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When the Past Processes You

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Last week I wrote about processing the Old things, the past things that I have stored in boxes for years—difficult for me to do, but necessary and freeing in its own way. But it was nothing compared to what happened when the Old things of the past processed me. Moving has always been a double-edged sword for me—on the one hand, I anticipate the excitement of a new place to discover and explore. A starting over, in a way. On the other hand, I could hardly bear to leave the old place. Each house, each place was a sanctuary for me—it was a place of safety (although that was challenged a number of times for various reasons), a place of comfort, a place I loved. So even when I was all-in on the move, it was hard. The boxing-up process was the most difficult—until the final, final, final time of walking out the door. There have been people in my life who have pushed me at those times—Chris of course, my Mom, a couple good friends, my daughter Emily this time—who box up the remaining things despite my protests and urge me out the door. Even as I desperately cling to the door jambs.

On the surface, I try to reason with myself, going between the pros and cons. With each pro-moving point, I rebut with “But how can I leave these…sunsets…

…these sunrises out my beautiful screened-in porch…

…my animal friends?

All of those surface rebuts are valid and tender and real, and they also reveal a glimpse into the essence of why this is so very hard for me. This time, this move, this boxing time was different. It was ugly and raw and wildly animalistic. I couldn’t bear to pack up my things, especially the special things, and I wouldn’t let anyone else touch them. Emily came to help me, and I resisted every move she made. I came un-done if she or Chris packed up anything without my permission. I instantly flew into a whirlwind of rage and panic: I yelled, I cried old, difficult tears, I stomped my feet, I wailed like a wounded animal. It was scaring the heck out of all of us. There had been weeks, maybe months—it was all such a blur—of tears that flowed from some artesian well of the Universe, for no one person could possibly produce so many tears, could they? And it all came to a head when my dear daughter was here to help. Every day had multiple episodes of this unreasonable behavior, and once I had control of the situation again, I was able to calm down and resume our work. And then the tantrum would happen again. Finally, after I don’t know how many exhausting days of this, we took a lunch break, and as I sat very still at the table, the tears quietly streamed down my face, still. Emily—God bless her patience and maturity—asked me what was going on. In that moment, I finally knew. I managed to finally speak the words, “I feel exactly like I did when I was in first grade, when we moved away from South Dakota.” The Past had been processing me. I talked about how difficult our life had been in the year and a half before the move, how I didn’t want to leave the farm, how I couldn’t bear to leave my animal friends—the cows, chickens, kittens, dogs, and the big, black horse, how I didn’t want to leave my grandparents, how I loved the sandbox and the weeping willow tree. I talked about how out-of-my-control it all felt, and how the boxes swallowed up all of the familiar, safe, loved things and took them into a truck to a new, unfamiliar place. And with that realization and that space and time from my loving daughter and husband, and with those words, the panic began to abate. There were a few more episodes in the next couple of days, but the fury of them had passed—and then they were gone. I was an adult once again. The process of moving moved on.

The Edges of Night

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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.’

Talking to the Moon

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The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.  –Carl Sandburg

Last weekend was a lonesome couple of days.  The men in my family headed south with a bad case of Mahomes fever.  It was perfectly understandable—the Chiefs’ young quarterback is taking the NFL by storm with his quickness, his yards/game, and his touchdown passes.  I love it when a star is born.  I also love when a star shines on the rest of us—and that would be our star, the Sun!  Our star shines on us here on Earth and also on our Moon.  Do you know what a selenophile is?  A person who loves the Moon and finds joy and peace of mind from the Moon!

I worked outside in the sunshine for most of the day, cutting back hostas, raking leaves, and pulling the wilted, sad-looking vegetable plants out of the garden.  Dozens of cherry tomatoes that had not ripened or were not harvested squished under my boots.  Only the carrots and a few cold-hardy lettuces still looked green and lively after the freezes.  It had been a good year for tomatoes, green beans, and lettuce, and I felt a deep satisfaction for all the meals our small garden had provided.  As evening rolled in, the not-quite-yet-full Moon rose through the pine trees.

It was a beautiful evening.  No wind, not too chilly, a shining Moon.  I decided to make a campfire for myself, so gathered some wood before it was completely dark.  The previous week’s rain dampened my chances for a roaring flame, but with small logs, pinecones, and some newspaper, I soon had a respectable fire.

The sun sank below the horizon, now so far south in the western sky.  The trees stood bare and black against the soft colors of the sunset.

As I sat beside my campfire, I felt a little silly for doing this by myself.  I missed Chris.  I missed the kids.  I missed my faithful companion Tamba who always loved to lay at our feet when we had a campfire.  It was just me and the Moon.

 

When all those feelings and thoughts of loneliness, missing someone, and being alone impinge upon our mind, body, and soul, our first reaction seems to be to do anything that distracts us from those feelings: social media, tv, music, phone calls, exercise, eating, drinking.  Just don’t let me feel those feelings!  It causes discomfort, and I felt it as I sat by myself by the fire.  I even thought of a bunch of things I should be doing instead of sitting there alone.  ‘Working’ is a great distractor.  But the night, the fire, and the Moon implored me to stay, welcomed me into the natural world, and calmed my discomfort.  “Of course you are missing your family and Tamba—they are such an important part of your life.  Chris and Aaron are having a wonderful weekend and will love to tell you all about it.  It was a beautiful day, and you got a lot of work done getting ready for Winter.  You are stronger now than you’ve ever been,” said my friend.  Even in the darkness, the star’s light shined down on me.  “Touchdown!!  The Moon and De-nise!” 

Summer Solstice Snapshot

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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!

 

The Mirror of Nature and Goodness

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Water is the mirror of Nature.  –Francis of Assisi

What happens when you see a person walking toward you unexpectedly get hit in the head by a ball?  Often we react with a cringe, a movement of our hand to our own head, or even with a verbal “ouch”—almost like we ourselves had gotten hit.  The mechanism for that occurrence is the activation of mirror neurons in our brains.  Mirror neurons were discovered in 1994 by a group of Italian scientists in a lucky accident.  They were studying individual neurons in a monkey’s premotor area of the brain, with a computer to monitor which neurons fired when the monkey picked up a peanut or banana.  The researcher noticed that when he was putting food pellets into a box, the computer showed that the monkey’s brain cells were firing, even though the monkey wasn’t moving!  He was watching the researcher move and reacting as if he were picking up the food pellets himself.  Research on mirror neurons continues, but it is now understood that these brain-to-brain links help to explain empathy, learning, imitation, and synchrony.  These brain cells are ‘online’ at birth and are an imperative part of how a baby and caretaker communicate with one another, how they regulate their respective physiologies, and how the baby learns—e.g., cooing and making sounds and words, playing peek-a-boo, facial expressions, and comforting tones and movements.  We are, in essence, programmed to pick up another person’s movements, emotions, and intentions and to make internal adjustments based on what we notice.  We also give clues to others about what is going on inside of us.

After a hot Memorial Day weekend, Tuesday’s storm broke the heat wave and brought us some much-needed rain.  As the storm was ending, the western horizon cleared, and the sun shone through the trees.  I went out the back door with the camera to photograph the colorful sunset, but what caught my attention was the birdbath.  The water in the birdbath was a mirror not only to the colors of the sunset but also a reflection of the wind and remaining raindrops!  It was mesmerizing!

 

Twenty-two photographs over four minutes of time.  Subtleties of color, shade, tone, and movement.  Each one the same, but different.  Each one mirroring a moment in Nature, reflecting the wind, the rain, and the sunlight.  We exhibit just as many cues and clues in four minutes of our time with subtle movements, facial expressions, muscle tightening, eye contact, voice tone, and posture.  Those around us are picking up those cues and clues via their mirror neurons and reacting to them based on the person’s development history, sense of safety, and state of mind and body (all of which can change the message in profound ways.)  And most of this is happening with little or no conscious awareness.  The challenge is not to be vulnerable to negativity in others, not to meet anger with anger or disdain with disdain, yet at the same time retain the empathy that keeps us connected as social beings.  What a challenge it is.  It does give credence to our moms’ warnings not to hang out with the wrong crowd—we tend to become like the people we choose to be around; she just didn’t know it was because of mirror neurons!  We have an opportunity to positively influence the people around us and the strangers we meet—we can look into their eyes and smile, we can open our hands and our hearts, we can make them feel welcomed, safe, and supported.  Our face and actions can be a mirror of Goodness, and that, dear ones, is mesmerizing.  

 

 

No Holding Back

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“No matter how long the Winter, Spring is sure to follow.”

Three weeks ago we had a foot of snow.  But Spring will no longer be held back!  On Monday, two turkeys foraged along the road pecking at emerging leaves of green grass and tender new buds.

It was so wonderful to see the grass finally turning green and the chives pushing their way up!

Two visitors passed through on their way North—a White-crowned Sparrow and a Yellow-rumped Warbler.

April’s end-of-month full moon illuminated buds on a tree, and a colorful sunset shone through the silhouette of trees where soon leaves will occlude the splendor.

The Bluebirds returned this week!  Their swift, swooping dives and chattering songs fill the front yard as they check out the nesting boxes.

On Thursday, I finally got to my annual Earth Day ditch clean-up.  Once again, with most of the trash being plastic, I urge everyone to ‘ditch’ plastic shopping bags and use paper or reusable bags.  It will make a difference!  I also found this unfortunate creature who didn’t make it through the winter—one of our resident opossums who waddle back and forth from the quarry to the woods.

By Friday, the Forsythia and Bergenia were blooming!  The lemony yellow Forsythia flowers shone in the morning sun along with one orange fall leaf that had held on through the winter.

The Bergenias send up a study flower stalk between green leaves that have weathered the winter and those that dried and died.  No holding back.

Ferns with their rolled fiddleheads emerged by warm rocks, casting shadows just as intriguing as the fiddleheads themselves.

The most amazing bud to me is the terminal bud of a Buckeye tree.  I’m always incredulous that such a huge amount of leaves can be coiled into one bud—and they are beautiful as they unfurl!

One sign of Spring that I always look for is the ‘green blush’ of new leaves on the Aspen trees down by the river.  Thursday, no green blush, but Friday morning, it was there!

The floppy, fragrant petals of the Star Magnolia opened on Saturday.  So beautiful!

For the first time, I saw a Baltimore Oriole come to our feeder!  No holding back the Goodness of Spring! 

 

I think most of us up North would agree it’s been a long winter, but Spring sure has been sweet this week.  It’s as if all the power and potential can no longer be held back, even as the last piles of blackened snow melt and the frost recedes from the ground—Spring has come bursting forth!  There are many times in life when we feel the holding back and comfort of what is known along with the pull of a new adventure.  A baby is happy to sit or crawl until the urge to walk implants itself in mind and body—there is no holding back.  Children are eager to learn and ‘do it themselves’ after years of parents doing it for them and teaching them motor and mind skills.  Adolescents oscillate between being a dependent child and pushing their way to adult independence.  At some point, there is no holding back the desire to live one’s own life.  A similar thing happens in mid-life after decades of striving, achieving, raising children, putting plans on hold, paying bills and doing the necessary matters.  We wonder if we have lost ourselves, if there is something more to life, if we have fulfilled our potential—we forage for new ways or remember something from the past that we have carried with us like a lone, orange leaf.  Some parts of our lives die—by our own hand or by the hand of a higher power.  We explore intriguing shadows that lead us back to our own intriguing selves.  No matter our age or circumstance, we are beautiful as we unfurl. 

What is Your Default Setting?

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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. 

Inhaling the Color

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When the kids were younger, we spent hours each day on art projects—finger paints, crayons, sidewalk chalk, markers, watercolors, acrylic paints at the Fisher-Price easel with stubby, color-coded brushes, and many more.  Emily was a visual learner and artist from a very young age.  She held a pencil correctly when she was one year old, she drew detailed pictures of our family, and she would come home from kindergarten and describe the color and style of clothes and shoes her teacher wore (fast forward to Stitch Fix!)  I can’t remember how old she was at the time, but she went through a period when she was coloring with crayons that she would put one in her mouth and pretend she was smoking.  When I gently admonished her for emulating smoking, she replied that they were special good rainbow ones with vitamins and fruit!  That memory was recently revived for her when she saw an ad for rainbow-colored personal essential oil diffusers—cylinder-shaped diffusers of essential oils that you inhale into your mouth and out your nose—just like her childhood idea!

Color is a scarce commodity in Nature as late Fall morphs into Winter.  Our Thanksgiving weekend hike at Warner Lake County Park was devoid of much color, but we were able to find some interesting hues by looking closely at the gray-brown landscape.  Red berries of a woodland perennial persisted among the pine needles.  Red-violet branches of Red-twigged Dogwood brightened the lake shore, and scarlet berries of a Viburnum looked enticing against the sleepy gray background.

Rusty orange leaves cling to the understory Ironwood trees through most of the winter, making them easy to identify.  Bittersweet vines produce vibrant red-orange berries perfect for Fall decoration.

Happy yellow-gold seedheads remain from a prolific-blooming wildflower.  Golden stands of grass lined the ice-covered Warner Lake.

Healthy green moss covered a fallen tree, outlining the upended roots and trunk.  A fallen cluster of green pine needles, thanks to a nibbling squirrel, intertwined with the brown needles that were shed earlier in the season.

The hiking day began with blue skies and active, fluffy clouds of white before a front of gray clouds and sprinkles covered the cerulean.  A few days later the day ended with a rainbow-colored sunset painted on the western easel of sky.

 

One of the gifts of Winter, when the landscape is devoid of color, is the simplification of sight.  With the leaves gone, the structure and essence of a tree is obvious.  There are less things to look at—no flowers or colors to capture our attention for a second before it moves to the next thing.  Time seems to slow a bit.  The things that do capture our attention are worth noting and examining.  Late Fall and Winter open up the opportunity to look closely at ourselves—what is our structure and essence?  What is the understory of our life that has been covered up with the exuberance of Spring and Summer and that is now easier to identify?  How do we outline a healthy life?  How do we intertwine the old parts of ourselves that need to be shed with the green, growing parts that need to be expressed?  The season of my life when the kids were young was busy, fun, full of laughter, love, and creativity—an exuberant, colorful Spring!  Emily taught me that we can look at things differently, that we can re-create a negative into a positive, that we can breathe in the special healing rainbow goodness of Life. 

Mystery and Gratitude

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“Science cannot solve the ultimate mystery of nature.  And that is because, in the last analysis, we ourselves are a part of the mystery that we are trying to solve.”                     –Max Planck, physicist

Mystery: anything that is kept secret or remains unexplained or unknown.  I’m not sure which is more mysterious—Nature or human nature.  I guess it’s because they are one in the same.  I drive Chris nuts sometimes with my wonderings: I wonder why they decided to put that there?  Why did you cut the vegetables that way?  Why in the world would people throw their trash out the window?  I wonder what happened to that tree?  Why do people have to be so mean?  I’m not making a judgment on his vegetable cutting—I just want to know the reasoning behind it, if there is one.  I’m curious, and I would like to understand the things I see and try to make sense of them.

My mystery thinking began this week after Chris put burlap around the Arborvitae.  It is no mystery that deer love Arborvitae and will devour a good-looking tree into a malformed eyesore in one short winter.  And thus, our very own mysterious Stonehenge, or Burlaphenge, rather.

I was also wondering why the leaves haven’t fallen off the Ninebarks, Lilacs, and Apple trees yet.  They are the later ones to drop their leaves, but after snows and hard freezes, they should be down.  But maybe that’s the exact reason they aren’t down—that it all came too early.

It is no mystery that November is grey and brown and kind of bleak looking.  The summer vibrancy of Hosta leaves fold and dissolve into nothing, like the water-doused wicked witch of the west (now that’s a mystery!).

But all is not bleak on the November front with the interesting seedheads of Goldenrod, Hydrangea, and Purple Coneflowers.

I was wondering, of all the logs we have used as ‘steps’ in our hilly woods, why the pileated woodpeckers have suddenly attacked this one.

There is one mystery that I never question—I just take it in with gratitude—the amazing sunsets!

 

How do we problem solve and make our world a better place?  First we have to be aware—we need to notice things, see things that are not working or are working beautifully, and get curious about it.  We also have to step outside ourselves, put our biases and prejudices aside, and look at the situation with new eyes.  We have to be our own third party.  (What a difficult thing to do, I know.)  Then we need to gather information and communicate—who are the experts and what do they say about this, what’s the data about this subject over time and many sources, where does this truly have an effect, when does a certain thing happen or in what situation, and then, the question of the mysterious why.  Does that sound too scientific or experimental?  Or like too much work?  My hypothesis is that we all do it all the time but leave out some of the important steps.  We make the results and conclusions fit the way we already think, slap our hands together, and exclaim, “Done. Well done.”  But what is the impact to ourselves and others if our conclusion is a lie or has only a thin line of convenient truth in it?  Are we willing to engage in dialogue about our conclusions?  A mystery is anything that is kept a secret or remains unexplained or unknown.  There are many things in life that should not remain a mystery—secrets that serve one and hurt others should be brought forth into the light of inquiry, examination, and illumination; unexplained conclusions that tout magnanimity but in essence do much harm should withstand a thorough and vigorous cross examination and accountability; and unknown things that we do not want to know should courageously be brought forth through the fences of resistance so we can stare them in the face, feel the full force and cost of their hidden, yet flawed power, and find relief and peace in finally knowing our truth.  So get curious, gather information, communicate, examine, be courageous, and for those things that are truly a mystery—like sunsets and the pure wonder of Nature (and probably even cutting vegetables)—have gratitude!

Gleanings from June—How the Time has Flewn

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How did it get so late so soon?  It’s night before it’s afternoon.  December is here before it’s June.  My goodness how the time has flewn.  How did it get so late so soon?                   –Dr. Seuss

This is how I feel about the month of June.  It’s one of my favorite months, made all the better this year by the fact that we spent the beginning of the month in Kansas City with our daughter Anna and the other Brake relatives, had our daughter Emily home for vacation and work days, and had SD relatives, Aaron, friends, Emily and Shawn together for celebration days.  How the time has flewn, as Dr. Seuss said!

June is the most precious month of the summer—here in Minnesota the temperature is summer perfect–warm days and still-cool nights, few bugs and mosquitoes impede outdoor work and fun, and there is plenty of sunshine with abundant rain to keep things growing, blooming, and thriving.  Sooo good!  June is when my favorite Perennial Blue Flax blooms—so very lovely.  Do we take the time to appreciate the incredible beauty of a single flower?

Fuzzy, thick-leaved Mullein unfolds like a rosebud—how do we unfold the many layers of our gifts and talents so we can stand tall with our brilliant display of color?

Prairie grasses bloom in June and wave in the wind, while prairie wildflowers begin their complementary display.  How do we stand out in the crowd and love and accept the very things that make us unique?

Talk about fleeting time!  The exquisite poppy, so delicate yet strong, blooms for such a short time before the crinkly petals fall off, leaving the bulbous seed head.  How do we cultivate strength of body, character, mind, and soul?

The blooming Mock Orange shrub with its sweet fragrance was a magnet for Swallowtail Butterflies, both yellow and black.  How do we gather the sweetness of life and share it with others?

A June evening on the lake with good friends is made even better when we see or hear the resident loons.  I believe the ‘bumpy’ feathers towards the tail are hiding a young chick, enabling travel and protection for the offspring.  Do we protect and nourish our offspring and all the ‘children of the Lord?’

Some ingenious spider built its web on the dock, basically over the water—a construction feat for food and shelter.  How do we work to build a safe home and provide food while also maintaining creativity and inventiveness?

Water, lily pads, greens and blues—this Monet-like work of art is a reflection of a birch tree in the lake!  I love it!  How do our actions reflect our true inner self?  What work of art are we creating?

I also love this photograph of a Yellow Pond-lily—the floating leaves, the yellow sphere of flower, the reflection of the blossom, and the spill of water on top of the leaf.  How do we keep our heads above water with poise, beauty, and peace?

And finally, June in the Land of 10,000 Lakes—a couple of people and their dog, out on a boat, fishing at sundown.  How do we relax in this hurried, harried world?  How do we embrace silence and our own thoughts and feelings?

 

June slipped away far too fast—I wanted to hold it steady, keep it close, prevent it from moving on.  I wanted to do the same thing with the time I spent with my kids.  Instead, in the moments I was with them, I was intentional about looking into their faces, not only to see their beauty and uniqueness, but to notice the outward reflection of their inner state.  Are they happy, at peace, using their gifts and talents?  I quietly noticed their strengths of body, character, mind, and soul.  I fretted silently that they may have learned some of my qualities of being hard on myself, of not loving myself quite enough.  I also confirmed my intention and commitment I had from day one as a parent to protect and nourish them in the best way I could, to show them the sweetness of life, to instill in them a love for God, for Nature, for creating and learning.  And here they are—two and a half to three decades later!  How I love being in their presence!  And here I am—throwing out a line in the peaceful silence of my own thoughts and feelings.  “My goodness how the time has flewn.”