Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
The Last Time
How many times have you wistfully uttered the words, “This is going to be the last time….”? It seems to carry a fair amount of meaning for most of us when we are going to do something we love for the last time or see a dear one for the last time. I remember knowing my third pregnancy would be my last and thinking with great conscious intention I was not going to wish away one minute of it. It helps us savor the time and armors us with resilience, e.g., when morning sickness strikes day after day. I also know there can be great gladness, celebration, even a ‘good riddance’ when something happens for the last time when we are ready for it to be over and done.
Last Sunday I wanted to go snowshoeing, thinking it would be our ‘last time’ to do so this year. It has been a great snow year, and Chris and I have had the best snowshoeing Winter ever. And I kind of hate to see it go. Chris, however, has already crossed over into the ‘good riddance’ category for this year’s snow. It cannot melt fast enough for him (even though as I write this we are cleaning up from an April Fool’s Spring snowstorm with another one on deck for Tuesday and Wednesday.) Chris reluctantly agreed to my ‘last time,’ so we drove north a little ways to Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. The parking lot was slushy and muddy and had a large puddle of standing water! (What?!) The trail had been groomed for skiing, but the sun had deteriorated the snow so much that we didn’t heed the rules to ‘stay off the tracks.’
Anything lying on the ground soaked up the warmth of the sun and sank into the ripples of mushy snow.
The wetness of the snow was like a drag on our snowshoes. It was a few degrees above freezing but seemed warmer in the light of the sun. We shoed toward the trio of Poplar trees that surrounds an eagle’s nest, sure that we would see the eagles busy with their egg or chick tending. But no one was home, and for the first time at the park, we didn’t see any eagles anywhere.
With the draggy snow, we decided to cut off a section of the trail by going cross-country. The wet-soaked snow packed with each step, so we didn’t sink in very far, but it still took more effort than going on the groomed trail.
Back into the Oak savanna forest, we saw the trees that had been burned inadvertently by a prairie fire. One standing tree was burnt on the inside, making a home available for some creature. Others were burned all the way down.
We saw lots of woodpeckers flying between the trees, but Rice Lake was still covered with ice, so no waterfowl floated or flew about.
The Willows around the lake were red, but not one fuzzy gray bud was showing yet.
As we circled around the lake towards the Platte River that flowed from it, we realized that it, too, was still frozen with ice. I thought maybe a strip of the River would be ice-free and flowing, then wondered if that was why there were no eagles around yet.
About three-quarters of the way around the looped trail, I started to falter. I would stop and rest, then go on for a short distance, then stop again. I totally ran out of gas after slugging through the wet snow for an hour and a half! Luckily I had packed a snack of pistachios and dried cranberries, so we stopped to re-fuel and get some water. While we were standing there, I saw movement in a tree by the River. There was the flat white face and pointy nose of an Opossum!
As I got closer, he tried to ‘hide’ behind the tree branch, almost like ‘if I don’t see you, you can’t see me.’
Once I circled around the tree, he realized he couldn’t hide. I noticed his frostbit tail and ears. Possums do not hibernate during the Winter, though they do find a den to stay in, so perhaps he made his Winter home in one of the burned-out trees. Their ‘bare’ tail, ears, toes, and nose are susceptible to frost bite. He probably wishes he could go south for the cold, snowy months and is most likely saying ‘good riddance’ to the last of Winter. I threw some nuts and fruit onto the snow at the base of a tree for our Minnesota marsupial.
After my re-fuel, I was ready and able to finish our trek—it’s amazing how quickly food energy can replete our muscles and mitochondria. I hoped the possum would feel better after his snack, too. I was a bit concerned that the eagle’s nest was empty, but maybe our timing was wrong for this particular place. And therein lies the mystery—we never really know the timing of most things. We have trends, averages, predictions, and hopes, but the Universe is large, and we are not in charge. At the same time, we tend to ‘feel better’ thinking we are in charge, and it helps us to ‘make meaning’ of firsts and lasts. Many ‘firsts’ stay in our memories for our lifetimes—the first time we met our partners, the first time we saw our babies, our first job, car, pet, house, etc., etc.. And when we predict our ‘lasts,’ it gives us something we need at that time—gratitude for the people and things we love, resilience to get through a tough time, hope that things will be different and better soon, or hope that we can survive when things are changing against our wishes or norms. Grace gives us these ‘coping mechanisms’ that move us along the trail of time and offers us another ‘first’ when we let go of the ‘last.’
I am celebrating nine years and 476 posts since I began North Star Nature! Thanks for coming along on the trail with me! (Not the last time!)
In the Midst of the Storm
Everyone was getting ready for it. The news people said it was another bomb cyclone headed for the upper Midwest. Who even knew what a bomb cyclone was? Why is this new term in our vocabulary, much less twice in a month’s time? Snow removal equipment that had been optimistically ‘put away’ for the season was dragged back out. Parents were expecting yet another snow day off of school. How many does that make? April 10th was the day of preparation. The birds and animals knew something was up. Lots of feeding, flurry, and frenzy. By late afternoon, the snow had begun to fall, and cancellations were being announced for just about everything for the next day.
Early in the morning of April 11th, the wind came up with a rage. It whistled through windows, forced itself through cracks in the house, moved the heat out and replaced it with a cold draft. Good thing it was April and not January. We had some inches of snow overnight that promptly got rearranged with the northeast wind. I was surprised how many birds were out trying to feed in the storm. The suet cake feeder was flung from side to side, its protective roof askew, but a Red-breasted woodpecker and a large Pileated woodpecker clung to its mesh sides.
I marveled at how long they both swung there, holding on and grabbing bites of fat and seed. Finally the Pileated woodpecker rested on the off-wind side of the Maple tree. What an incredible and unusual bird!
Dead branches and pine cones dislodged from the trees and tumbled across the yard. A White Pine branch planted itself, and the snow filled in around it.
Dark-eyed Juncos and Sparrows braved the wind to eat seeds that had blown from the feeders. They faced into the wind and only occasionally did I see one tumble across the snow.
A couple took refuge behind and under a Spirea shrub to conserve some energy and eat in peace.
At mid-morning, we had thunder and lightning and bits of hail that pelted the windows. Every type of precipitation fell that day—snow, rain, sleet, and hail, and all with the accompaniment of the fierce wind.
Early afternoon the sky and snow turned an eerie yellowish-brown color. Along with all the debris that had blown off the trees, there was now a layer of reddish-brown dirt covering the snow. Later I learned the dust was blown all the way from Texas on this cyclone of a wind.
It was hard to tell how much snow/precipitation we had that day with all the changes in state. It’s one of those things we usually take a silly pride in keeping track of—knowing how much snow or rain, how cold or hot it is on any given day. It records our days in a very concrete way—each of us our own scientist. But on this day, it didn’t even matter. It was a Spring mess we just wanted to get over in order to get to the Spring we desired.
By Friday morning, the winds had calmed down, but the snow continued. The critters continued to feed and scratch and sing—a Spring feeding with all the singing—a difference worth noting.
Along with the singing was the unmistakable sign of the imminent and unstoppable Spring—the swollen, red flower buds of the Maple tree.
After the storm, AccuWeather announced that we did not just survive a bomb cyclone—it was a ‘monster storm’ and a ‘powerhouse blizzard’—but technically did not qualify as a bomb cyclone. The pressure needs to drop 24 millibars over 24 hours of time to be considered a bomb cyclone—this one only dropped by 20 millibars. So…there…we…go. We were out of the woods on the backside of the storm. Technicalities aside, the storm was real. If it looks like, sounds like, and feels like a bomb cyclone, then so be it. In weather, we are fortunate to have meteorologists studying and forecasting what’s to come. Science is real. If only we had such forecasters for our own lives. We could get ready. We could prepare ourselves. We could make plans, stock up, let go, and drag out whatever equipment we would need for the upcoming upheaval. Instead we are caught in the raging wind, sometimes tumbled around; we hang on, find some peace, do what we have to do. We plant ourselves in a new reality and let the chips fall where they may. We are battered, yet brave. In the midst of the storm, there is singing—along with an imminent pull towards the future. It is a difference worth noting.
Mystery and Gratitude
“Science cannot solve the ultimate mystery of nature. And that is because, in the last analysis, we ourselves are a part of the mystery that we are trying to solve.” –Max Planck, physicist
Mystery: anything that is kept secret or remains unexplained or unknown. I’m not sure which is more mysterious—Nature or human nature. I guess it’s because they are one in the same. I drive Chris nuts sometimes with my wonderings: I wonder why they decided to put that there? Why did you cut the vegetables that way? Why in the world would people throw their trash out the window? I wonder what happened to that tree? Why do people have to be so mean? I’m not making a judgment on his vegetable cutting—I just want to know the reasoning behind it, if there is one. I’m curious, and I would like to understand the things I see and try to make sense of them.
My mystery thinking began this week after Chris put burlap around the Arborvitae. It is no mystery that deer love Arborvitae and will devour a good-looking tree into a malformed eyesore in one short winter. And thus, our very own mysterious Stonehenge, or Burlaphenge, rather.
I was also wondering why the leaves haven’t fallen off the Ninebarks, Lilacs, and Apple trees yet. They are the later ones to drop their leaves, but after snows and hard freezes, they should be down. But maybe that’s the exact reason they aren’t down—that it all came too early.
It is no mystery that November is grey and brown and kind of bleak looking. The summer vibrancy of Hosta leaves fold and dissolve into nothing, like the water-doused wicked witch of the west (now that’s a mystery!).
But all is not bleak on the November front with the interesting seedheads of Goldenrod, Hydrangea, and Purple Coneflowers.
I was wondering, of all the logs we have used as ‘steps’ in our hilly woods, why the pileated woodpeckers have suddenly attacked this one.
There is one mystery that I never question—I just take it in with gratitude—the amazing sunsets!
How do we problem solve and make our world a better place? First we have to be aware—we need to notice things, see things that are not working or are working beautifully, and get curious about it. We also have to step outside ourselves, put our biases and prejudices aside, and look at the situation with new eyes. We have to be our own third party. (What a difficult thing to do, I know.) Then we need to gather information and communicate—who are the experts and what do they say about this, what’s the data about this subject over time and many sources, where does this truly have an effect, when does a certain thing happen or in what situation, and then, the question of the mysterious why. Does that sound too scientific or experimental? Or like too much work? My hypothesis is that we all do it all the time but leave out some of the important steps. We make the results and conclusions fit the way we already think, slap our hands together, and exclaim, “Done. Well done.” But what is the impact to ourselves and others if our conclusion is a lie or has only a thin line of convenient truth in it? Are we willing to engage in dialogue about our conclusions? A mystery is anything that is kept a secret or remains unexplained or unknown. There are many things in life that should not remain a mystery—secrets that serve one and hurt others should be brought forth into the light of inquiry, examination, and illumination; unexplained conclusions that tout magnanimity but in essence do much harm should withstand a thorough and vigorous cross examination and accountability; and unknown things that we do not want to know should courageously be brought forth through the fences of resistance so we can stare them in the face, feel the full force and cost of their hidden, yet flawed power, and find relief and peace in finally knowing our truth. So get curious, gather information, communicate, examine, be courageous, and for those things that are truly a mystery—like sunsets and the pure wonder of Nature (and probably even cutting vegetables)—have gratitude!
Gleanings from November—Seeing Clearly
To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion all in one.
John Ruskin, English art critic 1819-1900
This November was a strange month. Not only was the weather erratic and unprecedented but so was the election and the political climate. (Sigh) All of it is confusing and confounding with smokescreens of battling tweets, false news sites and hacking, entertainment-fantasy-lies versus reality, and those who say to the seers, “See not.”*
The bright-headed Pileated Woodpecker caught my attention in the gray, exposed landscape of early November. His large body of steely gray feathers could easily have been camouflaged, but the red crest of feathers and stripes of white, red and gray on his head and neck created a bull’s-eye through the circular branches of an old Oak. I’m so intrigued by this huge, shy bird. Most often I hear the distinctive, raucous call before seeing the undulating flight and clumsy landing. His strong, pickaxe bill can send chunks of wood flying as he searches for insects.
The mild weather of early November gave us glimpses of colored shrubs and perennials that usually would have lost their leaves via a killing frost by that time. Joe Pye Weed still looked beautiful in its autumn glory, surrounded by red fruit stems of Gray Dogwood and graceful branches of Oak trees.
The last of the golden-leaved trees was the Honey Locust, losing leaves from stems, then losing the yellow sprays of leaf stems from branches. A cascade of loss.
November’s super moon caught the attention of the world, something that gave me great pleasure and hope—that a celestial body could be the focus of attention for a week of time. The moon, stars, sun, and earth—all common denominators for each and every one of us on this planet. But the focus can easily be placed on other things, even when looking at our common subjects.
What is the real subject? What is the real issue? What is the truth of the situation?
Many things can obscure what we’re looking at, what we need to know. Clouds of illusion, reflections of reflections, and influences of darkness can obstruct our vision and muddy our convictions.
On the 18th, our first snow was a blizzard, closing schools and littering the highways with wrecks. Not seeing and slippery slopes have consequences.
But there was this flower blooming outside our window the day before the storm. One stem of this Hollyhock represented all the stages of our lives: a closed green bud full of potential; an unfolding bud showing rich, young, lively color; a lovely, open blossom in its prime; an older, more experienced, slightly faded bloom; a wilted, wiser, wrinkled version of its former self; and finally, a withered, spent flower that was being ‘cared for’ by the rest of the plant. All of them valuable and worthy to be seen.
“I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright) Sun-Shiny day.” (Gamble & Huff) So, where do we begin? We begin right where we are. We begin by seeing and being aware. There is great value in seeing the environment around us, in being aware of the people around us, but most importantly, I believe, in seeing ourselves. What path are we on?
On our paths, we attempt to see our lives clearly. We want the sweet poetry of joy and love. We look forward to a good and meaningful life. We long to be in the presence of the Holy One. In that spirit, with that Spirit, we have the amazing ability to look at our lives, our thoughts, our feelings and have insight—what a gift! Novelist Jonathan Franzen wrote about insight: “And when the event, the big change in your life, is simply an insight—isn’t that a strange thing? That absolutely nothing changes except that you see things differently and you’re less fearful and less anxious and generally stronger as a result: isn’t it amazing that a completely invisible thing in your head can feel realer than anything you’ve experienced before? You see things more clearly and you know that you’re seeing more clearly. And it comes to you that this is what it means to love life, this is all anybody who talks seriously about God is ever talking about. Moments like this.” I say to the seers, “See.”
*Isaiah 30:10
Walking Through Winter
Winter can be a tough season, but like last year, this winter has had minimal snowfall and relatively mild temperatures. This has allowed us to hike the trails of nearby parks with comparative ease. A couple of weeks ago we ventured out to Wildwood County Park for a morning hike. The park has three and a half miles of cross-country ski trails, but the only other people we saw were walking their dogs. The snow was slick and wet since temperatures hovered above the freezing mark. Deer and other animal tracks made their own paths through the woods, crossing the hiking and skiing trails with frequency. The woods were mainly old growth maples and oaks with ironwood as the predominant understory tree. The vertical lines in the bark of an ironwood contrasted with the horizontal lines in an adjacent birch tree.
We saw the ice-covered Kraemer Lake through the trees…
and bright blue sap lines from Wildwood Ranch that would soon be tapped into the towering maple trees to harvest the sap for making maple syrup.
We saw evidence of a very busy woodpecker–most likely a pileated–with his recent drillings.
The next weekend we went to Eagle Park and Rockville County Park to hike and check on the eagles. Small flocks of Canadian geese and Trumpeter swans flew over us as we walked the trail.
Then one of the eagles flew to their nest in the center of the park. Soon the mate glided in carrying a large stick to add to the already huge nest.
Both worked on getting the new branch in just the right place.
Later they hopped up to their perch above the nest and surveyed their territory. This pair didn’t raise any eaglets last year–I’m not sure if the eggs never hatched or if the young hatchlings died for some reason. But they are back this year, adding to their nest, getting ready for their next brood.
A mile or so away, the other nest of eagles who raised three eaglets last year, were also adding sticks to their nest in preparation for their next offspring.
Winter can be a tough season. Weather-wise, this winter has been fairly easy, but in other ways, it has been hard on me: losing a parent to death, losing children in the ways we do as they leave the nest and make their own paths, and losing a little piece of ourselves as each of those things happen. And so, step by step, I am walking through winter, hiking through the heartache, and letting Nature and the Creator work to fill up the holes that were drilled into my heart. I will pick up another branch and add it to the already huge nest of a life I have built. I will look forward to the new creations of Spring, and soon I will be able to tap into the sweetness that life also brings to each of us.
Staying Warm
It’s a cold week in Minnesota–single digits and teens with below zero wind chills. When I go outside, I put boots on over Smart Wool socks, pull my fleece neck gaiter over my head, put on a wool stocking cap with one of those ear muff things over that to keep the wind out of my ears, pull on a double-layer Columbia coat (over a fleece pullover), and slip my hands into leather mittens with sheep wool lining–and that’s just to walk the dog! Staying warm in the biting cold is a challenge for man and beast–and birds! Our resident red-bellied woodpecker with his bright red head and barred feathers found a place out of the wind on the maple tree.
He clutched the tree with his strong feet, used his tail feathers for an anchor, and fluffed up his feathers for added insulation. As the wind whipped around the tree, he would close his eyes.
And then he hunkered down–as well as a bird can while perching on the side of a tree.
I have seen birds preen this way, but he just tucked his head into his feathers–first one way, then the other. It was the perfect way for staying warm on a frigid, windy day.
Later that afternoon, I saw him fly to the feeder, grab a sunflower seed, take it back to the windless side of the tree to eat, then return to the feeder again and again. It takes nourishment to stay warm, too, especially from the fat in the black oil sunflower seeds.
“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness,” writes John Steinbeck. Our Minnesota winter has been relatively mild this year compared to most others. And yet, I always marvel when the weather warms enough to go outside without a coat and with just a pair of flip-flops on my feet! We, along with the birds and animals, have our ways for staying warm. There is sweetness in coming back into the house for a cup of hot chocolate by the fireplace after trekking through the snow and cold on an invigorating hike. There is a quiet comfort in a warm, secure home, which is not a reality for some people. There is warmth in sharing a nourishing meal of soup and bread. And there is the sometimes taken-for-granted warmth of Love from our family members and friends, without which we would truly be out in the cold. How do you stay warm?
Gleanings from December 2015 and January 2016
“All Nature speaks the voice of dissolution. The highway of history and of life is strewn with the wrecks that Time, the great despoiler, has made. We listen sorrowfully to the Autumn winds as they sigh through dismantled forests, but we know their breath will be soft and vernal in the Spring, and the dead flowers and withered foliage will blossom and bloom again. And if a man dies, shall he, too, not live again?” —Daniel Wolsey Voorhees
Time has been messing with my mind these last two months. With my Dad’s run at recovery after his pneumonia, the days seemed to go by quickly as we prepared and looked forward to his return home, but as things got worse again, Time slowed. With his death, it was as if Time wasn’t even recognizable anymore. Wait, was it only two days since he died?! I seemed to be in another realm where Time wasn’t numbered and predictable. Then Nature stepped in–the voice of resolution as well as dissolution, and day by day, the birds outside my window helped me settle down. I was surprised to see a mourning dove at the feeder one morning–I don’t usually see them in the middle of winter, and they most often browse on the ground for food. A mourning dove for my mourning.
A pileated woodpecker’s long, strong beak made short work of the suet-stuffed log feeder.
Purple finches gathered at the feeders in groups–a community of fine-feathered friends.
The male’s rosy-colored feathers looked like a richly tailored tweed suit.
Carrying his sunflower seeds to the maple tree, a Downy woodpecker placed them in the grooves of bark to break open the hull to reach the nutritious kernel.
Flower-bright cardinals come to the feeder in late afternoon when the other birds are finished feeding for the day.
And the squawking loner bluejay feeds in the morning, scaring away black-capped chickadees and nuthatches that browse throughout the day.
Sunrise of another day, a month of days and more….
Mourning time is measured by sunrises and sunsets and by birds flying to the feeders in their tenacious purpose of nourishing themselves for another day. The dissolution of my earthly relationship with my Dad and the permanence of that takes time to integrate into my soul. Nature helps me sort out the grief, work out the pain, and measure the memories. Writer Paul Theroux declares, “Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” I am looking forward to blooming again.
The Community Feeder
When snow covers the ground, the feeders become the community center for the birds in the area. They have feeding times when activity is high–swooping in, grabbing a seed, flying away. The black-capped chickadees flit to a nearby branch to peck open the seed covering and swallow the seed. The noisy blue jay will pick at his seed in the feeder after scaring all the other birds away. Woodpeckers, like the Red-bellied woodpecker, often carry their food away to store in the cracks and crevices of trees and fence posts for a later time. The ‘Zebraback’, with its barred black and white wings and back, has a creamy buff underside that covers the red patch on the lower abdomen. The female (above) has a red nape and patch at the base of the beak, while the male (below) has a red crown and nape.
It was a bitterly cold day when the male visited the feeder. His feathers were all fluffed up, and he looked like he was wearing a fur coat!
Along with seeds from annuals and perennials, the red-bellied woodpecker also eats wood-boring beetles, grasshoppers, spiders, acorns, pine nuts, and fruit. They have a barbed tongue and sticky saliva that makes it easier to catch their prey.
This small Downy woodpecker is another frequent flier to the community feeder. When he flew to the tree, he may have been storing the seed in the crevice of the bark or may have placed it there to hold as he pecked it open.
Another tree-clinging bird is the White-breasted nuthatch. It is often seen creeping headfirst down a tree trunk, enabling it to store food in crevices and to find food that right-side up birds might miss.
But the birds are not the only ones in the community that come to the feeders. The squirrels show off their acrobatic skills by scaling the trees and climbing or jumping to the food source. The new mailbox feeder is becoming the favorite for the little nutkins–it is closer to their oak trees, easier to climb, and has less of a chance that the big black dog will chase them away from it.
Yesterday morning we had more visitors enjoying some black oil sunflower seeds.
There were four in all, and they watched me through the window and got a little nervous about being so close to the house. Their winter coats gave them rounded haunches, thick necks, and jowly faces.
They ate some seeds, then wandered and grazed their way back to the woods
The beautifully feathered birds come to the community feeder in the winter, because it’s all about the food. Each has specialized physiology that enables them to search, find, and eat the food that is best for them. In the snow-covered months of fall and winter, it is hard for the birds and other animals to find sufficient food, so the seed-laden feeders provide an oasis for them. In this week of Thanksgiving and abundant food for most of us, please remember the ones who are having a harder time providing adequate food for their families. Let us all give thanks for our blessings and bless the givers who provide an oasis for those in need.