waterfowl Archives - NorthStarNature

The Motion of Balance

May 7, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Balance. It’s one of those things we are constantly striving for in all aspects of our lives, whether we are aware of it or not. Our physiology is perfectly attuned to balance or homeostasis, always adjusting on the cellular and systemic level to bring our bodies ‘back in balance.’ We know the physical act of balancing (like standing on one foot) is good for our brains, muscle strength, coordination, and stability, and is linked to a longer life. Most of us aspire to a more optimal work–life balance, active–sleep balance, and doing for others–doing for ourselves balance. Our lives are really a great balancing act!

In Minnesota this year (and most), the seasonal scales are tipped towards Winter. We’ve had snow on the ground for over five months. To be fair, late Autumn and early Spring are also the owners of below freezing temps and snowflakes, though most just call that Winter. Where there is balance, there is also a continuum. Two weeks ago, we hiked at Sibley State Park on a trail we hadn’t been on before. We began on the short Pondview Trail, circling a shallow lake, wetland, and clearing. In the middle of the pond was a fresh mound of wetland vegetation with a Canada Goose standing on one leg on top of it. His neck was twisted over his back, and his bill was tucked under his wing. He stood that way for longer than we hiked around the pond, and I marveled at his balance. Herons, shorebirds, ducks, geese, gulls, and even some hawks stand on one leg at times. It is thought to be for thermoregulation—to prevent the loss of body heat from the unfeathered legs. Yet that doesn’t explain why flamingos, who live in warm climates, are often posed on one leg, but scientists speculate they can conserve energy with that stance.

Other waterfowl were more energized by the sunlight and warmer temps—a pair of Wood ducks swam along the reeds, then flew away from the intruding hikers. A pair of Mallards cared little for who was circling their pond as they were busy feeding in a constant bob of bottoms up.

As we left the wetland area, we began to see the primary trees that inhabited this woodland—tall, stately Cedars and spreading Oaks, along with scatters of Aspens on the sunny fringes. We walked in honor of Arbor Day that would be celebrated later that week. We walked as tree-lovers, tree-planters, tree-caretakers. Chris is nearing fifty years of working with trees as his career!

As we walked farther into the forest, snow still covered the trail in places. Turkey tracks looked like arrows pointing us in the opposite direction in which they walked. Coming and going. Back and forth. The motion of balance.

We passed by an old Cedar with branches flowing down to the ground. On such an old tree, the lower branches often die back with lack of sunlight. Its sturdy trunk with flared roots as large as legs and its drooping branches created a shelter of sorts that I’m sure was used by some critters during the long, snowy Winter.

We spotted an old rock foundation in the woods and followed a well-marked! deer trail to an old homestead, complete with the rocky remains of a cellar. The forest was reclaiming what once ‘belonged’ to man.

Much later down the trail, we saw where an old Oak had literally claimed an enamel vestige of the homestead.

The trail was a wonderful combination of sunny Oak stands and shadowy, snowy Cedar stands. It is a bit unusual to see such large Cedars as a significant portion of a forest. Unusual and wonderful.

Two bright spots on the hike were a yellow, lichen-covered stick and a Snowy Egret perched in the dried reeds of the wetland.

And towards the end of the trail was a moss-marked tree that resolutely confirmed our tree-loving hike!

Walking among the trees, those great, grounded, balanced beings, is an act of balance, a balancing act(ion). There is motion in balance—one way, then the other. We usually know when we or thee are too far to one side—when things are out-of-whack. It takes considerable energy to maintain such an unnatural stance, and the cost to the organism or system is great. A balancing act can be a move (how about ‘tree pose’ or ‘flamingo pose’?), a behavior (like a hike in the forest), service (to people or our Earth), work (oh-so-many kinds), or pretend (our imaginative, fun side). It takes time and energy to ‘right’ ourselves, but once a more natural balance is achieved, life is easier again. We are ‘in the flow’ of life. The motion of our balance is measured and easy, like a tree swaying in the breeze.

Portraits of Hope

April 24, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Hope is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops at all- —Emily Dickinson

I usually love Earth Day. We all have so much to be thankful for living on this good, green earth. Sharing the beauty and goodness of the flora and fauna that surrounds us and sustains us is a great pleasure of mine. But I’m not feeling much hope this year—when the western half of the United States is in a continuing drought, short on moisture and water, and battling wildfires at all times of the year. Such loss and destruction. When the evil of an unprovoked war is tearing apart a country and killing thousands and thousands of innocent people. Extreme loss and destruction. When ‘mysterious’ illnesses and causes are wreaking havoc on our bee and insect populations, and more recently, on people’s health. Who is benefiting from such harm? It is overwhelming. It makes my small contributions to science, goodness, and beauty seem fruitless.

I gathered words and pictures from magazines at the New Year to make a 2022 vision board, and on it I placed a picture of a pure white feather with Emily Dickinson’s first line from her famous poem: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” I feel like I need it more now than even in January when I was hoping the pandemic would finally abate.

And then, things with feathers kept showing up for me this week—when I was looking out the window while eating breakfast at home and during a short, quiet walk at Saint John’s Arboretum. The corner of the house roof was a ‘cooing perch’ for a male Mourning Dove—his throat would puff out, stretching the ruff of feathers, and the calm, lonely coo escaped from his body without opening his bill, without any words. Most surprising was the patch of pastel iridescent feathers that were displayed when his throat was ballooned with air—a handsome fellow with a peaceful song.

Cardinals are so expressive with their crest of red feathers. Carotenoids from fruit and insects are responsible for the red pigment. Often during Winter or after molting, their back feathers turn a gray color until the richness of Spring when they change to brilliant crimson.

The ice was gone from the lakes at Saint John’s Arboretum, and an immature Loon swam all by himself in the big lake. His head feathers were transitioning to the shiny black of adults, and his eyes were still black instead of red. Pretty feathers of hope.

On one side of the boardwalk through the marsh swam a protective male Canadian Goose. His watchful eye and wary honks let me know that he was not going to go far from his companion.

She was on the other side of the boardwalk, peeking over the rushes. I’m sure their nest was not far away.

A nesting pair of Trumpeter Swans was hiding in the cattail rushes, almost unseen.

Feathers were everywhere. Portraits of hope. My Earth Day sadness is still clinging to me, and I don’t see a pathway to change with all the turmoil, disdain, and division in the world. But if hope is the thing with feathers, my soul has been reminded of that with abundance this week. With each bird I see or feather I find, I will be reminded of hope. With each song or coo I hear, I will remember to have faith. With each pair of loyal companions making a new nest for a new family, I will observe love. Mother Nature’s hope, faith, and love never stops at all.

A Great Wind is Blowing

April 17, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Time and the wind never leave anything alone. –Marty Rubin

There was no ignoring the wind. No ‘cooling breeze’ upside could be proclaimed, for the weather wasn’t warm and snow was coming down…sideways. We tried to time our trip to South Dakota for when the morning temp nudged above freezing and before the wind was at its worst, but it picked up speed the farther west we drove as the snow piled up alongside the road in places. And that was just day one of the gusty tempest. Night and day it continued, leaving nothing alone.

If anyone questions the value of trees planted in a ‘windbreak’ or ‘shelter belt’ around a home or for livestock, these were days that proved their worth without a shadow of a doubt. When I walked beyond the trees, the wind literally took my breath away, and I could not speak. By the third day, the bluster had diminished a bit, and we drove around Oakwood Lakes to see the waterfowl. The geese and ducks on the water were like surfers, bobbing up and down on the whitecap waves, giving in to the power of the wind and water.

Some flew against the wind for short stints, perhaps to find a more welcoming environment that didn’t consume so much of their energy.

Others had their feet firmly on the ground with a bank or rocks that helped to block the terrific wind.

There was a menagerie of waterfowl coexisting against the elements and with the elements—the wind their adversary, the water their foundation. It was wonderful to see Canvasback ducks with their beautiful red heads, sloping black bills, and shining white backs. They intermingled with others in a pileup against the shore—their heads tucked down in rest mode with some relief against the wind.

A dark slash of a wind tide in a shallow pasture puddle drew a line across the newly-melted snow and ice.

I was hoping to see some Pelicans, and my Mom noticed some of the big birds as we drove by another section of the lake. We walked along a grass road, the cold wind hitting us in the face and wobbling our cameras with every attempt to capture the peculiar and lovely birds. A bank of snow and a tangle of tumbleweeds gave the pair a bit of respite from the wind, even as they bounced around on the waves.

When I got too close, they took off to put more distance between us. Their black-tipped wings, mostly hidden in their swimming position, were in stark contrast to the alabaster white of the rest of their feathers. Their orange bills and dark orange feet completed their dazzling ensemble (the whole of what they are).

A pair of Great Blue Herons flew into a cove and farther up the shore stood another solitary fellow, his long legs and neck braced against the wind, his feathers flattened and fluttering.

The wind doesn’t leave the leafless Oak tree alone either—it will prune any dead or dying branches with a snap of its power. But the strong, hard wood of the Oak tree and the deep, expansive roots offer the best resilience to the bullying, beating wind.

Time and the wind never leave us alone, even as we wish for it to do so. How can we be halfway through the fourth month of the ‘new’ year already? Who else has ‘lost’ time to the pandemic years? Time and the wind itself aren’t the culprits—it is what they do to us and how we handle them. Too little time? Too much wind? I think all of us have experienced both. So how do we navigate the power of time and the wind? I think both require us to maintain a strong foundation, whether that be faith, intention, self-awareness, gratefulness, or physical protection (or likely all of them and more.) Catherine the Great proclaimed, “A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.” In my experience, it gives you both. It can be hurtful, harmful, harrowing, and take your breath away, and it can spark imagination, ideas, and new directions. We can’t outrun or outfly the bullying wind or the restless time, but we can accept its power, brace ourselves with resilience, and surf the ups and downs in our own lovely, dazzling ensembles.

No One is Exempt

May 3, 2020 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

There is a collective suffering in the world right now. We can’t ignore it like we have conveniently done in the past—when the suffering didn’t affect us or threaten us or kill us or shut down our businesses or make us lose our jobs or change the way we lived our lives. But now…now all of those things are possible or happening. No one is exempt. Some are better off than others, but no one is exempt.

Suffering is personal, even as we do this together as a world. It hurts our bodies, our spirits, our resolve, our bank accounts, our hearts. In the throes of our personal suffering, we slip into survival mode—we become less social, more focused on ourselves. We may lash out at those around us—the very ones we love and adore who are standing up in the shaky boat with us. Or we may project our pain and suffering onto ‘them,’ the ‘others’—the ones making the ‘rules’ to try to keep us from dying, the media who are informing us, our neighbors who aren’t following the ‘rules,’ the ones who think, act, look, or believe differently than we do. ‘They’ are to blame for the pain.

Personal suffering feels like living all alone in a hermit hut in the wilderness—and the roof leaks when it rains—and the cold wind blows in through the cracks—and there’s barely room to lay down—and the food is scarce—and there are creatures lurking about outside and inside the tiny hut….

…and looking out, the world looks bleak and bare.

Chris and I hiked at Saint John’s Arboretum last weekend. We were not very far into our walk before I saw a sight that made my heart so happy—a cluster of Pasque flowers! Lavender sepals with delicate stripes, bright yellow stamens, soft, fuzzy stems to insulate them from the still-cold nights. Pasque flowers are the first prairie flowers to bloom; they signal the end of Winter, as they can bloom surrounded by snow. They are a sign of Spring and hope. (The word Pasque is derived from the Hebrew word for Passover.) So lovely!

Yellow and red-twigged Willows with yellow-flowering catkins burst into life around the lakes.

Red-winged blackbirds sang their joyous melody from their precarious perches on old Cattail stems.

Another early-blooming grassland plant is Prairie Smoke. I scarcely caught sight of the pinkish-red flower buds in the old and new growth of the prairie grasses.

The waterfowl birds were in the predictable, peaceful process of nest-building, mating, and raising a family. The seasonable cycle, the circle of Life. New life among the remains of last season’s life.

Trees at the Arboretum had just begun to bloom—the pinkish-red cloud of Maple tree blossoms…

…and the delicate yellow blooms on my favorite flexible little tree, Leatherwood!

No matter the length or harshness of Winter, when the warming sun of early Spring hits the bare, leaf-covered ground in the forest, the Spring Ephemerals burst into bloom! They grow, flower, and fade away quickly, but they are an important part of the ecosystem being the first food for pollinators.

Life was coming to life again after a cold, seemingly lifeless Winter. It is the way of Mother Nature. The bleak and bare world was an illusion—the life force was hidden for a while, resting, quiet, gathering nutrients and strength, preparing itself for the growth and renewal of Spring.

Mother Nature brokers in miracles.

An acorn germinating to become an Oak tree

What if no one was to blame for the pain and suffering of this virus? Not China or Trump or Democrats or Republicans or immigrants or Pelosi or that woman governor or fill-in-the-blank. That’s not to say that no one has responsibility or that no one has made mistakes or even that no one hasn’t purposely tried to injure or subject another group of people to hardship. In leadership there is accountability, responsibility, and consequences. Blame is a useless act of projection based on trying to get rid of our own very real pain. Suffering is the illusion of a bleak and bare world. It is the winter of our lives. It is living in a hermit hut and hating every minute of our existence. It is lashing out at those we love and those we oppose. What if pain and suffering are actually harnessing our virtuous qualities to pull us away from the perils in the old life? What if we are resting, a needed rest, in order to burst into new growth? What if right beyond our suffering is a blooming, melodious, life-creating world? Nature is the harbinger of miracles. No one is exempt from the Grace.

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