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...]
Crossing the Threshold
There are many times in our lives we encounter a threshold where time seems to slow down with the weightiness of our next step. We become aware of all that has transpired in the past, and depending on the facts and our mindset, it may be tinged with negative feelings or with feelings so positive we are reluctant to leave it behind. And yet, the unknown landscape before us is calling our name in whispers both alluring and compelling. We are standing at the point of no return. No matter how comfortable or beautiful or sad the past has been, there is no going back—we must take that step, cross the threshold, and continue forward.
I am the worst when standing on the threshold. I can barely bring myself to leave the comfort I have grown into and around, so thoroughly enmeshed in the steadiness I have built into my past. I can be looking forward to the next adventure with excitement—whether school or a new place to live—and still I have a knot in my stomach, tears in my eyes, and fingers clenched on the door jamb in a dare to time and loved ones to move me forward. I fail miserably at adaptability.
I usually argue with Mother Nature at this time of year as the warmer temperatures of Spring start to melt Winter’s beautiful snow. I don’t want to see it go. I adore the ‘snow light’ that permeates the house. I love the crisp crunch when walking on the miraculous crystals. The cold feels so good on my face and body. But this last week, I have (mostly) graciously conceded to time (it has been five months with snow on the ground), temperatures (how can it be 78 degrees?), and my loved ones (who can’t wait for warmer days and green grass.) Mother Nature has shoved us through the threshold into Spring!
On Easter Monday Chris and I hiked our last snow hike of the season at Greenleaf Lake State Recreation Area. The tracks on the slushy ice of the lake were vestiges of ice-fishing capades. There is no going back there this season.
Old cattails with bulgy, lightened seedheads were ripe for dispersal of the fluffy seeds. Soon they will fly away to their new homes to make new plants in the cycle and circle of life.
The trail was a combination of sunshiny bare ground and soft, sinky snow where the warm temps had released the solid structure of the frozen molecules.
The Red Oaks and Ironwoods were liberating the old leaves they had carried all Winter, and the beautiful amber color of them was littered along the wooded trail. The beautiful Spring-is-here litter in the dirty snow!
We saw trees in all states—fallen soldiers who now protect a waterway from erosion, a decaying tree that gives a focused vision of the lake, a towering Oak with the power of the sun behind it activating the bud-popping sap, and the bark-stripped, weathered wood of a standing piece of art.
There were trees stuck in the ice, leaning or fallen into the lake but still alive, connected to roots, and getting ready to grow in their unorthodox positions.
Long-fallen trees in the midst of decay sported colorful little shelf mushrooms, along with lichens and moss. There was life among the death.
The spiny caterpillar-like stem of a gooseberry branch will be one of the first to open green buds beside the sharp thorns.
And the vibrant scarlet stems of Red-twigged Dogwoods are setting their pointy-leaved buds on the threshold of Spring.
A holey tree with a halo of golden Ironwood leaves has seen many decades of the past and has fewer years of life before it. It is probably gripping the threshold with roots and branches, too. How does one leave such a beautiful, holy life?
But then I spot a constellation of stars in an old Oak leaf in the dirty snow. Water and sunlight, in just the right way, created a new cosmic entity! There is so much in the world that we don’t see and don’t comprehend. We are like tiny new buds in the timeline of our ancient world.
Mother Nature gave me a reprieve today on my threshold of Spring. We woke up to white and will have six inches by the end of the day. But it will most likely be gone again tomorrow. There’s no going back—Spring is here. There is always life of a new season after the death of an old one. The threshold time is a pause for looking back, for gathering the good that gave our hearts comfort and joy, but also for listening to the siren calls of our souls that entice us onward. What whispers do you hear? What constellation of stars do you see?
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!