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...]
The Goodness Takes Over
Have you ever not wanted a day to end? A day like riding horseback with good companions in warm sunshine? Like an amazing wedding day? Like a longed-for celebration after years of endeavor? Have you ever not wanted a time in your life to end? A time like the carefree college years? Like the close, nurturing time with a baby? Like the busy, fun, crazy days of kids’ high school activities? Have you ever not wanted a season to end?
I may be in the minority, but I don’t want Winter to end—not so early and not so quickly, that is. It’s been an easy Winter. After some early October snow, November and most of December were snow-free and relatively warm. We had a mild January with a few fits of snow here and there. Granted, we had one week of biting cold temperatures in February, and truth be told, it gave me hope that Winter (as I wanted it) was finally here. But the pendulum swung to the other extreme, and the melt was upon us. Temperatures burst above freezing, then crept into the 40’s—in early February, I exclaimed?! My Winter hope was revived with a snow last weekend, just one week ago today—a good four to five inches! Beautiful! I love how the snow hugs the trees.
I love the blue tree shadows on snow, both sun shadows and moon shadows. I love how the cold feels on my face, how the snow crunches under my boots, and how I can ‘track’ the animals that share this world with me.
But very soon the new snow settled and melded together with sunshine and above-freezing temperatures. Each day this week got warmer and warmer. Grass started showing around trees and by the edge of the road. Large patches of grass grew as the snow melted.
Yesterday the thermometer read 50 degrees—was I seeing things? But the evidence was there; there was no denying it.
Most people, I would guess, don’t want to let go of the hot, flip-flop days of Summer…or the blossom-laden, cool hope of Spring…or even the crisp, apple-picking days of Autumn. I meet those seasonal transitions with aplomb, so why am I so reluctant to give up Winter?
It’s like those days, those times, that we don’t want to end. Winter looks good, and more importantly, it feels good to me. There are twinges of regret that we didn’t do enough or even do the things we had planned in our heads. I had two more places where I definitely wanted to snowshoe this season! The good times slip away and often we don’t even realize it’s ending. But what is it exactly that we don’t want to let go of? I think it’s how those days and those times and those seasons make us feel alive. When we lose ourselves in the very moments we are living. When the temperature or the difficulty or the busyness is not even a thought in our head, let alone the headline of our day. When we love the people we are with and the activities we are doing. The Goodness takes over. The giddy, smiling, heart-full, satisfying Goodness that we are blessed to experience. I will feel my sadness as Winter slips away, but with Goodness are miracles. The melting snow uncovers and makes room for the miracles of Spring. Each of those days and times and seasons that we don’t want to end, fills us with Goodness for the next part of our journey towards our next heart-full day in our miraculous lives.
Stars of the Earth
The other night we walked home from a neighbor’s house in the late-night hour of eleven o’clock. It had been a deliciously fun evening with supper and a competitive card game with our friends. I was tired and ready for bed and could hardly believe Chris was still awake considering how early he rose that morning (and all mornings.) It was cold—around nine degrees—and clear. We walked like cats stalking a mouse on the icy patches—slow and sure-footed, ready for defensive action if our feet were to slip. Besides the few and far-between street lights, there was little light pollution, and the stars were absolutely brilliant! After our footing was more secure, I walked with my eyes to the sky which was a tad bit disorienting in the darkness, but the tired, late-hour time and nose-biting temperature discouraged us from stopping. There is something about a dark sky full of bright stars. Even while walking I noticed how far to the west Orion had slid in the late-Winter sky. The moon was just a sliver of light, a team-player allowing the others to shine. There is a great sense of calm when in the presence and awareness of the Universe.
Are not flowers the stars of the earth? –Clara Lucas Balfour
Winter is long in Minnesota even when it’s a normal year. Snow has covered the ground since before Thanksgiving, a fact that I love, actually. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. But even as much as I love cold and snow, as Winter wanes my mind wanders to Spring….and to flowers. There is something about the green earth full of bright flowers. There is something about having some bright flowers in the house in the midst of Winter and snow! For Valentine’s Day, Chris brought home a pot of mini-Daffodils.
And just as the yellow-gold blossoms had dried to paper-thin permanence, the grocery store displayed buckets of pretty pink Tulips with an eye-catching sale. I wrapped them in plastic and warm air to get them to the car and to the house in the cold.
I’ve been feeling the dichotomy of transitions—the excitement and looking forward to what is to come, right alongside the sadness and looking back at what was left behind. Whichever one is most dominant depends on the day. Nobody gets through a transition of any kind without this present day wrestling of feelings about the future and the past, though some are more aware of it than others. Sometimes it is only with hindsight and insight that we look back at a transition and realize just how difficult it was for us.But the wrestling is good—the work of it gets us to where we need to be. What helps in the meantime? A comfortable and relaxed evening with friends. A walk in the crisp, dark night under a symphony of stars. A bouquet of Earth’s stars that delights our senses and whispers hope and promise of the future. The calm of the Universe—the way it’s supposed to be.
Down the Road With Me
“An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.” –Henry David Thoreau
These past days have been the epitome of Summer—very warm, slightly humid, and sunny. But we are past full-on Summer; when we roll the calendar over to August, we see changes. The Ash trees have a tinge of yellow in places, Sumac and Poison Ivy leaves are turning red, Goldenrod is blooming gold, Crabgrass grows and goes to seed, and the noisy chatter of the House Wren no longer interrupts the sounds of the day. The mornings have been still—in movement and in sound. Into that stillness I walk with my pal Tamba—she limps now, groans when she lays down, has lumps and bumps, so I know that our twice-daily walks are numbered. Yet every morning she pulls herself up and eagerly heads down the road with me. I hear the low, melodic call of Mourning Doves, and instantly my mind transports me back to my Grandma and Grandpa’s farm. What amazing brains we have that we can time-travel when we hear or smell something! The stillness and humidity allow dew to form on everything during the cool night, and the morning sun freely transforms all into a treasure of shining gems.
The intense sunlight soon dries the dew, but the late summer flowers—Gray-headed Coneflower, Liatris, Sunflower, Purple Coneflower, and Allium—shine on in all their glory.
On the other end of the day, when dusk was settling around us, it was still quiet and calm. Tamba lay in the grass. We sat on the patio as the smokey sky turned the sun red. The setting sun streaked through the trees and shone on the rose-colored Joe Pye Weed and etched burning embers onto the live Oak trees.
Soon we heard noises in the woods—a Blue Jay was tapping on a branch with an occasional squawk. Then bigger noises—was it squirrels? It seemed too loud for squirrels. Then I saw a big tail in an Oak tree—a big, feathered tail. It was a turkey! Two mama Wild Turkeys and their chicks were flying from tree to tree. Wild Turkeys love acorns, and we wondered if they were eating the acorns from the trees since few have fallen to the ground yet. Like chickens, Wild Turkeys have a crop for storage of food and a gizzard where grinding of nuts and seeds occurs. When the mama flew to another tree, she and the chicks would cluck and chirp to one another and soon the little ones followed. At dusk, Turkeys fly up into trees to roost for the night for protection from predators like coyotes, foxes, skunks, and raccoons. Soon the turkeys in our trees settled down for the night. At dawn, they will fly down to the ground again to begin another day.
The sounds and sights of August, despite the heat and humidity, allude to the waning Summer and the upcoming Autumn. Summer in the North is indeed short and sweet. But Nature prepares us always for the transition. We are gathered up in the progression of time, seasons, and lives whether we are aware of it or not. Just as an early morning walk can tune us in to the blessings of a day, silent stillness can hone us in on those things in our lives that matter, that are important, that are the shining gems in our treasure box. One of those gems for me is a big, Black Lab dog who has walked with me for ten years now. Her transition time, our transition time, is nigh. Dusk is settling around us. And each day I am so very grateful to walk down the road with her, as we are, where we are, in all our glory.
Transitions of Spring and Life
One of the most poignant and difficult transitions in my life was moving from a household of five to gradually becoming a household of two again. It was much more difficult than transitioning from two to five. But it certainly followed the flow of Life, the reason for parenthood—to raise up offspring in loving care so they would become independent adults living their own lives.
Here in Central Minnesota, we are still in the Spring transition. Signs of the old—winter dormancy and fall foliage—still are apparent even as the new green grows up around the old. Most of the deciduous trees now have small, unfolding leaves, though still looking more bare than there. The Wild Plum tree is white with blossoms, small pink flowers buds are scattered on the Apple trees, and the Daffodils are blooming in their fragrant, cheery yellow beauty. Within a mile of our place are a number of small ponds and wetlands—some only hold water in the spring and dry up during the heat of summer. Others are large enough or fed by springs and creeks that they are the habitat for many different animals all year round. The first small pond had many cattails—old and new—and not much water. But it was home to a solo-singing frog who was later joined by two other voices as I stood nearby taking pictures.
The next body of water I walked by was a small lake populated by waterfowl, turtles, and muskrats. A pair of Canadian Geese swam together at the far side of the lake, dipping their heads into the shallow water, sometimes going bottoms-up in their search for food.
Like the bottoms-up goose, the Lily Pads uncurl by sticking up in the air before laying flat on the water’s surface.
A line-up of turtles were sunning themselves on a mud barge, happy for warmth after a winter of hibernating.
On the other side of the road from the lake was a small pond and wetlands where the new green grass was becoming dominant.
An old nest rested among the new leaves.
Pine-cone Willow galls, made last year, house pink, grubby larvae that pupate in the spring and hatch as adult gnats. The old cone ‘houses’ and the new lime green flowers and leaves are the epitome of this Spring transition.
Transitions are always a little tough, whether going from Winter to Spring or Autumn to Winter, from health to sickness or injury to healing, from a busy, vibrant household to a quieter, calmer environment or from a carefree, me-and-you life to baby makes three or four or more. With each transition of our lives, it’s good to take some time to appreciate the old way, to have gratitude for the things that served us well, and to learn from the difficulties that wrenched our hearts in sorrow or pain. Perhaps that is why Spring is slow in its unfurling. As the old way slips away, we make room for the new. We are happy for the warmth. We shed another layer of our childish ways to become more adult-like. We build a new nest. We join with other voices who know the song we’re singing. With peace and renewed energy, we merge once again with the flow of Life.