sunrise Archives - NorthStarNature

Flow

September 26, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Night slipped away as the dawn quietly and confidently displayed its pastel colors in sky and water. Chris and I crept through camp to the high boulder overlooking the track-filled wetland, hoping to catch a glimpse of a morning moose or bear. But nothing caught our attention beyond the dawn sky.

The kids were beginning to stir when we got back to camp. Breakfast and packing up on the last morning of our trip felt easier because of practice and a bit sad because of the flow I was starting to feel. I felt like I could do this for another five days, now that I had overcome some of the challenges.

With the sun to our backs, we glided away from our campsite. Chris and I were the first ones out, with Emily’s directive to find the short portage at the west end of the lake. We had only paddled a few hundred yards, which by the way, was going extremely smoothly compared to every other morning—hooray!—when I was looking over at a large beaver lodge on the shore. I noticed two pointy ears sticking up behind the lodge. I got super excited, stopped paddling, fumbled to get my camera out of my life jacket, whispered ‘Wolf!’ to Chris who I don’t think heard me, and started taking pictures.

But I didn’t have to hurry—he was not afraid of us. He watched us watching him, then turned and looked at the kids farther back, then turned back to us. A beautiful black wolf! He was fairly thin with a sleek summer coat, and I wondered if he was hoping to catch a beaver this fine morning. I was so happy to see him! What an amazing creature! He stayed there long enough for the kids to paddle close enough to see him, then turned and walked into the forest.

We passed by a campsite right before the portage where two men were preparing their breakfast—one was slight, old, and bent over at the shoulders. He greeted us enthusiastically with information I didn’t really understand. He said half the people were portaging through the five-rod portage and the other half were pulling through. I smiled, nodded, and thanked him, not having a clue about the ‘pulling through’ thing. When Aaron caught up to us, he explained that sometimes, depending on the water level of the creek/river that connects the two lakes, you can get out and walk the creek and pull the packed canoe through to the next lake. I wanted to try that! It was fun, and it worked! Easy! The river channel into Splash Lake was calm and beautiful.

It was not far to our next and last portage, a thirty-rod portage that would return us to Newfound and Moose Lakes where we began our trek. When we got close to the portage, we could see it was the busiest of all the portages we had been through. We let a group of guys pass by us but could also see a group (or two?) coming into Splash Lake from the other way. It was kind of a mess. Emily had warned us earlier that she had little patience for such portage messiness—there is portage protocol, courtesy, and responsibility, and when people breeched that in obtuse ways, she moves into ‘take charge’ mode. A group of people with excessive piles of gear—folding camp chairs, Coleman camp stoves, tents, bags, canoes, etc.—were standing around. Were they waiting for more things? We disembarked and swiftly got packed up and canoed up with Emily and Zoe in the lead. Aaron was the last one out with a pack and canoe and took an alternate route through low branches because the other group had started to move into the lake—bad form on their part. Our last portage was still smooth in the midst of messiness, and I was proud of our strong, experienced kids.

At the other side of the portage sat a man in a motorboat who had ‘towed’ in the last group and their gear. He had even portaged things through for them. He was waiting for another group that was coming out that would ride back to their landing instead of paddling back. He said he had plenty of time for a nap, however.

We paddled on through the wide channel into Newfound Lake. I was startled when an eagle flew from a nearby tree, out above us, to a tree in front of us. When we ‘caught up’ to him, he flew ahead to another tree. We and he were at the end of a point, the end of the channel, and when we caught up to him again, he flew into the forest. It was like he was guiding us to Newfound Lake, to Horseshoe Island, back to where we had started five days before.

As we paddled through Newfound Lake, we saw a group of four canoes leave a campsite as we passed by. It was a group of all men, and it soon became evident that there was one canoe that could not keep up with the others. (Sounds and feels very familiar.) The ‘lead’ canoe had a boisterous bearded man in the back who was drinking coffee, singing, and at various times, playing the ukulele! They would paddle ahead, then stop and wait for the slow canoe to catch up. We were on par with the slow canoe, so we saw and heard the exuberant troubadour many times. His singing drifted back to us as we got to the windy, wavy Moose Lake. Emily reminded me that I would have to dig in and keep paddling as we headed into the wind—and I did. I was in the flow—I knew what to do, my muscles were strong, my mind was grateful, and the troubadour sang us on. “Toes in the water…not a worry in the world…life is good today.” **

Three hours and six and a half miles after seeing the wolf, we were pulling into the Moose Lake landing. I couldn’t believe it was over! But it wasn’t quite over. We unpacked, repacked, returned gear to KWK, took our unbathed bodies into the coffee shop in Ely (a common sight/smell in Ely), and took off for Duluth and the shining Lake Superior where we would shower, get a burger and beer, and sleep in a bed.

As we re-entered ‘normal’ life from the wilderness, the processing of the trip began. But even as small a town as Ely is, it was rather shocking to me and my body with all the people, cell phones and towers, cars, stores, etc. It was ‘too much’ at the beginning—I wanted to be back in the quiet trees and water. The week had been a mini-lifetime, when you start out as a young novice full of anticipation and excitement, then trials and tribulations pull you down and threaten your will to go on, when challenges of all sorts throw roadblocks to mind and body, then accomplishments and triumphs build confidence, and finally, transcendence and flow ‘miraculously’ appear. It was a hero’s journey for me, when time is of a different realm and the universe has lessons to teach.

As the week had progressed, it became evident that our bodies are meant to move and that we can be sustained on much less food, even with that exertion, than we typically ingest in our ‘normal’ life. I felt better, stronger, more able, and happier as the week went on—it was like my DNA recognized this way of being, and my body responded.

I also realized how often we ‘give away’ our precious time to external standards and pastimes that actually have little meaning or benefit to our lives. Just the idea of running every aspect of our life by the clock is challenged when you live without one. It was disorienting at first, to be sure, but as the week progressed, a natural rhythm ensued that seemed to benefit us all (even when we determined we should get an ‘early start’ the next day.) And then there’s the internet and social media….for those of us who have lived a substantial period of our lives without it, we can ‘remember’ how we had perfectly wonderful lives before its invention and access…but how many have forgotten that? Life is fully lived in the wilderness without computers and cell phones, and there was a heart-filling freedom to experiencing that with our adult children.

That leads me to the third take-away from the week—how we can’t do this thing called life alone. We need one another. From the beginning stages of our planning for the BWCA trip, I needed and appreciated the advice and knowledge from our kids who had planned and led so many previous trips. Experience and expertise matters. It matters not for individual glory and adulation but for how it can help people. From day one of our journey (and for forty years before that), I am grateful to have my partner Chris beside me (or behind me in the canoe) giving me encouragement and support—through every doubt, freakout, breakdown, triumph, excitement, and discovery. He brings humor, steadfastness, love, and movement to my life. I am grateful for the leadership, clarity, and purpose that Emily brought to all of us, and for her ability to articulate difficult things in loving ways. I am grateful for Shawn’s quiet tenacity, his amazing storehouse of knowledge, and his ability to rise to every difficult situation. I so appreciate Aaron’s quiet skills and patience, his caring heart, his humor, and his resolve. I’m grateful for Zoe’s strength and competence, her ability to relax at any given time, her consideration, and her quick wit. And so much more—from all of them. We all brought our strengths and weaknesses, our idiosyncrasies and foibles, our wounds and powers. We had an advantage being a family group that we were familiar with the dynamics beforehand and more free to share our vulnerabilities and the words of our hearts. For every difficult time when we needed everyone’s skills and participation, there were countless times of ease and joy of being together. And so it is with life, wherever we are. So keep paddling, for life is good today.

This is the fifth post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

**from ‘Toes’ by Zac Brown Band

Walking With Wolves at Sunrise

July 18, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

After our Summer Solstice bear sighting, we returned to our campsite and went to bed in the evening light. We had plans to do an early morning hike on the Sunrise Trail that followed the St. Croix River. We slept fairly well, considering our questions of whether we could sleep on the ground at our age, and with thanks to 21st century sleeping pads. I woke at about 4:30, rested and ready to go, so we got up in the mostly dark, got ready, and hit the trail. The forest was dark, though we walked without headlamps. There was just enough light to see the trail—we placed our feet by feel. It was quiet and calm, a rather magical time of day, and it felt like we were participating in the waking of a morning. We came to a small meadow, and the morning light opened up to us, and a haze of mist lifted from the grasses.

After we left the loamier soil of the woodland trail, we walked on sand, and with the light and with the sand, we noticed that we were not walking the trail alone. The wolf tracks were as fresh as those we were laying down. We wondered if he had followed the trail by night or if he had just beat us to the Sunrise Trail this morning.

We had been hoping to be close enough to the River to see the sun rising over it, but we were up on a ridge with trees between us and it. Every once in a while I could catch a glimpse of water. When the sun did rise, the undeterred shine of light made its way through the trees in spectacular fashion!

We walked for a little over an hour until we began to lag in energy and in hopes of getting close to the river. Could we make it to Sunrise Landing? I had thought so with the trail marks we had passed. We heard an awful squawking call and saw a pair of vultures fussing with one another. Then in the sight of the vultures, we stopped to look at a map and realized we weren’t even close to Sunrise Landing! So we ate our breakfast bars and drank some water with the realization that we really weren’t as great at this as we thought! Lol! We decided from then on, it wasn’t how many miles we were able to do but how many hours we were out there trying.

We turned around to go back to our campsite. The ever-optimistic, ever-reliable sun shone its encouragement on us and the forest dwellers.

When nearly back to the woods behind the campground, we saw a sign that said ‘Sunrise Landing—8 miles’ that we had missed in the dark. Well, no wonder we weren’t close! Perhaps the wolf was already there.

We cooked our breakfast over the campfire, packed up our things, found out from a neighboring camper they had just seen a bear behind their campsite, and determined that we would hike around the prairie and horse camp area before leaving the park.

The whole trail was sandy, making walking a bit harder, but at the same time, the warmth and feel of it felt therapeutic.

We saw two people walking and two people on horseback and lots more wolf tracks…

and wolf scat covered with butterflies.

Summer flowers bloomed and attracted scores of butterflies. The dry heat released scents of pine needles and sweet milkweed.

Wild turkeys and deer, along with the wolves, accompanied us on our trail, whether previously or in person.

Name some things people are afraid of and the list will probably contain ‘snakes,’ ‘wolves,’ ‘bears,’ ‘spiders,’ and ‘the dark.’ It’s much easier to put our fears upon an animal, a person, or entity. We can hold that fear away from us–-if we can hold them away from us. But rarely is the fear of a certain animal or set of persons the real fear—they are place-holders for the deeper, scarier fears that reside in our hearts. Fear of loss of control, fear of ‘what if,’ fear of aloneness, fear of irrelevance, and fear of unworthiness. So what if we just walk with it? Walk with the wolves and the bears, the spiders and snakes who were there and didn’t show up this trip. Walk with the dark, the doubts, the limitations, and the vultures. It can be hard and therapeutic at the same time. It’s easy—and fearful—to think the light is only shining on certain trees or persons or entities, but the fact remains that we all walk in the dark and we all walk in the light. Thanks be to the Sun.

The Edges of Night

October 13, 2019 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

There have only been two times this summer when I stood in absolute awe as I looked up at the night sky—during our early June trip to the Boundary Waters and when I was in South Dakota last month. Both times the sky was crystal clear, the light pollution minimal to none, and the star show dazzling. Seeing the stars on those resplendent nights makes one appreciate the darkness. It reveals what many of us normally don’t see (the Milky Way and a myriad of other stars.) Some who live in cities (or don’t look up) may never see the spectacular wonder of our night sky.

What was also spectacular when I was in South Dakota were the edges of night—the dusk and dawn times. At this time of year those transition times slip in earlier in the evening and later in the morning. We are gently reminded that we are also progressing through the seasons.

There was a Mourning Dove, sometimes two, who sat for long stints of time on the western end of my Mom’s barn roof. The Dove was always there at evening time, her gray breast feathers rosy-colored in the fading sunshine. What was she waiting for or looking at?

As the sun set, the moon rose in the eastern sky, a large, spotted, golden orb peeking out from behind the dark trees.

It ‘rose’ quickly when at the horizon…

…and hours later lit up the landscape, as a misty fog crept across the pasture when the warm rain-soaked ground met the cool, clear moon-soaked air.

Two nights later, dusk was a rainbow of colors, transforming the light of day to the darkness of night with all the beauty and hope an arch of prismatic light portrays after a storm.

Dawn is the other edge of night that shifts us from stars and sleep to light and ‘seeing.’ The morning after the rainbow sunset was just as spectacular in a more muted, pastel way. It embodies the trite phrase ‘Good morning’ with a visceral feeling that this is indeed a new and good day.

As the light lifted the veil of darkness, I could see what had not been seen just moments before. The cattle were stirring and standing from their night of slumber on the hill.

Just before the Sun rose from the brilliant orange morning sky, the western-sky Moon was still the shining one. He graciously handed the baton-of-brightness to the Sun.

Oftentimes, when we awake for the day, we forget about the rest of the natural world that is also following the rhythms of Mother Nature. Being around animals, whether cows and calves in the pasture or cats and dogs in our homes, tunes us in to a bigger, wider world beyond ourselves. The cows stand and stretch, the calves seek their mothers’ udders, the bull bellows a low, rumbling call.

How fortunate we are to experience the full glory of a sky full of stars with a wide white wash of Milky Way stars painted across the darkness. In that darkness, we see less, need to trust more, and attune to our hearing, our touch, and our intuition. Dawn and dusk, the edges of night, are also the edges of day. Sundown leads us and all animals to our nocturnal natures—sleep and rejuvenation or nighttime hunting and activity. While the night veils our vision, it allows for transformation through our dreams and introspection—like how the moon changed the look of itself and that of the landscape as it progressed across the sky. Then daybreak reveals to us what we previously didn’t see, what was obscured by darkness. It all works together in the passages of our days for our ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights.’

Fair Warnings and Feeding Frenzies

December 2, 2018 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

One semester before returning to graduate school, I worked as a teacher’s aide at our neighborhood elementary school. It was a traditional, old-style, brick schoolhouse with two stories, wide stairways, and big windows. I stayed with one student who needed some extra help with staying on task and controlling his behavior. I was prepared for my work with him and with a whole school of exuberant young children, except for one thing—I wasn’t warned about lunch time! Lunch was held in a big gym that was built to one side of the school—lunch tables were lined up under basketball hoops, and a long line formed around the walls of the gym as we waited to get our lunches. In the winter, heavy coats, hats, and mittens were thrown down in haste along the wall in anticipation of recess. Excited anticipation in young children is not conducive to savoring a nutritious, delicious lunch, and on that first day and every day thereafter, I could not believe how fast the food was gotten, gulped, and trashed as a necessary precursor to what they really wanted—recess!

Mother Nature gives fair warnings. Sometimes she does so in colorful and dramatic ways: sunrises like this mean that some kind of weather event is literally ‘on the horizon.’ The beauty of the colors are not just visual art to be noticed and appreciated; it means something. When I looked at the western horizon, the sky was dark with heavy, snow-filled clouds.

I wasn’t the only one to notice—the birds knew, too. Every morning usually has a ‘feeding time’ for the birds, but before the snow came, there was a feeding frenzy! More birds, more movement, more excitement. Purple Finches flocked to the feeders and to the ground beneath them, gulping down black oil sunflower seeds.

Gray-cloaked Juncos hopped around on the grass and snow, gathering seeds and gathering friends.

At the back feeder, the beautiful, brassy Blue Jays shoveled through discarded shells in search of intact seeds as the snow began to fall. An old tin tub holds acorns and corn cobs—another cafeteria for the birds and squirrels.

Fair warning in a vibrant sunrise and fair warning in a Black Friday National Climate Assessment that was released and refuted by the White House. Climate scientists anticipate what is going to happen based on science, data, and expertise. The latest report confirmed what climate scientists have been seeing and reporting for decades—the rise in greenhouse gases is hurting the economy, the environment, and public health. Get ready, be prepared, make changes—yet another fair warning—this one intense and wide-reaching. The questions of whether the right models were used, whether scientists were profiting from this, and if this was for political reasons are moot points. All we need to do is look at what Mother Nature is saying—the warnings are consistent and persistent—record rains, flooding, wildfires, droughts, high temperatures, extreme fluctuations, and ice melts. The evidence is right before our eyes. The real question is why aren’t some of us noticing it, seeing it, believing it, anticipating it? Just like any other form of denial: the ‘cost’ of seeing the truth is more painful than the ‘cost’ of believing our own story. How do we not throw away what truly sustains us just to quickly get what we want?

Summer Solstice Snapshot

June 24, 2018 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

What happens on the first day of Summer? The Summer Solstice was Thursday, the 21st—the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, when the Earth’s axis is most tilted toward the sun. It is when the sun rises before most of us do and sets not long before most of us go to bed. It is a day of long daylight, of energy, of evolution of the seasons. It is a day of new beginnings.

What happens on the first day of Summer in Minnesota? Fruit is forming, growing, and ripening—apples, blueberries, wild plums, and wild strawberries.

Tender new growth on the evergreen trees is starting to harden off, easing into the next stage of growth and development, stepping into its larger self.

Summer sunshine, blue skies, and white clouds outline and energize the trees.

On the first day of Summer, some flowers, like the Gas Plant, are already going to seed, while a whole passel are in full bloom or getting ready to bloom.

The late-planted garden is growing, as are the weeds that will need to be cleared out so the good stuff will grow and produce.

Bird parents are busy searching for insects to bring back to their hungry babies.

Broken remains of storm damage finally fell from a tree, days after the other storm debris had been cleaned up.

And then, just for a reality check, Summer throws in a little taste of what’s to come in a couple of months…

Late in the long day, the sun finally sets, the long twilight glows on, and the moon shines bright in the southern sky.

One notable Summer day, the Solstice, the official beginning of Summer, is like a birthday—remarkable in a way, but as common as every other day. It is a marker of seasons and new beginnings, a snapshot of the continuing development of all that is Nature and all that is Us. If we take the time to clear out the weeds and clean up the debris from the storms of our lives, we are energized. We can learn and grow and step into our larger selves. We are ready to bloom and ready to bear fruit. Shine on!

Holy Week is the Story of Our Lives

April 1, 2018 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

This has been a wild week—a wild and holy week. Wild because of the weather, with up and down temperatures, sunshine and snow, mud and ice. Holy because it’s Holy week in the Christian religion. Palm Sunday dawned with a peaceful, pastel sky—a sight to behold, one fit for a King.

Early Spring eases its way out of Winter with fits and starts—the promise is here, small signs are here, but in good standing, we cannot proclaim that Spring is here. One morning, this small sign of Spring chirped and sang with exuberance from on high in the Linden tree. A Starling is not known to be a pretty or interesting bird, but he was singing hosanna with joy!

The colorful Sunday morning sky heralded in a Monday morning snow. Confusion swirled around the Spruce branches as the vine tried to reassure them. Spring is here! They did not believe.

Tuesday warmed to 40 degrees with brilliant sunshine, and the sap was lifted up from the earth and flowed from a wound in the Maple tree. Now this feels like Spring!

Wednesday was muddy and messy. The warmth melted the new snow and chiseled away at the old piles. Plans for the future garden were held in disbelief.

It’s too hard to imagine Spring and new life when the snow still clings to the north-facing hills.

Thursday’s rising sun shone through another colorful morning sky, foreshadowing another stormy day. The pink light from the east reflected off the western hills. Geese flew to the open part of the Sauk River for nourishment and companionship, washing their feet in the clear, cold water.

Friday morning’s sky was heavy and dark to the west, and I thought to myself, ‘It looks like snow.’ Soon the flakes started to fall, laying down an inch or so on the pavement as the warmed earth melted it away. A Pileated Woodpecker crowed his distinctive call, flew to the base of one of the old Spruce trees, and proceeded to excavate a cavernous hole with his powerful beak. He shouldn’t be destroying a live, formidable tree.

The afternoon looked normal, looked warm, but the wind picked up and felt damp and cold, betraying any thoughts of Spring. When the sun sank and the day was done, the night sky was a strange purple-gray.

I heard the wind straining the house and trees overnight and heard ice hitting the windows. A Winter chill settled over the house, over the land, over the Spring. Saturday morning was cold with a wind chill of 1° F and three inches of snow. The evergreen tree branches drooped with the burden of heavy, icy snow. The blue sky taunted us to come outside to play, but everything else about the day held grief, disbelief, and suffering. Spring, why have you forsaken us?

Easter morning dawned clear and cold. The wind had calmed down. The second blue moon of the year was setting in the west.

The sun rose blindingly bright; we were unable to look directly at its glory—even through the trees its power was undeniable. The Cardinals were singing their Spring songs, and the sun created infinite sparkling diamonds in the snow.

It seems like all of Life is encompassed in Holy week. Our exuberant joys and our deepest sorrows. The days our hearts are troubled. Our denial and disbelief in what is real, in what is happening before our eyes, in what we thought we strongly held in our hearts. Holy week and our lives are wild with confusion, doubt, and suffering, along with devotion, love, and friendship. It highlights the tender, vulnerable moments of our lives when we dare to kneel in servanthood, when we break the rules for justice and kindness, when we offer our dearest ones to another for safe-keeping, and when we call out to God in prayer. It reveals the inconsistency and idiocy of power in the wrong hands and of deluded group-think that spreads like wildfire and destroys the Spirit of truth. It gives us hope for the future, peace for the present, and reclamation for the past. It gives us a way forward, a blueprint for transformation, and a belief in a bigger, more benevolent Way. Holy Week is the story of our lives. Peace and Love be with you.

What is Your Default Setting?

January 7, 2018 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Twenty-one days. How have you spent the last twenty-one days? What has been your default setting for those days? In the calendar year, the three weeks around Christmas and New Year’s are usually not the normal way we spend the rest of the year. Busyness, traveling, shopping, concerts, parties, baking, cooking, wrapping, decorating. What is your default setting when things are crazy busy? Are you happy, grumpy, a recluse, a shining star? What is the essence of you?

This time of year has always been a joy for Chris and I—the kids were all born within these weeks, so we celebrate three birthdays and Christmas in two weeks’ time; add two more weeks and throw in New Year’s Day and Chris’ birthday! A time for celebration! Not all years have been a joyous celebration—my Dad died two days after Christmas two years ago, my horse of twenty-one years died on New Year’s Eve many years ago, and last Christmas, Chris and I dined alone and didn’t see our kids. Sadness intertwines with joy. This year, we are fortunate to have Emily with us for twenty-one days—definite Joy! Aaron joined us for Christmas and New Year’s—Happiness! Anna wasn’t able to be with us—Longing and Sadness. All mixed together in this holiday season. With Emily here, this darling child of mine, I realized that my default setting was to “be” with her—no distractions of phones or computers. Social media is a great tool when you are far from your loved ones and friends, but I had no desire to spend time on Facebook when Emily was sitting across the table from me. Of course I’m grateful for the web and Facebook to circulate my posts and keep in touch with friends, and I purposefully checked in with my weekly posts, but I am evermore so grateful to have our grown children spend time with us.

What is Nature’s default setting at this time of year? Our northern winter sun rises, peaks, and sets in a low arch in the southern sky. This photo was taken a little after 1:00 pm on January 5th with the sun low on the horizon. The sunrise that day was 7:58 am CST, and sunset was at 4:50 pm—a short day of light.

Nature’s automatic course of action of sunrises and sunsets determined by the tilt and rotation of the Earth in relation to the Sun happens no matter what else is going on—we can rely on it and enjoy its beauty.

Another of Nature’s default settings is the constancy and reliability of the Moon and its phases. The New Year began with the rising of the full moon, traditionally called the Full Wolf Moon in the Northern Hemisphere according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

The close-to-Earth supermoon looked huge and orange as it rose in the below zero temperatures of New Year’s Day.

The second full moon of the month—a Blue Moon and another supermoon—will rise on the 31st of January and brings the only eclipse of the year for North America.

The constancy and reliability of the sunrises, sunsets, and moon phases are default settings in Nature that we often just take for granted. This automatic course of action affects the very intricacies of our lives—our sleep/wake cycle, the tides of the oceans, the production of blooms and fruit in plants, and reproduction in animals. When we look at our own default settings, we can see that they too affect so many aspects of our lives—relationships, health, outlook, education, and our environment. The things that happen around us are all mixed together in a milieu of self and other, of desire and fate, of purpose and happenstance. We can examine our default settings—those ways in which we automatically act and react—and we can ask ourselves if they truly represent the essence of ourselves. If not, we can override that automatic course of action and change the default setting. Overriding the default settings of our lives is not an easy task—it takes courage, love, time, education, and often many attempts—but it is worth it when you find something in yourself that you can rely on and at the same time, enjoy its beauty.

Gleanings from January—Moon Shadows on Snow

February 5, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I’m being followed by a moon shadow, moon shadow, moon shadow. –Cat Stevens

January rings in another year with Auld Lang Syne—‘for old times’ sake’—by looking back at what happened during the previous year. And then we begin again. Each month and each day gives us that same opportunity. At the end of each day, we can look back at what happened, check in with ourselves, set our intentions for the next day, and with the dawn, begin again.

We had days of beautiful snow last month—perfect January weather. In the midst of a snowstorm, the bright cardinal gave us a glimpse of the joyous, colorful Spring to come.

There is Beauty in Wintertide when ordinary objects become works of art.

We also had days of unusual melting in January as the temperatures soared and bleakness enveloped the land.

One of the lovely sights of winter nights is moon shadows on snow—a wordless poem that stirs the soul with its artistry and mystery.

Another mystery unfurled in the daytime snow—this ‘snow roll’ and track appeared one afternoon, starting at the down spout and rolling 10-12 feet across relatively flat ground. Now how did that happen?!

This snow-covered nest caught my eye, and I thought of how their carefully crafted and hidden home during the leaf-covered spring and summer was now exposed to the elements and for all to see.

Another month, another day is relegated to ‘old times.’

Old years, months, and days become our history—a story that covers the gamut from bleakness to beauty, from ordinary to art, from predictable to mystery. With our history comes our lessons, but only if we reflect on what happened, what our role was, and how we may have gotten some parts of it wrong. There are times in which we hide ourselves for protection and for good reason, but eventually, as we begin again, we are once more exposed to the elements. And here’s the mystery—we become stronger and more resilient for having done that shadow work in the darkness. Our lives become a wordless poem of artistry and mystery. We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet for old times’ sake, revel in the Goodness of the present moment, and catch a glimpse of the Joy yet to come.

Gleanings from December 2015 and January 2016

February 2, 2016 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

“All Nature speaks the voice of dissolution. The highway of history and of life is strewn with the wrecks that Time, the great despoiler, has made. We listen sorrowfully to the Autumn winds as they sigh through dismantled forests, but we know their breath will be soft and vernal in the Spring, and the dead flowers and withered foliage will blossom and bloom again. And if a man dies, shall he, too, not live again?” —Daniel Wolsey Voorhees

Time has been messing with my mind these last two months. With my Dad’s run at recovery after his pneumonia, the days seemed to go by quickly as we prepared and looked forward to his return home, but as things got worse again, Time slowed. With his death, it was as if Time wasn’t even recognizable anymore. Wait, was it only two days since he died?! I seemed to be in another realm where Time wasn’t numbered and predictable. Then Nature stepped in–the voice of resolution as well as dissolution, and day by day, the birds outside my window helped me settle down. I was surprised to see a mourning dove at the feeder one morning–I don’t usually see them in the middle of winter, and they most often browse on the ground for food. A mourning dove for my mourning.

A pileated woodpecker’s long, strong beak made short work of the suet-stuffed log feeder.

Purple finches gathered at the feeders in groups–a community of fine-feathered friends.

The male’s rosy-colored feathers looked like a richly tailored tweed suit.

Carrying his sunflower seeds to the maple tree, a Downy woodpecker placed them in the grooves of bark to break open the hull to reach the nutritious kernel.

Flower-bright cardinals come to the feeder in late afternoon when the other birds are finished feeding for the day.

And the squawking loner bluejay feeds in the morning, scaring away black-capped chickadees and nuthatches that browse throughout the day.

Sunrise of another day, a month of days and more….

Mourning time is measured by sunrises and sunsets and by birds flying to the feeders in their tenacious purpose of nourishing themselves for another day. The dissolution of my earthly relationship with my Dad and the permanence of that takes time to integrate into my soul. Nature helps me sort out the grief, work out the pain, and measure the memories. Writer Paul Theroux declares, “Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” I am looking forward to blooming again.

Coming Home, Going Home

January 26, 2016 by Denise Brake 11 Comments

Thursday we were going home to South Dakota to bury my Dad in the place he wanted to be after dying. After weeks of mourning and making plans, we traveled the snowy roads back to the house I helped Mom and Dad build. The day mirrored my mind–kind of blurry and monochromatic with loss and the grief that holds its hand.

After a warm supper with my Mom, I laid in bed in the same room where I slept until noon on my college weekends, where Chris and I slept as newlyweds before our move to Missouri, where we brought all the things one travels with when three young children are coming home to visit Grandma. Memories of my childhood with Dad flitted through my mind and landed on the building of this house–how I helped put down the puzzle of underlayment, nailed up sheet rock, taped and mudded and sanded and mudded, hammered down the shingles, and stained the siding a red-brown color. Not too long after that, my Dad left and lived in places as far away from South Dakota as one can get–Florida, Texas, California.

I rose with the sun the next morning as the blue-dawned snow turned pink.

Dad’s ashes had arrived from Oklahoma in a plastic-lined plastic box–the size of which made one wonder how a person’s body could ever fit into it. So I had built him a box. I measured scraps of rough cedar board–pulling out the tape, making the pencil mark, letting the tape slowly zip back into its circle of yellow, squaring up a line, and pulling a handsaw through the line. As I sawed and nailed, I thought about how glad I was and how right it felt that Dad was coming home. I finished the cedar box by nailing a horseshoe on the front of it to honor the farrier, horseman, and father who had taught us so much about horses, building things, and hard work.

A small gathering of relatives and friends shared memories of Dad in the Fireside room of the Lutheran church. His old cowboy hat sat atop the box, his dusty cowboy boots on the floor below. I thought back to the many times growing up that I had polished his boots and with a tinge of guilt thought I should have polished them one last time. An even smaller group of us progressed to the rural Danish cemetery where Dad’s folks, sisters, and ancestors are buried. The pastor prayed in the cold, windless afternoon and consecrated Dad to this Earth and to Heaven.

And right beyond the evergreens lining the cemetery along the road is the shelterbelt and old red barn of the homestead where my Dad was born.

The memorial service continued at my sister Sam’s place as we ate, looked at pictures, told stories, laughed, watched the moon rise and the deer graze, and remembered our lives with Dad.

We lost our Dad for many years after he moved away, and even though we were all adults when that happened, it nonetheless affected our lives in many different ways. For me it was sad that he didn’t really know our kids or they him. He did make sure to say that he loved us and loved them when we talked on the phone, so that’s a gift we can accept with grace. So we build our lives with the gifts he has given us and sand out the rough places that don’t quite fit. There is something sacred in the process of being born, living life, learning lessons, and leaving this earth once again. It is remarkable that Dad has his resting place half a mile from the farmhouse he was born in—a true and joyous coming home for going home.

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