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Puzzling Places

June 18, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I appreciate our brain’s ability to ‘fill in the blanks.’ In any given situation, our brain has a puzzle of sorts before it—some pieces are the sensory information our body gathers on an ongoing basis—what we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, the temperature on our skin, the ground under our feet, and so many other things we are not aware of in the moment. Other pieces are the actual facts—the day, the time, the place, who is with us, what is happening. Most of this puzzle-piece-gathering happens in an instant of time and often without our conscious awareness. But then there’s a dilemma for our brain—the picture is not complete. Some things are missing. In a desire for order and wholeness, our brains ‘fill in the blanks.’ We use our past experiences and/or our imaginations to extrapolate the rest of the picture—and it feels better, more satisfactory. It’s a remarkable ability that allows us to function in a productive way, so we don’t have to ‘re-learn’ everything in any given situation. It can also get us into trouble when the puzzle pieces we have inserted look like they fit but are really the wrong pieces.

Going to Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in the southeastern corner of Minnesota challenged many of my Minnesota optics—the land of 10,000 lakes vs. an area with no lakes, a glacial state vs. the ‘driftless’ area that is devoid of the sand, gravel, and silt (called drift) deposited by the last glaciers. It is an area like no other in the state, and at first, it’s a little mind-bending. One of the mind-bending occurrences was the disappearing river that we learned about on our Mystery Cave tour. The South Branch Root River disappears into the cave which is at a constant, year-round temperature of 48 degrees, and is cooled by its journey underground. That is why 700 miles of streams and rivers in this area are designated cold water trout streams. The landscape here is known as ‘karst’ where limestone and other soluble rocks have eroded to form sinkholes, springs, underground rivers, and caves.

Mystery Cave is the longest known cave in Minnesota—over thirteen miles of underground passageways. Ours was the one hour tour that is accessible to most, but there are two and four hour tours that include much more rugged terrain and smaller pathways that require crawling. The cave is home to hibernating bats in the winter (they have a special door to get in and out) and is an actively forming cave with dripping water from above and pools and streams of water below the walkways. Come explore the cave with me!

A hole in the ceiling formed by upward flowing water

At one point in the tour, the guide turned off all the lights, and we were in total darkness. Our brains are not used to functioning in complete darkness, and some people still ‘see’ light. Our brains are ‘filling in the blanks’ again. The cave tour was such a cool, interesting part of our day. Later that night, after supper, when sitting around the campfire, a sliver of a moon shone in the western sky. We began to hear noises down by the dumpsters—the lids opening and banging closed. What could it be? It wasn’t people. I walked down the path to see who was doing the dumpster diving.

A truly tubby raccoon was climbing in and carrying out leftover food to eat on the top of the dumpster. He was not concerned when he saw me but returned to his supper routine.

The evening air was still, the campfire smelled of clean-burning wood, the trees were silhouetted against the still-light sky. It was a peaceful, restorative place.

The next morning, we drove to the little 1850’s village of Forestville at the northern end of the park. It was a ‘forgotten’ town when the railroad bypassed it, and eventually one man bought the whole town. A tour bus of people were gathering for a historic visit. Chris and I took to the trails that rose from the South Branch Root River up the forested bluff. Oak and Maple trees shaded the forest floor that was covered with ferns, Wild Geraniums, and Mayapples with an occasional red-pink Columbine. It was beautiful!

An overlook at the top of the bluff looked out at another bluff. This area of wooded hills and valleys seemed like a different world than central Minnesota—it was a confirmation of the splendid diversity of landscapes all encompassed in one state.

As I looked over at the next bluff, I noticed a stream flowing through the trees—it seemed so unlikely that a stream could be flowing so far up on a hill! But the karst region is a tangle of streams that begin from springs that flow through the underground rocks and defy the usual flow of water, just like the upward flow of water etched a hole in the ceiling of the cave. My brain’s ‘filling in the blanks’ of how things are, how things work was wrong in a place like this.

Our brains do what they do to expediate processing—we use what we have learned in the past to figure out what is going on in the present. But just like working on a real puzzle, when we have put a wrong piece in place, we eventually ‘see’ that it is wrong and remove it for the piece that really fits. That is the gift of learning—the picture becomes more complete, more satisfactory, more real. When we are stuck in our ways, stubborn in being ‘right,’ and unwilling to change out an ill-fitting idea or ‘fact’ for a valid one, we end up with a dystopian, Picasso-like, distorted picture. I never expected a Minnesota State Park, a place we went to for peace and comfort, would be a place that expanded my thoughts about darkness and water. We have an opportunity to learn every day, in every situation. Are we willing to do that in pursuit of a more whole, realistic picture of Life?

Reckoning Our Storytelling

September 18, 2022 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

We are all fantastical storytellers. You may remember your own yarns as a child, or more likely, those of children, as fanciful, creative chronicles spilled from their imaginations and mouths. And often, they were a key character in the saga. At some point in development, there is a reckoning between fantasy and reality, often involving those joyous childhood participants in legend—Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. Disillusionment and disappointment. Even anger at the deliverer of such bad news. It is all a part of growing up, a step towards maturity.

Our creative, imaginative brains, in an attempt to make sense of any given situation, continue to make up stories throughout our childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. The stories tend to live and twirl inside our own minds. They gather strength and even ‘evidence’ as the story is imagined again and again and again. “I can’t do math.” “Nobody likes me.” “I’m a freak.” “I’m a bad student.” “She’s a bad teacher.” “People are taking advantage of me.” “Someone is out to get me.” What starts out as an inner insecurity often morphs into an outward blaming of others.

Last Sunday, Chris and I traveled to the Minnesota River Valley at Fort Ridgely State Park. The fort was built in 1853 near the Dakota reservations of Upper and Lower Sioux Agencies on what had been Dakota land for thousands and thousands of years. It was used as an outpost, Civil War training facility, and buffer between the Dakotas and the surge of settler–colonists coming into the area. In the middle of the fort stands a granite monument to honor the soldiers and others who fought and were killed in the bloody Dakota War of 1862. On large brass plates on four sides of the monument, a story of the battle is articulated by some person thirty years after the war. Reading the narrative in this day and age shows a stark bias against the Indians with how the storyteller articulated false motives of young Indians who ‘started’ the war and who were ‘out to kill’ the white settlers and soldiers. The modern signage around the excavated ruins of the fort told a different story. The Indians on the reservations were being starved when food promised them from government treaties was not being delivered. The man in charge told them “to eat grass if they are hungry.” Forced from their homeland onto reservations, then starved by the government is a different reality than the story told on the monument.

The Minnesota River valley was cut out from glacial till by erosion over thousands of years. The ridge above the River has been returned to prairie.

Orange Sulphur butterfly on Rough Blazing Star

After our fort tour (the museum run by the Minnesota Historical Society was closed), we began our hike behind the CCC-built picnic area. We curved down a hill to the Fairway Trail in a wide strip of prairie that started on top of the ridge and went all the way down to Fort Ridgely Creek. (In 1927, a golf course was built on the park grounds and has since been returned to prairie.) The Ash trees were tipped yellow, Goldenrod and Sunflowers were in their full glory, and crickets chirped an Autumn song.

At the top of this hill is a chalet used as a warming house for Winter sledding and snow sports.

This area of Minnesota has been in drought conditions, and Fort Ridgely Creek and the Minnesota River were very low. We did see minnows swimming in the shallow water of the creek.

A couple miles north of the main park was a horse camp area in the valley of Fort Ridgely Creek. Huge walls of rock and clay on the east side of the creek created a quiet, protected area.

We passed many horseback riders as we hiked, and one proclaimed that it was much easier the way they were doing it than the way we were—but I didn’t know how right he was until we climbed the trail out of the creek bottom to the ridge.

The upper prairie was dominated by Indian Grass, its deep rusty-brown seedheads swayed in the wind and paid homage to the ancestors who had lived and died here.

Sunflowers were brilliant, their golden pollen attracting Goldenrod Soldier Beetles, a beneficial insect that doesn’t harm the plants.

A Cranberrybush Viburnum gave a different vibe from the fall-ish yellow and browns of the prairie.

Sideoats Grama Grass and Common Milkweeds with their full pods of seeds, lined the trail in the Indian Grass prairie.

Fort Ridgely closed in 1872, and soon after, settlers unlawfully pillaged the buildings for stone and wood. In 1896, the land was set aside for the US–Dakota War Memorial, and in 1911, with an additional 50 acres, it was designated a state park, the fourth oldest in Minnesota. Now it has 537 acres of history and stories. It is a stark example of how the story changes with time and with who writes it. As I read the story of the US–Dakota War etched into the brass plates on the granite obelisk, I wondered what the Dakota version of the story would be. Our complicated, damning history.

Our stories are often paradoxical—many different versions of the same situation and all of them bearing some, but not all, of the truth. And as I mentioned before, we all have a tendency towards the fantastical, when a story does not correspond with the facts of reality. It really is a human conundrum. We tell ourselves illusory stories in part to have some sort of control over the situation, to put ourselves at the helm when things feel out of control or overwhelming. Perhaps it is ‘practice’ for real life. But too often, we only want our version of the story to be told, fantastical or not. We want our version of other people’s stories to be the truth. I have had many stories live and twirl in my mind in unrealistic fashion, so I know of what I speak. We become entwined with our own story, and the unwinding of it only promises disillusionment, disappointment, grief, and anger. No wonder we are so reluctant to the reckoning. Growing up is not easy, and growing into maturity is even more difficult. How can we be mature and generous with our storytelling? How can we navigate a fair way? How can we pay homage to our own struggles and to the struggles of others? It might take the very thing we started with as children—an open and creative imagination. Can we imagine the homeless person’s story as part of our narrative? Can we include a poor, young mother’s abortion story as part of our own mothering story? Can we envision what a displaced, starving person would do to try to regain health and agency in a repressive culture? We can have our own values and at the same time listen deeply to and walk with a person who is in a situation unlike any we have ever imagined for ourselves. It grows us as a person into a more seasoned version of ourselves. Welcome to the hard-earned, fruit-bearing, browned and aging Autumnal season of Life.

Warning Signs

September 8, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Every one of us has a threat detector or warning system in our brains. It begins with incoming sensory information—things we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, and notice—often things we may not be aware of consciously. Those incoming signals go to the thalamus—a routing structure that sends the information to the amygdala or fear center of our limbic system and to the frontal cortex part of our brain that ‘analyses’ what the information could mean. The pathways are much more complex than that, but basically we process information through our emotional threat center more quickly than our analytical, thinking brain. Our brains and bodies can be activated into fight, flight, or freeze before we even have a conscious knowing of why.

We have all experienced the warning signal from our amygdala—don’t trust that person, don’t walk down that street, don’t eat that food, don’t participate in that action. It is often labeled as a ‘gut feeling’ or ‘intuition’ type of knowing that is hard to explain. Part of our warning system is an inborn, mammalian, basic safety system and part of it is based on previous experience—if we have been traumatized in any way, we are particularly sensitive to any information that feels anything like what we have previously experienced. Our amygdala immediately activates our body to protect us. This is a very good thing to keep us safe when we are in danger, but it can also cause a lot of ‘false alarms.’ After an unprocessed trauma, the amygdala’s ‘reading’ of a situation causes alarm, even when there is no actual threat there. (By unprocessed, I mean the facts and feelings about and around the traumatic event have not been acknowledged, accepted, talked about, worked on, and put to some kind of rest.) That’s why it’s important to take deep breaths for a few seconds and let your thinking brain catch up. Easier said than done. That’s why it’s so difficult—and personal—to determine what is a legitimate threat, whether that is to our personal safety, the protection of our children, or the security of our country and democracy. Our ‘thinking’ brain needs information and data to come to a conclusion—when we refuse to ‘see’ the reality of facts, figures, and footage, we are allowing our ‘fear center’ to run our lives. (And on a physiological note, that is a damaging way to live.)

Chris and I went hiking at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge on the Blue Hill Trail. We have been there a couple of times in previous years. I suggested we go the opposite direction than our usual path so we could climb the Blue Hill spur trail. We were usually too tired after the five-mile hike to climb the hill, so this time we started with it! At the foot of the hill, at the entrance to the spur trail, was a warning sign: poison ivy could be growing along the trail. The sign also said they leave the poison ivy (don’t kill it) because wildlife eats the berries that are produced. Hmm, I thought. Well, we know how to identify poison ivy. How bad could it be? After a quick, questioning glance to Chris, I headed up the hill. Things were fine for a little while. If I saw some, I would say, “Poison ivy on the left” or “On the right.” Chris was in shorts, and I had short pants on with bare ankles. I definitely get the itchy rash from poison ivy, but I am not allergic to it like Chris is after an overwhelming exposure he had much earlier in his life that demanded medical care. As we climbed the hill, the trail got narrower, and raspberries and other foliage folded over the path. I peered under the waist-high briars to look for the ankle-high poison ivy that was now surrounding most every step. Are we ready to turn around yet? We passed the ‘down’ trail, so I figured the top couldn’t be too much farther, but by then I was seriously questioning their practice of ‘leaving the berries for wildlife.’ We made it to an observation deck, but we still weren’t at the pinnacle. I left Chris there and said I would see what’s farther up—but the path was barely discernable and covered with brush. Forget it, another time. We had a view to the north from the platform. The first thing I noticed in the landscape of trees was how many dying Oak trees with rust-colored leaves were scattered before us. Then I noticed the sparse gray branches of Aspen trees. Warning! Why were so many trees failing and dying? The drought last year could definitely take out some of the old or damaged trees, but this year had not been so bad. Most of the summer, I have seen places where the Aspen trees looked sick, their leaves sparse and spotted where usually they are shiny green and dancing. Even some in our own back yard were dead or failing. I wondered if the herbicide Dicamba was the reason for the tree treason. It is notorious for its drift and damage to trees. Or was it the changing climate that warmed our winters and allowed more insects to invade. Such a large number of dying trees in a protected area flashes a blinking red warning sign to me.

Warning: Poison ivy.

Warning, expected and benign: At Sherburne and all around the northland—the beginnings of Fall. We seem to be closer to the meteorological calendar than to the astronomical one when Autumn comes the first of September instead of the 21st. At any rate, the process has begun!

Warning: Some plants, butterflies, insects, animals, and even people try to look like or be like others in order to protect themselves or make themselves look bigger or more fierce. False Solomon’s Seal has foliage similar to Smooth Solomon’s Seal, but the flower and fruit are at the end of the stem instead of under the arching stem. How many times has your warning signal flashed when you have met a ‘false’ person?

Warning: There are two types of Elderberry–Sambucus canadensis, one that produces purplish-black berries that make tasty jelly and wine and Sambucus racemosa, red-berried Elder, whose fruit tastes bitter and causes digestive upset. It’s a smart decision to know the difference before gathering and eating berries.

Warning: These petal-less flowers form flat brown seeds with two barbed awns at the top. Devil’s Beggarticks or Devil’s Pitchforks catch and stick to fur or fabric in order to spread the seeds. What kind of negative rhetoric sticks to you and spreads to others with no factual basis? Words of fear and fallacy.

Warning: Toads will give you warts if you pick them up. Nah, that’s an old wives’ tale! Toads have warts on their skin and taste bitter to any predator who dares eat them.

Warning: The stream is hardly a stream and the lake (which looks big on the map) is barely a lake. Cattails and other vegetation have taken over almost the entire Buck Lake! Far into the middle of the cattails, I could see a little bit of water and a Trumpeter Swan family. It’s disappointing (and sometimes embarrassing) having been duped by false advertising.

Warning: Prescribed burns not only rejuvenate prairie grasses and wildflowers but can damage even mature trees if things don’t go quite right.

Forewarning to the purveyors of fear and fallacy: Truth and Light will shine on and overtake the Darkness.

Grow With It

August 28, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I remember the hard work of growing up. I remember the hard work of growing other humans for those first nine months and for the twenty years after that. At the time, I didn’t even realize that those two things were happening simultaneously—as I stewarded the growth of my children, I myself continued to grow and develop.

It’s hard work to grow. It’s hard work to turn soil nutrients, water, and sunlight into a prolific number of new cells that function in numerous ways in order to reproduce. Plants, insects, birds, and animals are productive from Spring to this time of late Summer. And the fruits of their labors are evident. Flowers, fruits, seeds, and offspring combine to showcase the miracle of an ecosystem where not only is the organism’s genetic material passed on to another generation but the organism or its fruits or seeds are used by others for sustenance for their growth. It truly is a circle of life, a web of interconnected growth, give, and take.

The abundance of growth and production is a visual treat for the eyes on the prairie and woodland trails at Saint John’s Arboretum. Big Bluestem—big as in four to seven feet tall and Bluestem as in the purplish tint to leaves and three-pronged ‘turkey foot’ seedheads—was the predominant grass on the prairie. In all its glory. It provides cover, nesting sites, and food (seeds) for a number of species of birds and is considered by ranchers to be ‘ice cream for cows’ in pastureland. ( I like that depiction.) Gray-headed Coneflowers provide food and housing for butterflies and moths and seed treats for goldfinches and other song birds.

Goldenrods of numerous species are the golden magnets for butterflies and other beetle bugs. Stiff Goldenrod has thick, leathery leaves that look like feathers, especially the basal leaves.

The fruits of the Wild Rose—rosehips—are turning red and are food for birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bears.

I think the winner in cell production in one season is the Compass Plant—look at those sturdy, almost tree-like stems! While the deeply-cut leaves can be up to two feet long, the flower stems can grow up to twelve feet high providing a prairie perch for birds. The sunflower-like flowers provide seeds for birds and small mammals, and the hardened sap can be chewed like gum.

A slightly shorter relative to the Compass Plant is the Cup Plant. It has sturdy square stems with large leaves that clasp the stem and form a cup that catches rainwater and provides drinks for birds and insects.

I was happy to see a few Monarchs in the prairie—knowing they are endangered makes seeing one that much sweeter.

One of my favorite prairie grasses is Grama grass—a short, drought resistant grass with horizontal seed heads that look like tiny brushes.

The ponds were surrounded or inundated by tall cattails, so it was difficult to see the water birds, but I was able to catch a glimpse of a Trumpeter Swan family. They had a perfect place for their July-August molting and regrowth of flight feathers—very protected for their flightless time. Usually the females lay 5-7 eggs in the Spring, so I was a bit surprised there were only two cygnets.

Swamp Smartweed displayed a pretty pink spike of a flower. Dew and rain beaded on leaves of Jewel Weed, sparkling like diamonds. It has a succulent stem with an aloe-like juice that can relieve itching from poison ivy. The seed capsules will explode when touched, sending seeds in all directions. Hummingbirds are especially attracted to the dappled orange flowers, but butterflies and bees also pollinate them.

Shallow water with minimal movement is a perfect place for Wild Rice to grow. The pointed stalks sway in the breeze, heavy with the developing seeds. Zizania palustris (isn’t Zizania a great genus name?) has a higher protein content than most cereal grains and is an important food source for waterfowl and Native American tribes. Minnesota has more acres of non-cultivated Wild Rice than any other state.

Another edible wild thing is Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. These were accompanied by other pretty and interesting fungi growing close by.

Then there’s the beauty of Maidenhair Ferns with stems of shiny, black that make the fronds seem to float in the air—so elegant.

Late blooming flowers like Joe Pye Weed, Asters of all kinds, Rough Blazing Star, Rattlesnake Master, and Anise Hyssop are imperative for nectar supplies for Monarchs and other butterflies, bees, and Hummingbirds. The gift of beauty and the gift of food.

Tiger Swallowtail butterfly on Anise Hyssop

The hard work of Spring and Summer is in full display as flowers produce pollen and nectar, fruit is developed, seeds are formed, and babies grow. The circle of life is turning. The interconnectedness of flora, fauna, and humans creates an invisible web that ties us all together. As we enter slowly into a new, old season, it gives us an opportunity to pause and give thanks for the incredible burst of growth of new cells, new skills, and new fruits of labor. It is a time to celebrate the hard work—of Nature and of ourselves. All of Nature, including ourselves, take the resources and predicaments we have been given and grow with it. Poor soil, rich soil, drought, abundant rainfall, shelter, partners, wind, war, famine, predators, encroachment, mentors, protectors—so many variables. But we all grow with it, whatever it is. None of us grow by our own volition—the web of genetic material, family of origin, environment, occurrences, teachers, and friends all contribute to our growth. It is a miracle of Life, in all its glory.

The Land of Oz

August 7, 2022 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

It’s hard to see a storm coming when you’re in the forest, nestled in the trees, no horizon in sight. In fact, hardly any sky in sight. It’s a different story when the flatland prairie stretches in all directions, and the sky is big, open, and expressive. I lived on the prairie when I was hit by a metaphoric storm—it turned out to be a tornado, in fact. It picked me up out of my ordinary life, spun me around and around until I didn’t know which side was up or if I would even survive it. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see it coming because I was surrounded by ‘tall trees’ of ordinary life—three children in three different schools and their activities; graduate school with classes, research, animal caretaking and data-gathering, tests, and writing; church goings-on; family fun and responsibilities. Those details of life kept my eyes directly on what was in front of me—no time for sky-gazing or soul-searching. Looking back now, it was that swirl of activity that helped perpetuate the storm, not just my blindness towards some outside force moving in from the horizon to bowl me over, though there was that, too.

Elevation helps a person see the storm coming when you’ve been in the trees. It lifts you above the interesting, compelling details right in front of you. It helps you see a little farther, a little further.

I can definitely get bogged down in the details—I love them. They are so darned interesting. Look at these papery seedpods of the Ironwood tree. They look like hops, which is why the other name for the tree is American Hop Hornbeam! The highly serrated leaves are similar to Birches, but they do not turn brilliant yellow in the fall like the Birches do. They grow extremely slow, thus making the wood very hard—ironwood.

And look at these Wild Rose hips or fruits forming after the pink petals fall from the flowers. They will turn a bright red color and develop sweetness as Autumn comes, especially after a frost. They are one of the highest plant sources of Vitamin C and contain antioxidants that make them a desirable food for humans, birds, and other animals. Wait…what? There’s a storm coming?!

Perhaps the greatest skill is being able to examine and interact with what is happening close to you—whoa, look at that Mullein flower—and being able to check in with the bigger picture—the prairie meadow is beautiful at this time of year, and the Maple Leaf hills must be spectacular in the Fall! Near and far. Present and future.

It also matters which direction you are looking…. During our hike up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park, we were facing west, so we noticed the storm clouds building.

Did you know you can make a lemonade-like drink from the red berries of Staghorn Sumacs? Did you know you can eat the leaves and seeds of Broadleaf Plantains, either raw or cooked?

We finished our Hill hike, sensing that it would be our last hike of the day given the storm clouds, then we drove the five-mile Park Drive. It was a gravel/packed dirt road past a small campground and boat launch, then continued on a narrower, one-way trail. We stopped at a wildlife observation hut on Beaver Lake—no wildlife to be seen at that moment.

Farther down the road we saw a mama deer with her two spotted fawns who leapt away when they saw us.

On a hill overlooking Field Lake, we saw the sky getting darker and the clouds beginning to envelop the park. They were no longer on the horizon—the storm was imminent. A restored prairie on the banks of Field Lake had Leadplants in full bloom and Purple and White Prairie Clovers, their colors rich and vibrant with the darkening sky.

As we wound through the Maple forest on the rutted road, we were hoping to beat the rain. I knew by the map we were close to the end of the one-way road when we passed Cataract Lake. It looked like late evening instead of three in the afternoon—time through a cloudy lens or perhaps in a different realm.

We drove to see the other big lake of the Park—Beers Lake—and the campground by it. Rumbles of thunder and sprinkles of rain began to reach our ears and the windshield. A small pond by the road had a family of ducks swimming happily in the ripples and bubbles of the rainy water.

When we reached the end of the road at Beers Lake, there was one family still fishing on the pier and a lone Loon swimming and diving nearby. It wasn’t so dark anymore, and the roiling storm clouds had morphed into a consistent palette of gray from which the rain fell in a steady cadence. The ‘big storm’ part must have passed to the south of us. We drove back to the Trail Center, a small building with tables and chairs, maps and safety equipment. We ate our picnic dinner there as the rain fell.

With elevation and open prairie, we could easily see the storm clouds coming towards us. When we were driving through the Maple forest, all we could see was the darkness falling on the afternoon light. It’s shocking when we don’t see the storm clouds of life coming towards us. Sometimes there is no warning, even if we are scanning the horizon. All of a sudden we’re in the dark, not knowing, not prepared, not able to get our bearings. Other times, we see the billowing signs of an impending storm but ignore them. And still we get hit hard. When we notice the storm coming and believe it, we can make different choices, we can plan for the future, and we can ready ourselves, both physically and mentally. Like Dorothy, I landed in Oz after being swept up in the tornado—in this surreal place of bad and good, fantasy and reality, past and present. The land of Oz was my own brain and heart and being that I explored with the help of my guide and lots of courage. It took a while—for time is often warped in the midst of a storm—but I finally found the home of my-Self. It’s a place where I can do sky gazing and soul searching and immerse myself in the sweet details of life. There’s no place like it, you know.

Hanging on Lightly

July 31, 2022 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

What happens to your body when someone says, “Hang on tight!”? Usually your hands latch on to something and grip it tightly. Your muscles contract, often throughout your whole body. You ‘brace’ yourself for what’s to come, whether that’s for a physical wild ride or an emotional rollercoaster. There is an element of survival that takes over—your sympathetic nervous system is activated. Adrenaline is released, your pupils dilate, your heart beats faster, and you become hypervigilant. There are plenty of times in life when this response is the prudent thing to do—it can literally save your life.

Chris is back to short hikes—yay!—so we hiked up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park in the western lakes region of Minnesota. The trail zig-zagged through mostly prairie in this part of the 9,200-acre park. Mid-summer wildflowers bloomed among the still-growing green grasses that had begun their blooming, too. Lavender-colored Wild Bergamot or Bee Balm was in all its glory, attracting bees and butterflies with its minty fragrance and tubular flowers.

It was not long before we noticed dragonflies darting around above the plants. It was a breezy day, and I noticed a colorful dragonfly holding on to a dried flower stalk. I thought to myself he must be hanging on for dear life in this wind with his three pairs of legs! Halloween Pennant Dragonflies (isn’t that a great name?!) alight and fly in a different way from most other dragonflies—they have a fluttery flight like a butterfly.

The wooly purple coats of Purple Prairie Clover are wrapped around the gray thimble head of the spikey flowers, belying the typical flower of the Pea family. But like most members of the Pea family, Prairie Clover can increase soil fertility by capturing nitrogen from the air and transferring it to the soil.

Purple Prairie Clover—host plant for the Dog Face butterfly

More and more of the Halloween Pennant Dragonflies were hanging on to grasses and dried flower stalks, some right by the trail. As I looked more closely at them, it seemed like they were very comfortable on their precarious-looking perches.

Black-eyed Susans brighten the prairie with their cheery ray flowers, and their seeds are favored food for Goldfinches and House Finches.

Black-eyed Susan—host plant for the Silvery Checkerspot butterflies

A larger, more traditional dragonfly with its black and silvery transparent wings is named Widow Skimmer. The male has a long powder blue abdomen and is thus named because he leaves (or widows) the female by herself when she lays her eggs just under the surface of the water. Other male dragonflies will fly with the female while she lays her eggs.

A large, crater-like mushroom captured rainwater and became a ‘watering hole’ for insects and small animals.

The coloring and veins of the dragonfly’s wings create intricate patterns, and their large compound eyes see 200 images per second with nearly 80% of their brain being dedicated to sight! They have specialized spines on their legs used as an ‘eyebrush’ to clean the surface of their compound eyes.

In our northern climate, the growing season is condensed into a relatively short amount of time, so fruit and seed development happens quickly. Signs of decline are already noticeable in the later part of July.

Again, like I noted in my last post, the Monarchs are few and far between anymore. In all the prairie we walked through, we only saw one Monarch. It was perched on its host plant—where eggs are laid and where the caterpillars eat and grow—the Common Milkweed.

Pointed-leaf Tick-trefoil (Beggar’s Lice) is a woodland plant with pretty pink flowers on long stalks that produce sticky seed pods that hang on to fur or clothing of passers-by.

Pointed-leaf Tick-trefoil—host plant for Silver-spotted Skipper butterflies

The silvery-gray color of Artemisia complements all the other prairie wildflowers and grasses.

I was surprised to see a whole Artemisia plant covered in bugs! The black creatures (Black Vine Weevils?) look like the ones who have invaded our house in the last month, and the big, black ants must be getting some sort of nutrition from them.

We ascended to the top of Hallaway Hill, once a popular ski hill in the 1950’s and ’60’s, even after the State Park was established in 1963. 196 vertical feet above Lida Lake gave us a view of the many lakes, the rolling Maple-Leaf hills, and of the storm clouds that were gathering to the west.

Dragonflies spend most of their life in the aquatic nymph stage—the larger ones from three to five years—but only live as an adult dragonfly for five weeks or less, some only for a few days. Their ‘flying’ days are limited.

Hanging on tightly is a way for us to survive—physically and emotionally. In fact, in our young years, it is a reflexive act to connect us with our caregivers for all of our dependent needs. When resources are scarce—food, shelter, safety, and love—we tend to hold on more tightly, even when doing so doesn’t get us those things we need and desire. But as a child and young adult, we don’t know any other way to do it. But what of the fleeting adult life of the dragonfly? The Halloween Pennants were hanging on lightly—not clenched but attached, not contracted but relaxed, not grasping but flowing. They embodied freedom—like an eagle soaring in the wind, like a feather floating through the air, like a leaf drifting on the water. Is it the culmination of their reproductive life that allows them to live out whatever days are left with such freedom? Or is it just a ‘mammalian’ thing to hold on so tightly? We can learn from the dragonflies. We can mature into hanging on lightly. We can brush the cobwebs from our eyes. We can be attached and relaxed. We can live day by each wonderous day, confident in our ability to rest when we need to and fly when we can.

Big View, Small Water

June 19, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It was a house with a view. I noticed the potholes in the driveway, the old sheds tucked into the trees, the railroad tracks just below the hill of the house, and why is there an old semi truck parked by the garage shed?! But all I could look at was the view—it was spectacular! Our Airbnb house for the Duluth wedding weekend sat on a hill overlooking miles and miles of Minnesota and Wisconsin forests. Somewhere below our sight line was the St. Louis River we had followed at Jay Cooke State Park earlier in the day. The Superior Hiking Trail and the Willard Munger State Trail wound through the trees in our view. The evening colors were rich and dusky as I stood on the deck and the sun dropped below the horizon. There was much to see and nothing to see in the vast forest that lay below us—much like the far-reaching prairies of the Dakotas that I love.

The house was compact yet roomy, comfortable, and nicely laid out, with seven large windows that allowed the big view to dominate the inside space. The color of the sky and trees had changed and brightened in the morning light. I couldn’t help but feel it was going to be a very good day!

We left Chris with the sunshine and the view—gratifying manna in its own right, and all one has to do is sit there, let it in, and allow it to heal and feed the body and soul. Passive rejuvenation. The rest of us walked down the gravel driveway lined with brilliant white Trillium flowers I had not noticed the day before. Had I missed their beauty as I noticed the potholes?

Fifty yards or so from the driveway was the parking lot and entrance for Mission Creek Parkway hiking and mountain biking trail. We crossed a bridge over the railroad, then another over the state bike trail and were soon on the path down a long, gradual slope. We had stepped backwards into Spring—the ferns were freshly unfurled and the trees were newly-leaved, casting a yellowish–green glow from the sparse canopy.

We continued down the slight slope until we reached a creek—Mission Creek—that meandered across and alongside the trail. After the big waters of the Mississippi and St. Louis Rivers and of course the almost infinite waters of Lake Superior, this small body of water seemed insignificant. Boulders and large rocks were scattered along the waterway creating its own tiny twist of bubbly rapids—trivial compared to the churning, voluminous rapids of the St. Louis River.

The water was brown with tannins, just like the big waters, but shallow and transparent. Waterplants lazily floated with the current, and minnows darted about, their shadows darkening the sienna mud bottom.

Wispy yellow-green beards of Meadow Rue flowers shook in the breeze, scattering the pollen in the hopes of germinating another woodland plant. Tender Blue Violets surrounded the spikey ball flowers of Wild Sarsaparilla (said with a cowboy’s western drawl, of course.)

The longer we followed and crossed the little creek, the more it became evident that it was a life-giving and life-supporting body of water, no matter how small. River Otter tracks led down from an old stone bridge through the mud to the water.

Thimbleberry bushes with their bright green palmate leaves grew along a sunny path, and in a couple of months, will produce ruby red domed berries.

Mosses remind us of how small things are important in the big view of life.

We left the small waters of Mission Creek and returned to the big view of our weekend dwelling. I saw a huge log building that I didn’t notice among the trees in the miles and miles of forest, and later found out it was a resort in Wisconsin. (Hidden in plain sight.)

On our last morning, a deer grazed around the railroad tracks as I watched from the windows—and soon she saw me. She lived in the big forest and was a patron of the small water of Mission Creek.

There are so many small things in life that we often overlook, deeming them trivial or insignificant. There are other things that are in plain sight, and we never even notice them. And while our brains cannot possibly register and keep track of ‘everything,’ I wonder what we miss or dismiss that is actually substantial and meaningful. The small water of Mission Creek was actually the water of life for the forest valley and all its inhabitants—all a part of the big view. Often when we think there is ‘nothing to see,’ there is actually much to see, and it is gratifying manna for our lives. And that makes for a very good day!

Peace of the Pine Forest

May 29, 2022 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

I’ve been crying a lot lately—not for me and my station on this good, green Earth, but for other people. I cried for the victims of Putin’s war—the mothers and children who fled their homes, the fathers and brothers who stayed behind to fight, the old and infirmed who couldn’t flee and were bombed to death, and for every lost life and destroyed city. The tears escape my eyes when I watch the news or see the headlines—it is my knowing that what I am witnessing is antithetical to Goodness. Last week it was for the grocery shoppers in Buffalo, New York who were targeted and killed because of their skin color. This week, the tears flowed again for the young students and teachers at Uvalde, Texas. It could literally happen at any school at any time. Even the mass shootings happen so frequently that the mourning for the one before has hardly begun before it is ‘lost’ to the coverage of the newest one. Not to mention all the other, pervasive deaths by violence. Not to mention the perverse political rhetoric around the ‘reasons’ for the deaths. It is soul-crushing.

I know for sure that the fallout from each one of these violent losses of life is far-reaching and will be long-lived. Many of the victims, the families, the first responders, and the witnesses will carry the burden of trauma with them for their lifetime. The price we as individual persons and as a society pay for violence is unbelievably staggering. In the midst of a political culture that is not doing all it can to help prevent such tragedies, an individual person can feel overwhelmed and impotent in the face of it all. What do we do? Let me begin with a story that presented me with an important lesson.

Seventeen years ago when my father-in-law died, my brother-in-law sent a message to us that ended with “Peace be with you.” I was already in a state of activation—death, grief, loss, change—and I remember exclaiming rather indignantly to Chris, ” How can we have peace at a time like this?!” I did not understand at the time that my brother-in-law was offering a gift to each of us individually—that in spite of our loss and grief, we could have the comfort of peace. I did not accept that gift at the time—I didn’t know how—but since that time, I have not forgotten that offering. I have tried again and again and again to find peace within myself in the midst of my own pain and loss and of that of the world’s. A substantial part of finding peace in a time of crisis or a reaction to it, is learning to calm down our activated bodies—and when a person has an ingrained trauma response, it takes lots of practice to change. One of my practices to calm down and find peace is to go to the woods—I did it intuitively as a child, and I do it intentionally as an older adult. I find peace in the Pine forest.

So we went to Warner Lake County Park where I left Chris and his healing hip to sit beside the lake. He could see the Pine forest across the water. He was in the midst of the noise and exuberance of young adults who were already free for the summer and were anxious to sunbathe and swim in the chilly lake water. I tried to appreciate their exuberance even as I gladly walked away from their noise. Come walk with me into the forest.

According to florgeous.com, Violets symbolize honesty, protection, dreams, healing, and remembrance. May it be so. Peace of the Pine forest be with you.

Something Old, Something New

May 22, 2022 by Denise Brake 8 Comments

A couple of big things have happened in the last two weeks—we celebrated an old marriage, and Chris got a new hip! The hip came first—I am just amazed at the technology that a robot can help the surgeon take out an old, damaged joint and replace it with a new one that works better. Along with the fact the person walks out the door just hours later! Wow! But just as miraculous is forty years of marriage! It’s a relatively old marriage, though perhaps more middle-aged when I think of my friends who have crossed the sixty-year marriage mark. We looked at pictures from that day forty years ago when we were new adults, newlyweds, new partners. It was a sweet and wonderful day!

Hip recovery requires care, some new equipment, patience on both our parts, practice of therapy exercises, pillows, and ice. This second phase is super important to make sure the excellence of the first phase remains. So we c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y went on an outing this week, packing up the needed equipment for Chris to sit under the old giant Pines at Belle Prairie Park while I took a hike. He looked out over Old Man River whose water overflowed its banks with Spring flooding. Something old—the old River reminds us and ties us to the past—the hard times and the good times.

Something new. New leaves. New flowers. So tender and sweet and pristine. Hope for the future.

Something borrowed. The beavers were busy using the floodwaters to their advantage, borrowing the young trees to make their home. It’s easier to move logs in water than across land. They are building for a long, happy life.

Spring flowers fit for a wedding! Wood Anemone is no flash-in-the-pan flower. It takes a single plant five years or longer before flowering! Commitment and tenacity.

The marsh and the forest are a combination of Old and New. The marsh is always ready to accept the Spring floodwaters, year after year, which in turn nourishes the lovely, brilliant Marsh Marigolds. Their buttercup flowers and glossy, heart-shaped leaves are a swath of sunshine through the Spring forest.

Old bark on old tree trunks shows the signs and scars of age and wear. Living long takes its toll, even on trees. Right beside them grow the young ones with smooth, gray bark—a long life ahead of them. And both get new leaves every year. Renewal is for everyone!

Something blue. Violets were scattered along the trail, warding off evil and giving me nods of good luck.

Surprises. Both of these surprises could be seen from far away at this time of year—before the leaves offer a shield or camouflage. An Oriole nest, a marvel of construction—does it house a nest full of eggs?

As bright as the Marsh Marigolds was a Scarlet Tanager, though with flaming red feathers and contrasting black wings. A handsome gem in the Spring forest!

Then back to the Mississippi River with flowering Wild Plums growing along its banks. The big island trees had their feet in the flood waters, as the new foliage began to cover their impressive Winter silhouettes.

“Ol’ man river just keeps rollin’ along.” Oscar Hammerstein

The wedding tradition of ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ incorporates values and qualities that we wish for every new couple. It honors the long river of the past and the people who came before us, it encourages hope and prosperity for the future, it advises to learn lessons from the people who have already traveled that path, and wishes good luck—to do good and avoid evil. All four values are enveloped in love. For forty years, Chris and I have committed to these values. We have seen hard times and good times with surprises of both. With the scars and signs of age, we know there is always renewal and along with it, sweet hope, like nectar for our souls. We have learned that the old builds the new—what was is the foundation for what’s to come—whether of ideas, emotions, mistakes, or actual physical manifestations. We keep rolling along, building our long, happy life together.

The Golden Threads of Spider Town

July 25, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

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.

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