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Crossing the Threshold

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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?

Protected

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One of my most instinctual and intentional qualities of being a parent, as I’m sure is true for most parents, was to protect my children. To protect is to preserve from harm, safeguard, shield; to keep secure from injury, damage, exposure, and destruction. It was a daunting task, and one that seems to be even more so in this day and age. The issue of how we protect our own children, those we know and love, and the children in our communities at large is complicated and emotionally-charged. Add to that who should do the protecting and from what we are protecting them, and the issue gets more muddied, more challenging, and more divisive. It seems like a simple matter—keep kids safe—but it is not.

When reading about Myre–Big Island State Park near Albert Lea, Minnesota, I was struck with them mentioning how the Big Island was protected from fires that had previously swept through the area. Big Island is 120 acres of hardwood forest that sits in the middle of Albert Lea Lake. A narrow causeway connects it to the ‘mainland.’ It is protected by water on all sides. We hiked around the island on a warm, muggy day. Maple trees are the predominant hardwood on the island and offered deep shade with their large palmate leaves. The water was hard to see from the trail in most areas, since the young Maples crowded the shore for sunlight.

It was a beautiful island forest that had been home for humans for over 9,000 years. Not only was it protected from fires, but it provided a secure place for its inhabitants with food, water, shelter, and a moat of safety.

The large Maple and Basswood trees were accompanied by Ash, Red Oak, and Elm trees. Ironwood was the main understory tree. There were many interesting trees in all stages of development, from seedling to decaying. I noticed an Artist’s Conk, a perennial fungus that often grows from a wound on a living tree. The white underside of this bracket fungus is used by artists to etch a drawing into, leaving a sepia-colored work of art! (Google it!)

Woodpeckers, wind, lightening, old age, sunscald, and insects have all made their marks on the trees of Big Island.

The undergrowth was dominated by Gooseberry bushes that had been ‘pruned’ by the grazing deer, despite the fact they have protective spines or thorns on them. The deer eat the tender new growth that is more palatable. I was also amazed at how many Jack-in-the-Pulpit plants were growing under the Gooseberries—perhaps the thorny Gooseberries shield them from damage or offer a symbiotic relationship of some sort.

As we walked, the sky grew cloudier and darker, and the air was so thick with moisture that my camera had a hard time focusing. We cut our hike a little short because of the weather, and in switching paths, we saw five deer, including two spotted fawns. The vigilant does stamped their feet and watched us carefully as they protected their fawns.

Caretaking mothers of all species have an innate drive to protect their young ones—one only needs to spend time with animal parents to witness their fierceness. But their and our determination to protect our children, despite our best effort, sometimes fails. Our children get hurt, exploited, harmed, or damaged by accidents, by bullies, by ignorant cultural practices, or by dark forces that impel people to act in anti-social ways. We cannot become immune to the damage that befalls our children, and we should take every step possible to safeguard their lives. Every step possible.

Potential Flow

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I can feel my grief starting to soften. I think it comes from practice after years of enduring and moving through grief I thought I could not bear. Grief can be ice hard and immovable. It can build up in your heart, layer upon layer, as you realize all you have lost. When grief resides within you, it doesn’t leave much room for anything else. Time, tears, energy, and grace can begin to soften it.

It’s a fickle time of year. Last weekend’s warmth melted the majority of our snow, but cooler temps on Tuesday brought more snow and substantial wind chills. Thursday was a Spring-is-here day with warm sun, temps in the high 40’s, and those wonderful, wispy Spring clouds. I walked, or rather, slogged through slush at Mississippi River County Park. It takes longer to melt ice from the rivers and even longer from most of the lakes once the snow has disappeared. The River that was a road in the heart of Winter was now impassable by any means. It contained all states of aqua—ice, snow, slush, water, and vapor rising in the heat of the sun. It had all softened and some had melted, and in a few places, water was actually flowing.

The trail was snowy and slushy in most places with mud and standing water in others. It was slippery and sloshy walking, but man, did it feel good to be out there! The unveiled moss was the only hint of the lush green that was to come.

At the boat ramp, water pooled over ice along the bank, and dirty, gravely snow and sludgy water melted and trickled. Everything was still constrained, but the potential for flow could be felt and seen.

Across the River, Red-twigged Dogwood fired up the bank with color, and an immature Bald Eagle perched on a high branch.

The River observer saw me before I saw him. He was two or three years old, not solid brown like a juvenile yearling, but not yet ‘balded’ with white head feathers and a white tail. His beak was still brown, but the yellowing of it had started at his cheeks. I wondered if he was in some stage of molting since his wing feathers looked sparse and his mottled chest disheveled. He sat in a wreath of swelling leaf buds—another sign of the impending Spring.

A flurry of hoarse honks drew my attention farther down the River to a line-up of Canadian Geese on an ice edge. Most were sleeping with their heads tucked along their backs; some had one foot drawn up to their bodies—a supreme yoga balancing act.

Perhaps it is their tree pose of balance, calm, and strength—feeling rooted while dreaming of flying in the sky.

An unexpected death can knock a person off balance—as can an unexpected natural disaster, diagnosis, or war. The impact on our bodies and minds can be devastating, particularly for those who have experienced trauma in other forms or at other times. We have a natural, innate system to protect us at the time—fight, flight, or freeze—which way depends on our experiences, circumstances, and personalities. Grief tends to be the ‘aftershock’ of the traumatic or unexpected event and is often immobilizing, like a river of ice. It freezes our ability to function in an open-hearted way. It takes an extraordinary amount of energy just to process grief, so it’s no wonder the ‘normal’ things in life get neglected. But ice and grief can soften. It can get messy in the half and half stage. But pretty soon, there is a loosening, and there is movement over and under the hard places. Finally, the frozen grief is melted and integrated into the flow of our lives—not forgotten, but transformed to a new state. It helps to be an observer of our own selves and the process. It helps to remember what fires us up, warms us, opens us. And it helps to practice coming back to balance and calm in whatever way works, be it yoga, meditation, or qigong. We find our equilibrium again—like a tree—steadily rooted and reaching high into the sky.

The Golden Threads of Spider Town

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July is taking a long time. It’s only been three weeks since the 4th holiday, but it seems like so long ago—and we still have another week until we turn the calendar to August. I’ve always been curious about why time seems to move at different speeds. I do know that pain—physical or emotional—s-l-o-w-s d-o-w-n t-i-m-e. There is usually no endpoint in sight—if we knew the pain would end at such and such a time, our minds would be able to skim over the suffering with determination—‘Yep, I can do this.’ With no endpoint to hitch our hope to, our confidence takes a hit, our determination wanes, and time drags on. I’m pretty sure this is where addiction steps in to ‘manage’ the pain…and time. But time can also move slowly when we are waiting—waiting for baby to come, waiting to hear back from the doctor, or waiting for a long anticipated celebration or event. Good or bad, waiting slows time. How about when time goes fast? When one has too much to do within a certain amount of time—deadline crunches crunch time. Time goes fast when ‘spending time’ doing something we love to do or being in the presence of someone we love to be with—especially when that time is short. We want that feeling to continue, but time is fleeting. I do recall days, though they are few and far between, when time was perfect—neither too fast or too slow. Usually those days are busy, but not hurried, fun, but not manic, productive, but not intense, and usually those days are shared with someone I love.

So back to slow July. For me, heat and humidity are days to suffer through, and thankfully air conditioning (such a funny name, really) minimizes my suffering even as it contains me inside when I’d rather be outside. (As I stare longingly out the window…) Add to that a drought, and I just about can’t take it. The suffering of trees, crops, flowers, and garden plants is painful to see. Then, why is there so much drought…and fire…and water shortages…and on the other side, extreme rains…flooding…and excessive storms? We know the reason why. What are we waiting for in a-l-l t-h-i-s s-u-f-f-e-r-i-n-g?

We have a little oasis back in the trees where we have chairs, a fire ring, small table, and this summer, a tent for camping out in cool nights or reading in during breezy afternoons. In July, our oasis has been a desert of sorts. No fires. Match-like mats of bone-dry pine needles. Suffering trees, dying trees. But I go back there still. I found a random Lily growing under a Jack Pine. It provided food for hungry ants. Daisy Fleabane—little yellow-bottomed cups of frilly white petals—and Spotted Knapweed—lavender and purple spikes that curl into a knot when spent—still grew and flowered and provided food and beauty. (Though Knapweed is listed as an invasive, noxious weed.)

One evening when the sun was shining sideways into the trees, I noticed a whole spider-web town on the pine needle floor. Without the sun, I probably wouldn’t have noticed them. Each web-house was unique in size and construct of using sticks, pinecones, and needles to weave their webs around. There were dozens of them shining in the sunlight.

Each web contained a funnel where the Grass Spider could wait for any prey that happened to get too close. I had seen these webs before in the dewy grass of the lawn, but what struck me about these were the glistening colors of the gossamer webs. They were like mini-rainbows but random in their color sequencing. Strands of gold, copper, green, and orange. Hints of red, pink, and blue—like threads of gemstones. Beautiful houses of color!

One hot, dry, July evening, as darkness was falling over the trees, a doe and her mate grazed at the edge of the yard. His velvet-covered antlers were still growing—the ends were tender bulbs, not pointed tips. He had old scars on his shoulder and hip, wounds more likely from an encounter with a car than one with a fence. Survivor.

Just the other day, a walk through the trees showed the drooping, dismal dehydration of even the hardy Sumacs. Their vibrant red flowers had crumbled and dried into brown clumps—the viability of the seeds were desiccated away. The lower leaves had turned red and were withering into dry stalks. Aspen trees were in protection mode also, with leaves turning bright yellow and falling to the ground. Autumn in July.

When pain and suffering strike, we all go into protection mode, whether tree, shrub, spider, deer, or human. We conserve our resources. We hunker down in our self-made funnels. We lose our reserves. We react in erratic-seeming ways. Time slows to a c-r-a-w-l. But hope is an exquisite flower in a drought. It is the sun-dazzled home of a ‘lowly’ spider. Hope is the instinct and desire for a mate. And hope is a nighttime thunder storm that drops an inch of rain. Hope is also awareness. We have a lot to do in a certain amount of time to save our Earth from our own destructive ways. I will not be blind to the damage already done and what will be done before we turn this ship around. We are losing people who should not have died. We are losing bees, butterflies, birds, and trees to harmful practices. There is too much suffering among all species. We cannot survive if Nature doesn’t survive. So every day I find some hope in a flower, a tree, or a spider. Perfect time flows from love.

To Have and To Hold

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I’m breathing a sigh of relief. Fourteen months into this pandemic and Chris and I are vaccinated. I saw my Mom for Mother’s Day. The CDC is saying vaccinated people don’t have to wear masks. Venues and organizations are outlining plans to ‘return to normal!’ We survived a pandemic! Chris and I have also survived thirty-nine years of marriage as of this weekend. It doesn’t really sound very good to say the word ‘survive’ when speaking of your marriage, but it is the truth. When we said our vows, we had no idea what our future would hold—for better, for worse. The year of the pandemic was not the worst year of our marriage—in fact, there were lots of ‘betters’ sprinkled in among the oddities, losses, and unknowns of the ‘unprecedented’ pandemic. But we have navigated other unprecedented events in our years together that have fallen into the ‘worse’ category—things we couldn’t plan for, things that broke our hearts, things we could never imagine would happen—and it is those things that we have survived.

As a naïve young bride, I thought marriage would be simple—as simple as the name Spring Beauty for these delicate ephemeral flowers. To love and to cherish sounded simple to me, for I fiercely loved this man, and I was pretty good at cherishing things.

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What I didn’t know how to handle was the first time I realized that in this moment I hated him, which, as we learn, says much more about me than him. By that time, we had had over twenty-seven years together, so like the Leatherwood shrub, I learned to be more flexible, more forgiving, of him and of myself.

We discovered over time what side of the creek we were on—the Democrat married a Republican, the sports-lover married a sports-dare-I-say-hater, the horse-loving country girl hitched up with a city boy. But we also waded across the clear, cold creek to see and feel what it was like on the other side—he learned to ride horses, and I eventually learned to like football!

Sometimes things were a little murky. We kind of knew what was going on, but there were things we either didn’t know or we just didn’t have the mature skills to navigate with finesse. We bumbled through it. First-child parenting comes to mind. Okay, make that all-child parenting. All house buying and selling. All job changes. How many murky moments in thirty-nine years?!

We learned about perspectives. What’s real? What’s just a shadow? Which one is taking up the most space? The shadow of fear took up a ton of space in my life and darkened far too much of our relationship and my ‘being’ in the world. In sickness and in health. In shadow and in light.

There were mysteries unveiled of bodies and minds, of past and present, of life at large. God’s holy ordinance allows for mysteries, embraces them, and lifts them up for our participation and our wonder.

We learned to be rocks for one another. It always seemed like Chris was my rock, as I talked so much, cried so often, hurt so deeply, but over the years I realized how steady I was for him—in making a warm home, in explaining the science of things and the emotional aspects of relationships, and in always having topics to converse about. To have and to hold.

There have been so, so many bright spots in our life together, especially our three children. It is an honor to bring other human beings into the mysteries of life and relationships.

And yet, beauty and goodness can be caught in a tangle of rubble, unreachable and unpreachable. There are hard, messy things in life that are beyond our control. For richer, for poorer.

There are trees, and there are forests. There are details, and there are ‘big pictures.’ There is the here and now, and there is the future. We have learned who is the tree person—the detail person, and who is the forest person—the ‘big picture’ person. And we have learned the exceptions to the rule.

How long can one hide, and what is the reason for hiding? There’s almost always a reason, a very good reason. For a very long time the very good reason is often hidden from the person who is hiding. This riddle is the journey of our lives.

As young marrieds, we knew little of death. Then a puppy died, and another, and then a young dog, an old dog, many cats, my beloved horse. We chopped off heads of chickens to put in our freezer, butchered a pig we named and cared for. An infant nephew died, my dear friend, an uncle, an aunt, my Grandma, Chris’ parents, my Dad, Chris’ brother….We know about death now. It is a lesson that brings many lessons. Till death do us part.

There is spirit in marriage, there is science, and there is art. I think you need all three to make it thirty-nine years, to survive, to thrive, to become the person you are meant to be. Thereto I pledge thee my faith.

So, we have made it this far together. The fir-cone strewn path stretches on before us. We see the trees and the forest. We know precious new life and have walked with death. We respect the simplicities and complexities of life. We have experienced love and hate, fear and peace, sorrow and joy. We appreciate beauty and mystery. We go on. From this day forward.

Forest of Fame

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“All is ephemeral—fame and the famous as well.” –Marcus Aurelius

We should all be famous for something, I think. Perhaps it’s for a delicious potato salad, or a penchant for perfectly coifed hair, or a subtle, truth-telling sense of humor. Fame is one of those things in life that is bestowed by the audience, the onlookers, the admirers, the wishful want-to-be followers, or in this day and age, even the haters. The intrinsic nature of fame is attention from the outsiders.

The park we went to last weekend had a claim to fame that was mentioned on a website, the signage, and the map—the highest point in Wright County, Minnesota! Yep, all 1232 feet! Two official markers embedded in cement were in place beside the trail, one with an arrow that pointed to the other. We were confused if the 1956 was the altitude or the year, then realized the map said we were 1232 feet above sea level.

As we looked around from the highest point in Wright County, all we could see was trees—brown leaves and trees—brown leaves, blue skies, and trees. My fame fandom moment slipped away.

It was actually quite a beautiful forest of Oaks, Maples, and Basswood, even though the leaf buds were barely showing. At this time of year I appreciate seeing the topography of the land—the hills, lowlands, and gullies. One can get a sense of the ‘lay of the land’ when only gray trunks and brown leaves populate the landscape. And then we began to see signs of Spring—a glimpse of things to come that will change the landscape into a growing, vibrant, green oasis.

Mullein
Red Columbine
Bloodroot

It is startling to see a butterfly so early in the season, but the Mourning Cloak hibernates in hollow trees and logs during the Winter and comes out on warm days to feed on Oak tree sap. They are called “Harbingers of Spring!”

A decaying, uprooted tree looked like a work of art in the barren landscape. Nature teaches us that all stages of life and death are valuable and beautiful in their own unique ways.

We took a spur of the trail to an outlook and picnic area. Under the brilliant blue sky and fluffy clouds, we ate our picnic lunch and warmed ourselves in the sunshine—human butterflies perched on a picnic table.

We only saw a few people the whole time we were there, so we shared the woods with the trees and the Spring Peepers who serenaded us during most of our hike. It’s such a sweet sound!

They are cautious little Peepers, because when we finally got close to the lowland water where they lived and sang, they silenced themselves when they heard our voices!

We saw more woodland art on a boulder. I suspected the origin of the etchings were from a machine that blazed the trail, but that didn’t detract from the fact that it was interesting.

There were a few stands of Pines throughout the deciduous forest that rose in green to the blue sky. They whispered and sang in melodious concert, orchestrated by the wind.

Bloodroot flowers had been unfurling in small patches or singularly by warm trees all along the trail. They are amazingly pretty white flowers that bloom while still cloaked in the curled leaves that protect them from the cold. The sap from the plant is red-orange and has been used as a natural dye. The seeds of this early-blooming flower are spread by ants, Mother Nature’s tiny workers.

While Bloodroot is probably the first woodland flower to bloom, I was looking for other Spring ephemerals, too. About two-thirds of the way along the looped trail, I finally saw the gorgeous Sharp-lobed Hepatica bursting from the leaf litter! Like many other early-blooming flowers, Hepatica has fuzzy stems to protect them from cold nights and occasional snowy days.

On the woodland floor, the leaves of Hepatica are usually hidden under the old leaf litter, but beside the warmth of a large tree trunk that is flowing with sap, the flowers are displayed with old and new leaves.

Fame is something many aspire for, perhaps even more so in this YouTube/TikTok age, but many who have acquired fame lament how it impacted their lives. Albert Einstein said, “It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely.” Elvis Presley is quoted as saying, “Fame and fortune, how empty they can be.” When fame comes from the outside, whether that is from media coverage of George Floyd’s death or millions of followers on social media or the latest, greatest singer (both of which I have no idea who that is since I don’t follow things that way), the story is written by the outsiders. Imagine for yourself a life of fame from the inside.

“Fame for me is not external, it’s internal. So I’ve been famous for a long time.” –Lady Gaga

What are the origins of our internal fame? Our personalities, our God-given talents, our penchants and skills, and the qualities that were nurtured in childhood all add up to make each one of us an interesting and compelling person. We are each famous in our own unique way, no matter how many ‘fans’ we have. So we have to ‘own it,’ and I’m talking to myself here. The ‘famous’ highest point in the park was the least interesting thing about it! Look closely at yourself. Find your beauty. Listen to your subtle song. Appreciate your gifts. Claim your fame.

Come Hike With Me

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Leave behind your worries. Don’t think about the Corona virus. Put politics and the ugliness that is election season out of your mind. Take your time. Look closely. Let’s get present. Let’s get real. Come hike with me.

Superior National Forest encompasses nearly four million acres in the ‘arrowhead’ of Minnesota. On our trip up north, we hiked the Secret/Blackstone Hiking Trail. The nighttime rain had cleared away to blue skies. The air was crisp, the sun was warm, and breakfast of fire-toasted bagels was in our bellies. We were ready to go!

Bent reflections
Pink water plants, possibly Watershield
Beaver tree
Bunchberry Dogwood
Aspens, Paper Birches, and Evergreens
The best view
Lichens
Club moss
Wild Blueberries
Large-leaved Aster
Fern and Wild Rose
Harebell
Wild Blueberries turning color
Looks like Christmas
Maple leaves
The young ones waiting for the older ones to catch up
Close to the edge
Powder puff Lichens
Claw marks. I’m not the only one who slid down this steep part.
Club moss. Like tiny pine trees.
Red Oak
Ennis Lake
High up on the ridge
Lightning-struck White Cedar
Secret Lake
Marsh and creek from Blackstone Lake to Flash Lake
Lichens and moss
Ruffed Grouse
Burned area
Bear scat
Beaver lodge
Tall Pine who survived the fire
Blackstone Lake
Gray Jay
Aspens–one of the first to grow after a burn
Blackstone Lake
Back to the beginning

How do you feel? Three hours, more than four miles. Lots of lakes. Challenging rocky trails. Exquisite Nature! Breathe deeply. All is right with the world in this moment.

Rubbing Elbows with Trees

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The first time I mowed the grass at our new place was a little over three weeks ago. It takes awhile to get to know the lawn—how to mow in the most efficient way, where there may be roots sticking up that may impact the blades, which parts are weedy versus lush and long. I like mowing. It may be monotonous in a way, but it feels more like meditation to me—my body moves in habitual ways, the sun warms me, the breeze slides over my skin, and my mind can go wherever it needs to go. And then when I’m all finished, ‘the lawn looks good mowed,’ as Chris or I will say.

This place has many more evergreen trees to mow around than we’ve ever had, and it was not long before I realized that I was literally rubbing elbows with trees. As soon as that thought entered my mind, I affirmed that I was happy to rub elbows with trees! At this time of year, the new growth is soft and brightly-colored. The Green Spruces have opulent lime green extensions reaching out at various heights.

The distinguished Colorado Blue Spruces have light blue-green branches of tender new growth, like melt-in-your-mouth mints of candy confection.

Each time I mowed close to the trees, the lavish fragrance of a fresh-cut Christmas tree filled my nostrils.

A quad of Red Cedar trees grows close together, like school girls on the school yard with their arms linked, elbow to elbow—wealthy in friendship.

The prominent new growth of Spruces, Firs, and Pines is called ‘candles,’ which are most ‘candle-like’ on Pines. This once-a-year growth adds an abundance of new needles that unfold and harden off by early summer.

I love how the candles all point to the beautiful blue sky.

Rubbing elbows with eminent Oaks happens when they are young adolescents, when the branches are thin and pliable. The new, tender leaves are at the right height for grazing deer to munch on. If it happens early enough in the season, the tree will put out a new shoot of growth to ‘fill in’ where the deer removed the foliage.

Jack Pines are medium-sized conifers that often have crooked trunks and drooping lower branches. The pollen cones are rusty flowers that release a thick yellow pollen in late Spring, like gold drifting from the sky.

The small, hardy trees are well-adapted to fire. Their cones are ‘serotinous’—sealed with resin that requires high heat to open and liberate the seeds, most often with fire, but high air temperatures can open cones on low branches. One tree can be flush with many old, sealed cones with seeds that remain viable for years.

‘Rubbing elbows’ means to associate or socialize with someone—usually someone who is rich, famous, or special in a similar way. The President, who is most certainly all of the above, recently tweeted about some former cabinet members, “They all want to come back for a piece of the limelight.”

I prefer a piece of the sunlight that shines on us all, the wealth of blue sky for anyone who looks up, the abundance of beautiful trees affluent in life-giving oxygen. I want to rub elbows with creations that affirm life and liberty for all other creations of all sizes and colors. I want to link arms with living beings that are compelled to grow and change and whose trajectory is towards the light. Sometimes new growth and change come from the heat and passion and destruction of the old order, the ‘serotinous,’ unopened systems that protect the status quo. Public attention is widening. Illumination is happening. The new seeds are waiting.

A River of Trees

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It’s a topsy-turvy world right now—too much confusion and disorder—not only around the corona virus pandemic, which is overwhelming, to be sure, but in so many other ways. Some safely-isolated people wonder what all the fuss is about, while those on the ‘front lines,’ amid the illness and death, wonder how some people can be so cavalier. Certain states and populations are suffering with great numbers of death and job losses, while others are living their lives without much disruption at all. The political fighting is like a bad divorce—both sides think they’re right and blame the other for all the things gone wrong. Nobody wins.

In the midst of the chaos, as states were beginning to find their way to ‘opening,’ we quietly kept a heart-promise made when Chris’ brother died late last summer. We followed the Great River that flows near our house down to Cassville, Wisconsin, the tiny river town where Chris’ folks grew up and where the boys spent their summer vacations. A homecoming of sorts. We spent part of the day high above the Mississippi River at Nelson Dewey State Park. The park’s 756 acres were once part of Nelson Dewey’s large 2,000 acre agricultural estate. As a young man (age 35), he was elected as Wisconsin’s first governor when the state formed in 1848. But long before him, it was home to Native Americans. Two village sites and three groups of burial mounds have been found in the park. Holy ground.

Looking out over the Mississippi from the bluffs, I remarked it was like a river of trees. Long sandbar islands of trees with their newly sprouted leaves made for a topsy-turvy river. It was difficult to tell where the main channel flowed in the maze of water and trees.

We hiked along the bluff trail among Oak and Hickory trees. Wild Geraniums bloomed with their delicate lavender flowers.

We saw a surprise that may turn your stomach upside down—a very large Black Rat Snake! Chris had been thinking about snakes since this area has Timber Rattlesnakes (one of which he has the skin of from when he was a boy), and it was a perfect day for ‘sunning’ on the southwest-facing bluff. I wasn’t even thinking about snakes and was delighted to see such a beauty!

A restored prairie area along the bluff still had the fall remains of amber grasses and wildflower seedheads…

…though one prairie hilltop pushed aside the old for a new Spring sweep of Bird’s Foot Violets.

What’s in a name? Among the Bird’s Foot Violets were bright Hoary Puccoons.

From the hilltop prairie we veered away from the River…

and followed the old stone wall that had been built in the 1860’s around the Stonefield farm that Dewey planned and moved his family to in 1868.

Limestone outcroppings looked out over the deep valley of forest and River. Tough, windswept Cedar trees grew on the points…

and exquisite flowers clung to the rock edges and burst into bloom from a bed of stone.

Shooting Stars
Wild Columbines

An old Cedar, overlooking the River, looked like a Bonsai tree—it had been trimmed and pruned, bent and stunted, by the wind and weather over the decades. The stories it could tell.

A tree we don’t see in the wild as far north as we live, was in full bloom—the gorgeous Redbud tree. Spring is synonymous with Redbud trees for Chris—another homecoming of sorts for his tree-loving soul.

Going to Cassville for the weekend was a reminder that the topsy-turvy time we find ourselves in is nothing new or special. The history of the place tells the stories. Governor Dewey and his family lived on a spectacular farm overlooking the Great Mississippi River. But disaster struck in 1873 when their house burned down and later that year a nationwide financial panic affected his investments, and he lost Stonefield in 1878 to foreclosure. He also lost his marriage during those years. On a more personal note, when we looked at the graves of Chris’ Mom and Dad, we realized they were toddlers when the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic interrupted the lives of Americans and the world. Their families had weathered the pandemic with small children and much more primitive ways of living. The Veterans Memorial reminded us of all the men and women who had fought in wars over the centuries, many losing their lives by doing so. Chris’ Dad’s name carved in the black granite is a lasting memory of the sacrifices he and others endured to protect the world from the evils of fascism. And mostly we were reminded, as we close in on the incredible milestone of 100,000 deaths from Covid-19, that every death is personal and ripples out in waves to a myriad of people who were touched by that one, special person. Grief is as deep and wide and long as the Mississippi River. If I were to wish upon a shooting star, I would wish for each of us in this upside-down world to be a tree in this river of grief—to have strong roots embedded in holy ground, to have strong branches to hold the pain of others as it bends and stunts their lives, and to have a new growth of leaves that hold hope and renewal as a way forward. To be a homecoming of sorts.

Recalibrating From the Old to the New

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Out with the old, in with the new. It’s literally true when it comes to time—2019 ended and was out of here at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. The new year had arrived. Some people live their lives with that mantra in a myriad of ways—old clothes out, new clothes in; old furniture out, new furniture in; old relationships out, new relationships in. But what happens when the old things don’t go out before the new things come in—or more importantly, what happens when a person moves on to the new thing without processing the old? An easy example is the mail—the new mail comes in to that place on the cupboard or table. Organized people process the mail—junk goes in the trash can or recycling, bills go on the desk, magazines go on the coffee table where they will be seen and read, etc. Not-so-organized people soon get a pile where things get buried at the bottom, bills can get lost until past the due date, and magazines don’t get read.

I know about piles. (I’m organized about certain things and not-so about others.) I know about getting rid of the old (and keeping it), and I’m not that enticed with the newest, shiniest ‘new’ thing. Time (and maybe mail) is the only consistent flow of old and new in my life. But when the old year ended, we did something big—we moved from our old home. When the new year began, the new decade began, we were living in a new place. We didn’t time it that way, but it happened that way. The pull of ideas started long ago—those questions: what would it be like if…, I wonder if that would work…, how would it feel if we did this…? Questions can be ignored, especially if they make a person uncomfortable. But Life can get more insistent. So I started to de-clutter—we needed to do it anyway, I reasoned. I read Marie Kondo’s book—does it bring me joy? Don’t forget to thank the things that had served me well. Ugh. I wasn’t very good at it. I was nostalgic about so many things—about all the art projects the kids and I had done together when they and their curious, creative, beautiful minds had brought me so much joy during my stay-at-home years, about the papers and projects and awards they earned during their school years as they grew into these amazing people, and about all the work I had done in grad school—boxes and boxes of research articles I had read, papers I had written, and data I had gathered. The Old was staring me in the face after being tucked away in boxes since our last move. Paralyzing.

There is a ton of research out there about why our brains and bodies react as they do. Being ‘paralyzed’ comes from the ‘freeze’ aspect of ‘fight, flight, or freeze’ in the trauma response—we all (including most animals) tend to react primarily by one of those aspects when something seems overwhelming to us. But what to do with that…. I was fortunate to have some important people around me who could help me look at the big, paralyzing Old stuff in a different way. But it wasn’t easy. I balked. I cried. I resisted. I rationalized. With time and grace, understanding and encouragement from those around me, I was able to look at the Old stuff, determine what it represented to me, accept that those qualities and memories existed even without the stuff, and let it go. As the move materialized, I ran out of time to process it all, and I was determined to do more of that work once we moved.

There was another aspect of the move that needed processing—leaving all the beautiful trees and perennials that we had planted. I had the urge to take pictures of each specific one, bragging about how big it had grown, how beautiful its branches were…and I even started to do so…

Each one had a story and a timeline and a beautiful quality and an imperfection—and we loved them—and there were hundreds of them that we had planted after all the work of removing the horrible Buckthorn. With Chris’ expertise and love of growing trees and perennials, with his hard and dedicated work with the Buckthorn puller, and with my patience and tenacity for pulling weeds, we had created an oasis among the Oaks. Did I mention how much we loved them? Yet under the arc of time, that flow of old to new, year after year, we were reminded that we had done this before. We had cleared and planted and weeded and pruned and created four beautiful places in three different states in our life together. It’s what we do, it’s a big part of who we are. I also realized that I have told the stories and shared the photos of our amazing plant family over the last six years with this blog. You have shared in our love of this great, green Earth.

A friend of mine has a book that I read cover to cover when I was in the midst of confronting the Old —Ten Poems to Say Goodbye by Roger Housden. Housden wrote about poet Jack Gilbert and his love for Santorini, Greece—“Santorini as Gilbert knew it entered not only his eyes but his sinews, his very cells, like anything we have loved. It is alive in him still, not just in memory, but in his being…” Chris and I carry our Old places—the trees and plants, the houses, the people we have loved—in our cells and sinews, in our very being.