can easily be placed on other things, even when looking at our common subjects.

What is the real subject? What is the real issue? What is the truth of the situation?

Many things can obscure what we’re looking at, what we need to know. Clouds of illusion, reflections of reflections, and influences of darkness can obstruct our vision and muddy our convictions.

On the 18th, our first snow was a blizzard, closing schools and littering the highways with wrecks. Not seeing and slippery slopes have consequences.

But there was this flower blooming outside our window the day before the storm. One stem of this Hollyhock represented all the stages of our lives: a closed green bud full of potential; an unfolding bud showing rich, young, lively color; a lovely, open blossom in its prime; an older, more experienced, slightly faded bloom; a wilted, wiser, wrinkled version of its former self; and finally, a withered, spent flower that was being ‘cared for’ by the rest of the plant. All of them valuable and worthy to be seen.

“I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright) Sun-Shiny day.” (Gamble & Huff) So, where do we begin? We begin right where we are. We begin by seeing and being aware. There is great value in seeing the environment around us, in being aware of the people around us, but most importantly, I believe, in seeing ourselves. What path are we on?

On our paths, we attempt to see our lives clearly. We want the sweet poetry of joy and love. We look forward to a good and meaningful life. We long to be in the presence of the Holy One. In that spirit, with that Spirit, we have the amazing ability to look at our lives, our thoughts, our feelings and have insight—what a gift! Novelist Jonathan Franzen wrote about insight: “And when the event, the big change in your life, is simply an insight—isn’t that a strange thing? That absolutely nothing changes except that you see things differently and you’re less fearful and less anxious and generally stronger as a result: isn’t it amazing that a completely invisible thing in your head can feel realer than anything you’ve experienced before? You see things more clearly and you know that you’re seeing more clearly. And it comes to you that this is what it means to love life, this is all anybody who talks seriously about God is ever talking about. Moments like this.” I say to the seers, “See.”

*Isaiah 30:10

Not Your Normal November

November 20, 2016 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

It’s not normal to photograph blooming flowers on November 17th in Central Minnesota. The weather has been abnormally warm the last three weeks with daily high temperatures all above normal with most of them ten to twenty degrees higher than normal. On November 5th the high was 72—27 degrees above normal. No wonder the flowers are still blooming! We had cleaned up the garden, pulled and put away the pots of annuals, and done the other fall clean-up in our usual yearly routine. But a small raised bed of spring-seeded annuals and perennials on the southwest side of the house continued to bloom in spite of a few frosts. Cosmos, coreopsis, and hollyhocks of different colors shone on in summer fashion, while most of the fall colors around them had faded to brown.

The only potted plant that was left out in the November warmth was a tropical Mandevilla vine that had produced an abundance of pink trumpet-shaped flowers all summer long. I was sure any hint of frost would have killed it, but the warmth of being beside the house must have protected it from the light frosts.

The next day—Friday morning—rain hit the windows with a strong NNE wind. Soon the rain turned to freezing rain and sleet, and the ice pellets piled up in the grass. By mid-morning, the precipitation was a heavy, wet snow.

We were in a blizzard warning, and schools, events, and college classes were cancelled.

It snowed all day, the temperature fell, and the wind blew strong and relentlessly.

The heavy, wet snow was plastered onto the north side of the tree trunks and burdened the evergreen branches. My ‘color’ pictures showed a black and white world.

Saturday dawned clear and chilly—a normal late November day in Central Minnesota.

The brilliant blue sky ushered in the clear, Canadian air. It felt good to breathe it in.

The flowers from two days ago were folded over with ice and covered with snow. A few Autumn leaves stood boldly in the winter wonderland…

and shone like amber in the morning sun.

Fall, in the guise of Summer, has passed the torch to Winter. Temperatures will stay cooler now with a blanket of snow on the ground.

The birds will come to pick the crabapples like they normally do once snow inhibits their food gathering.

And we trek on.

Flowers blooming in 60-degree temperatures is not normal November weather here in Minnesota. Not at all. This wasn’t some rogue outlier warm-couple-of-days in the pendulum swing. This was a steady, long run of much warmer than normal temperatures that stretched the growing season of Minneapolis-St. Paul to a staggering, record-smashing 220 days. The normal growing season (consecutive days without freezing or sub-freezing temperatures) is 157 days. It’s easy to overlook the facts, because who doesn’t love blooming flowers, snow-free driving, and going outside without a coat? Climate change. Extreme weather events that are becoming commonplace—floods, drought, wildfires, earthquakes, hurricanes. Pollution. Water scarcity. It affects all of us negatively in one way or another—some much more personally than others. It’s just very hard to see on a daily basis and easy to dismiss, deny, and gloss over. I’ve worn my own blinders on various occasions—I know that denial can be a loving bedfellow that gives us what we need and want. But soon the promises of the golden eggs are unrealized, and we discover that the excited, noisy chatter coming from the coop isn’t because of golden eggs, but because there’s a weasel in the henhouse.

The Story of the Early Snowstorm

November 14, 2014 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Snow is a normal thing here in Central Minnesota. Our last spring snowstorm was in April, and now it isn’t even the mid-mark of November and we have nearly 14 inches. Many years the first substantial snowfall comes after Thanksgiving and stays the rest of the winter, blanketing the ground with white well into the spring months.

It’s normal to see snow on the hardy cedar trees scattered throughout our woods. Their branches hold the whiteness in winter-postcard splendor.

It’s expected to see snow on the driveway and sidewalk. It is the site of the winter workout with shovels poised at the house and garage doors. On a snow-stormy day, one can choose many reps with lower weights or less reps with heavy weights. Even wielding the snowblower through the plowed windrow of snow at the end of the driveway provides its own workout.

Cardinals and snow go together. As soon as the snow flies, the cardinals swoop in to the feeders looking picturesque in their scarlet plumage.

And our Black Lab loves the snow, leaping through the belly high fluff and plunging her head in for a mouthful of snow cone delight.

It’s a winter garden of interest when the snow lands and mounds up on spent seed heads of perennials and on the rough branches of the oak trees. Even the lingering leaves of the honeysuckle don’t look out-of-place in the snowscape.

But this is the picture that has been on my mind since I took it on Tuesday. The delicate, still-blue petals of the Monkshood flower, not long past its prime, are filled with snow. This tells the story of the early snowstorm and exemplifies the unexpected.

Minnesotans know snow. We know frigid temperatures, long months of winter, being prepared, snow fun, discomfort and hard work, winter boots and hats, and snow weariness.

The snow-filled Monkshood flower reminds me of our vulnerabilities. The vibrant, late-blooming flower looks fragile in its frozen state. But there is also a haunting loveliness and a porcelain-like strength to it. No matter how prepared or how hard-working we are, there will be times when unexpected things happen. We are all vulnerable in certain ways and sometimes it takes an early snowstorm to see the beauty and strength of our own frailties.

Into the Storm

November 10, 2014 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

On Saturday, the extended weather forecast called for cooler temperatures and a chance of snow in southern Minnesota. Okay. We raked more leaves, mowed the lawn one last time, and put the garden hoses away. The snow blower and lawn mower traded places in the garage. Sunday was in the mid-30’s with calm winds, and the sun felt warm as we nailed lathe over plastic sheeting to cover the screened-in porch, the last of our getting-ready-for-winter chores. Oh, and the weather forecast had changed to nine inches of snow for us on Monday! Okay!

Things in life can change quickly. Chris spent a couple of hours at work getting equipment ready for snow removal at the college. I washed windows, cleaned out window wells, put out bird feed, hauled a small pile of brush, and took a few pictures. We were as ready as we could be.

The snow began an hour or so before Chris left for work at 4:00 am. By 6:00 am the schools and colleges in the area were closed for the day. We had seven inches of snow before 10:00 am. The wind is howling, the snow is still falling, and we are in a winter storm warning until noon on Tuesday. The prediction now is 10 to 16 inches–I’m sure we have over a foot already.

I want to show you what a difference less than 24 hours can make.

It is an early storm with a large amount of snow. By November, we are usually prepared for what’s coming–even if we only have one day’s warning. But sometimes in life, we are blindsided by a storm that we are not expecting, and our life can change dramatically in less than 24 hours. How can one be prepared for that? I believe we have to hitch ourselves to God. We need to welcome into our souls the beauty that presents itself to us. We need to offer the seeds of faith, hope, and love, and we need to partake of them. Then we can fly with strength into the storm.

Spring Snowstorm

April 17, 2014 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The shovels were put away in the garage after standing sentry at the front door for over four months. The snowblower was drained of gas and had a fresh oil change. The opaque plastic had been joyfully pulled off the screened-in porch. We had declared that Winter was over! Mother Nature had other plans.

It snowed all day yesterday, and the wind blew like crazy. Schools shut down early and evening events were cancelled. Mother Nature’s Spring snowstorm reminded us that we’re not in charge. Officially, we had 8.5 inches, bringing our winter season total to 75.5 inches and breaking a daily record.

Yesterday, I found the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker in the maple tree during the snowstorm. He was trying to stay out of the howling wind and snow.

But every once in a while, he slipped down to the holes he had drilled over the weekend only to find that his sap supply had frozen!

Today is sunny and close to 40 degrees, and the snow is already melting. The Yellow-bellied Sapsucker was busy once again in the maple tree.

And you can see the maple tree is blooming! There was also another woodpecker flitting about with the Sapsucker–a little Downy.

The Spring snowstorm changed plans, caused some accidents, froze the Sapsucker’s food supply, and was a big headache for my husband Chris who had to clear the snow from campus walkways. But it also reminded us to be humble and strong in the face of the Storm and hopeful in the Light of the blue-sky Spring morning.

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