Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Gleanings from February—Sky Gazing
Look up at the sky and contemplate how amazing life is.*
When I was a kid, I remember lying down in the wide expanse of an alfalfa field looking up at an even wider, wilder expanse of blue sky. There were so many things to contemplate at that time in my life—many of them amazing and life-affirming. But I also remember having lots of questions about life that didn’t come with tidy answers and good feelings.
February’s cache of photos included a vast array of sky pictures—moons, sunrises, clouds, and spectacular sunsets. I’m always amazed at the colors that can appear in the evening sky, how the orange sunlight can produce purple clouds…
and how orange clouds with tinges of pink look against the blue sky.
February’s full moon rose in a mottling of clouds, casting an almost-rainbow halo around itself.
Later in the evening, the clouds cleared, and I was finally able to see The Lady in the Moon as described to me by Muriel in the comments of my post Gleanings from September–One Way then Another.
Another amazing thing about sunsets is how they can change in just a matter of minutes. The clouds move, the colors morph as the sun sets and the sky darkens. This is how the sky changed in just eight minutes, all the while maintaining that white streak….
We didn’t have much snow in February, but on the last day, gray skies and tumbling snowflakes shrouded the bare trees.
This is one of my favorite sunset pictures. The white zigzag seems like a portal to another world, an enticing glimpse of something beyond ourselves, even while the present, visible world is magnificent!
A blue sunset sky and quarter moon soothes the senses like a bedtime story.
One likes to think that after decades of living that answers come easy and it is no longer necessary to gaze up at the sky and contemplate life, but I know that is not true. My childhood contemplation, my sky gazing, were rudimentary endeavors at living a conscientious life, of being in prayer with the great Creator. I know that continues throughout our lives. As we live, we experience heightened life-affirming events but also crushing despair, beyond which we could ever imagine as a child. There are still questions, albeit different ones, without tidy answers and good feelings. But as our lives are changing, all the while, a white streak of Goodness maintains us, soothes our senses, shrouds us with Love, and lets us catch a glimpse through a portal to What Is.
*Some had this quote from Rhonda Byrne, others had Unknown.
The Parable of the Flaming Sunset
A day of snow ended with a flaming sunset that glowed warm yellow and orange in the center of the light. Cool pink and blue surrounded the flame, reflecting the cold whiteness of the January earth. The Old One knew this was no ordinary sunset—the light signified a special unfolding of time and events.
The next morning snow fell again. With it came an unusual occurrence—a large black crow flew to the tree beside the dwelling and spoke to the Old One. “Go to the top of the world where the Three Wise Guardians stand, then find the Giver of Life.”
A second crow flew to the Maple tree and this time the message was for the Young One. “Make a path for the Old One, for the Old One has spent many years making a path for you.” A tiny Chickadee scribe marked the words of these extraordinary messengers.
The Old One and the Young One looked at one another in dismay at the talking of the crows. Remembering the flaming sunset from the night before, the Old One prepared for the walk to the top of the world with hope and excitement. The snow stopped falling, and the sky became a brilliant blue, reflecting its tint on the snow.
And as they walked through the snow, the Young One made a path for the Old One, just as the crow had instructed.
They reached the top of the world where the guardian Oaks stood strong and wind-swept.
“Find the Giver of Life,” thought the Old One. So the Old One followed the Young One down the steep hill to the River, holding on to resilient saplings for support, and was glad the trail blazed by young legs made the going a little easier.
The River was covered in ice and snow. A circle of open water along the bank warned the Young One and Old One not to walk on the ice, for the flowing current underneath made the way uncertain and dangerous. So they walked between the shore and the rocky outcroppings.
Old One stepped on something under the snow that crunched and gave away. Young One, who had walked the path before the snow, said it was trash, bags of trash. Old One was horrified that such a beautiful, life-giving place was littered with garbage. Dispirited, Old One turned to go back, wondering why the crows had sent them down to the River, the Giver of Life, only to find danger in the ice-covered river and rubbish strewn along its shores. All covered over with pure white, beautiful snow.
The walk back home was more difficult. The steep hill and frigid cold grabbed the air from Old One’s lungs. The trek that had started out so hopeful and inspiring had turned arduous and disheartening. What did the Three Wise Guardians at the top of the world know about the journey and what lay below their watchful eye?
The Young One led the way with strength and silence, knowing the Old One was discouraged and slow but still determined. When almost home, the Young One pointed to a log that had been split in half. “Look. The snow has made the log whole again.”
“I will guide you. I will turn darkness into light before you and make the rough places smooth.” –Isaiah 42:16
Gleanings from December—Threshold of the New
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. –Edmund Waller
I crossed the threshold into the white-steepled Lutheran church. The old, traditional sanctuary was simply and beautifully decorated for Christmas. In the small narthex was my Grandfather’s casket—rich, golden-hued wood, not fancy, just lovely, with a lining that had sheaves of wheat imprinted on it, and I thought to myself, “How perfect.” My father’s father was a small man, a farmer, born in a sod house in the Dakota Territory in 1884, before South Dakota became a state. I was in my second year of college, and this was the first death of someone close to me. He had lived at home until two or three days before his death, had received communion from his pastor in those twilight hours of his life, and slipped away in peace. He was 93 years old. It was a funeral of celebration, the most peaceful and almost joyful funeral I have ever attended.
Nine years and two days after his death, I gave birth to our first daughter, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.
My sweet Grandma Irene died after a lengthy stay in a nursing home at the age of 94. She was a teacher and a farmer’s wife. She cared about people more than anyone I have ever known. She was a great cook, a dedicated artist, and had a wonderful laugh. The funeral was held in the Lutheran church where Chris and I were married, and it was joyfully decorated with a large tree, wreaths, and banners.
Twenty-one years before that day, I had given birth to our second daughter, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.
My Dad died a year and five days ago. He was a cowboy, mechanic, and builder. I found out about his death as I stood in our Minnesota home amidst the smell of the fir tree, the sparking lights, the greenery, and the nativity scenes.
Twenty-three years minus two days before his death, I gave birth to our son, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.
So…December. The last two weeks of December have always been beautiful, busy, bustling, and bright. As the years have passed, and the kids are gone from the nest and loved ones are gone from this earth, it has also been bittersweet. It is a time of transition, from the old year to the new—in birthday years and calendar years. December was a month of crazy weather transitions with snow, ice, rain, and bitter cold. Blue skies and frosty days painted the landscape with diamonds of ice crystals.
Twilight thresholds of a sundog sunset—like three suns setting…
…and a full-moon rising, nestled in the pine and spruce boughs.
A bright spot in December was the annual blooming of the Christmas cactus. My plant is a cutting from the very large, old Christmas cactus that belonged to my great-grandma Anna on my Mom’s side of the family. It was passed down to Anna’s daughter Edith, with cuttings to my Mom and then to me.
The winter birds returned to the feeders, their daily feeding times a joyous and energetic ritual—the epitome of living in the moment.
The end of a month, the end of a year, the beginning of a new month, the beginning of a new year. We’re standing on the threshold—looking back at the old in all its certainty, looking forward to the new with anticipation and wonder. Like those days of loss when the world would never be the same without our loved ones, and we looked forward with sorrow and trepidation. Like those glorious birth days, when our world turned upside down and we didn’t know what lay in store for us, but we looked forward with excitement, joy, and love. Nature offers us those threshold times every day with each twilight—the day coming to an end at dusk with the setting of the sun and a new day dawning as the sun rises. Seasons and years slowly and consistently transition, remaining steadfast as we cross the threshold marked by the calendar. The threads that tie the old with the new are many—the love of our families, the expression of our talents, the DNA that links us, and even the generations-old Christmas cactus that blooms each December. These threads give us the courage to step forward through the threshold with hope and determination. We can be like the feeding birds and show up in our present moment with joy and energy. The Latin word for threshold is ‘limen’, the root word for liminal space and liminality. David Guyor defines threshold or liminal space as ” the place or the experience where we are getting ourselves ready to move across the limits of what we were into what we are to be.” Sometimes those thresholds are thrust upon us and we are blindsided, and our recovery and action are slow and self-protecting; other times we stand at the threshold of our choosing with determination and power. Gather up the threads from the past that serve and sustain us and let them carry us across the liminal space into what we are to be. Happy New Year!
‘The Breath of the Buffalo in the Wintertime’
It’s been a year now since my Dad moved through his final days of life, receiving hospice care on Christmas Day and for two short days after that. I still have the notes I took each time I talked to him while he was in the hospital and rehab center. I still have his phone number under Dad in my cell phone, though no one’s there to answer. I still have the picture of him in my mind of how he looked when I saw him for the last time two months before he died. His hair and beard were white and long. The sharp pain of his passing has waned, and I find myself carrying gratitude for him, his life, and his stories.
One story he told about his childhood years was riding to the nearby town of Badger in the horse-drawn sleigh. Grandpa would harness and hitch up the horses, and then the whole family would pile into the sleigh and cover themselves with a big buffalo robe—the tanned hide of a buffalo with the hair left on it. Dad said it was the warmest blanket for traveling across the snow-covered prairie in an open sleigh.
We’ve been having a bit of a cold spell here in Minnesota over the past week or so—temperatures in the teens or single digits with wind chills up to 25 below zero, with last night’s actual temperature a frigid 25 below! January weather before the Winter Solstice. During this cold weather last Saturday, we visited a Christmas tree farm that offers horse-drawn sleigh rides (or wagon, if not enough snow) to see their buffalo. The big, black Percherons stood in front of the hitching post, patiently waiting for the next group of bundled sight-seers. We were not among the bundled, but the horses, the cold, and the buffalo reminded me of Dad’s story of winter prairie life.
One buffalo was standing his ground while the others grazed or ate hay. His moisture-laden breath wreathed his big head and froze on his muzzle like a great white beard.
“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of the buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.” –Crowfoot, Blackfoot warrior and orator
What is life? Would we even know without the pain and poignancy of death? Crowfoot reminds us that life is the little things that happen in our world—the flash of a firefly, the frozen breath of a buffalo, notes from a phone call, childhood stories, a sunset, and a hug good-bye. Christmas and other holidays feel different when our loved ones are no longer in our lives—through death or by choice. There are missing pieces that dampen the joy and celebration. And while the sharp pain subsides with time, the loss chills our hearts in small but real ways. So I cover myself with the buffalo robe of memories—it’s the warmest way for traversing this new path.
Spend Time at the Lake
Advice from a Loon
Spend time at the lake
Enjoy a good swim
Call your friends
A little color goes a long way
Surround yourself with beauty
Enjoy time alone
Dive into life!
–Ilan Shamir, Your True Nature
We were fortunate to spend time at the lake not long ago. Our friends Rick and Lynda called asking for the favor of a little bit of our time and muscle, and in return we got a delicious supper, wonderful company, and a beautiful evening with the Loons. As we pontooned from the dock, puffy white thunderheads were forming behind the trees.
We cruised along the shore where reeds and Yellow Pond Lilies grew and where the evening sun lit up the skeleton bones of an old fallen tree limb.
The lake and sky were calm, the temperature just right, as we floated along discussing the tornado that had torn a path through the trees by the lake a few weeks prior.
We enjoyed the beauty of the billowing clouds and the rippling reflections in the blue lake.
We saw the resident Loons gliding through the water. Minnesotans love their Loons, naming them the State Bird and emblazoning their image on countless souvenirs. They have distinctive black and white summer feathers and red eyes which help them see underwater. They have four distinct calls that are used to communicate–tremolo, wail, hoot, and yodel. (Listen here.)
Loons, unlike most birds, have solid bones to help them dive deeply into the water to search for food. They are amazing swimmers, torpedo-like when underwater as they chase and capture their favorite sunfish and perch. They can stay underwater for up to five minutes and will emerge far from their diving point.
Nests are built by the male and female in a quiet, protected area of reeds and grasses. Their legs are set far back on their bodies, making them awkward on land, so nests are situated very close to the water. One or two eggs are laid and incubated for 28-30 days. The chicks are ready to swim almost immediately and will ride on their parents’ backs to stay safe from turtles and fish. Loon parents and two chicks can eat about half a ton of fish over a 15-week period!
In September the adults travel to their winter homes along the southern Atlantic coast or Gulf of Mexico. The juveniles will gather together and fly to wintering grounds a month or so later. Loons need 100-600 feet of runway in order to take off from a lake, but once in the air, they can fly 75 miles per hour. The Loons of Goodners Lake were undisturbed by our boating close by them as they floated in the placid water.
As the Loons swam off into the brilliant sunset, we headed for the dock. With the water reflecting and amplifying the sunset sky, a little color does indeed go a long way.
Many of Minnesota’s ten thousand lakes are home to the uncommon beauty of the Common Loon. Their haunting calls, like a wolf’s howl, invoke a peaceful wildness in one’s soul. It is a privilege to spend time at the lake with friends, a privilege to witness so much beauty in such a short time and in one snapshot of space on this abundantly beautiful Earth. Take advice from a Loon–call your friends, spend time at the lake, surround yourself with beauty, and dive into life!
Gleanings from March–Spring Comes Gently
In a usual year, March is snowy and blustery, and most people wish away the remains of the piled up snow and freezing weather in the hope of Spring. But this March was different–we started the month with snowless ground and accumulated only an inch or two during a couple of flurried days. In between, we had above freezing temperatures with a record high of 58 degrees in the second week of the month–too warm! So this year, Spring comes gently and early to Central Minnesota.
The setting sun is shifting to the northwest, but we still had some spectacular evening skies outside our living room window this month.
On Easter morning, we awoke to a beautiful covering of snow with frigid blue-gray skies.
By afternoon the snow had melted, and Chris, my Mom and I hiked around the nearby County Park to check on the eagle nests.
One of the pair in each nest was laying on eggs–content and calm before the storm of activity that comes with the hatching of the hungry eaglets.
The trail around the eagle’s nest was winter bland until we saw bright red-twigged dogwood stems and fuzzy white flowers of pussy willows.
Along with the flowers of the large shrub-small tree pussy willow, there were numerous pine cone-looking objects at the end of branches. Willow Pine Cone Galls are formed when tiny fly-like gnats, called midge, lay their eggs in the swelling terminal buds. The larva secretes a substance that accelerates the growth of the would-be leaves into a mass of flattened scales that look like a pine cone. The larva produces its own anti-freeze, much like the Goldenrod Ball Gall larva, in order to survive the winter. The adult emerges from the gall in Spring.
Two days after Easter, I saw the first pair of returning bluebirds–such a lovely sign of Spring!
March is always a month of contrasts moving into Spring, and this year seemed to be all the more so. Record warmth and snowy mornings, winter bland and bright colors, nondescript skies and spectacular sunsets. And yet Spring makes its way regardless–Nature’s constant, gentle revival. My life this month seemed to mirror March–wonderful visits from family and difficult news, days of strength and days of weakness, calm gratitude and stormy unrest. And Life gently moves us forward–to learn from the galls, to see hope in new life, to appreciate a beautiful day and the flash of blue wings as Spring comes gently.
Monday marked the second anniversary of North Star Nature, and I wish to extend my gratitude and thanks to those of you who read and share my blog! A particular thank you for the thoughts, prayers, and comments after the death of my Dad–I very much appreciate your kindness.
Coming Home, Going Home
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.
Prayer Without Words *
Saturday morning was crisp–in a single-digit-degree-Fahrenheit kind of way. The winter birds were flitting and diving to the feeders, then to the snowy ground that was polka-dotted with the fallen black oil sunflower seeds. Chris had an NPR show on the radio, and I drank my exquisite Ely Gold tea. I’m notoriously bad about understanding song lyrics–or knowing who the artists are, for that matter. The music of a particular song caught my attention–it felt emotional and a little haunting to me. Then the words ‘prayer without words’ registered through my morning thoughts, and I felt a connection to the past days and weeks since my Dad’s death. It hadn’t even been two weeks yet–why did it feel like it had been much longer than that?
I used that amazing thing called the internet and instantly found the lyrics to the song considerably titled Prayer Without Words by Mary Gauthier. In spite of my ears hearing lyrics about bird’s high notes and shooting stars, I realized that she wrote about a much darker place than a father’s death. With a tad bit of gratitude that my darkness was because of a natural death after eighty years of living, I still turned the phrase ‘prayer without words’ over and over in my mind.
Here are a few of my prayers without words from the last couple of weeks.
Nature is praying all the time without a single word. Thank you, Creator, for the warmth on a cold winter day. Thanks for the bronzed sunlight that illuminates us at day’s end. Thank you, O Great One, for Light that penetrates the darkness. Thanks for the home in which we live and raise our offspring. And thank you, Wise Emmanuel, for the endings in our lives that give rise to our new beginnings.
*Prayer Without Words by Mary Gauthier from her Mercy Now album
The Last Sunset
My Dad is an enigma. He can be infuriatingly bigoted and yet childishly kind. He has always sworn a blue streak, which to this day makes me cringe when I hear bad words, but he has a tender spot for children and animals. He is stubborn, moody, and close-minded, yet he loves to read, learn new things, and watch the Discovery Channel. He’s had dark bouts of depression and loves to joke around and make people laugh.
He went into the hospital before Thanksgiving with pneumonia, which landed him in ICU on a respirator on the day for giving thanks. And like many times before in his life, he rallied–got off the respirator, out of ICU, and into rehab. But the rally was short-lived, and he felt like he was getting weaker instead of stronger. He was back in the hospital before Christmas. And from 800 miles away, all I could do was think of him, pray for him, and remember him.
On Christmas Day he was moved to hospice, and still, many times, I believed, I hoped he would get better. Sunday, after a very un-merry Christmas weekend, I stared out the large picture window in our living room. The cold, snowy sunset was soft and pastel–another beautiful end to the day!
As I worked on getting supper ready, the intensity of the colors caught my attention again–wow! So beautiful!
As I watched and took pictures, the colors deepened and intensified as the light of the sun disappeared below the horizon. Suddenly, I wondered if this was Dad leaving this earth in a blaze of glory. And with a feeling of peace and awe, I confirmed that this enigmatic man deserved such an amazing display.
The next morning I got the phone call that said my Daddy had died the evening before, taking his last breaths around the eleven o’clock hour. I was a little shook that my thoughts of the brilliant sunset were indeed true–it was his last sunset.
It’s only been a few days–I have nothing to do, yet I feel exhausted. It’s as if each half of my chromosomes in every cell of my body is struggling not to follow the source from which they came. I am a part of him, and he a part of me. And so it goes…
Gleanings from February 2015
When I started the gleanings posts last June, it was because I had an abundance of photos that didn’t fit into any particular post but still highlighted Nature’s treasures. In the short, cold, wintry month of February, I have slim pickings for gleanings photos!
February began with hardly any snow, and while we’ve had a few inches here and there, it has been the least snowy February in quite a while.
The upside to that is we could get out to do some winter hiking. It was great fun to see the eagles’ return to their nests and the almost daily sightings of them perched over the Sauk River near the bridge in town. Yesterday’s eagle update: it looks like both females are brooding their eggs! Ninety-eight percent of the time one parent, mostly the female, remains on the nest for the thirty-five days of incubation.
Purple finches usually come to the feeders in a group, like college kids flocking to the commons at suppertime. Unlike some of the other birds, they don’t seem to mind who dines with them.
An early February snow clung to the tree branches as the afternoon sun shone through the snow clouds and trees–a cathedral of color and light.
One brave parishioner was out before the snow stopped, wallowing in the glory of Winter.
A full moon was setting in the western sky one morning as I rose from my warm, flannel-covered bed. Good morning, Moon!
Clouds and color paint a nightly work of art as the sun says good-bye to another day. Good night, Sun!
Snow and cold and lack of subjects caused slim pickings for my February photos. It seems like February and the end of winter can get on a person’s last nerve–slim pickings of patience. It’s good to finally see the first day of Spring on the calendar as we turn to March. But oftentimes, there is a shortage of other things in our lives. Some literally have slim pickings of food before their paycheck comes again. Others have a shortage of good will for those around them. Some don’t have much love or friendship to brighten their days. What is lacking is our lives? And how can we help bring abundance to others? Let’s all wallow in the constancy of each day’s sun, the hope of new Spring life, and the glory and beauty of Nature.