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Art in Nature

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There are two people in my life that know Art (with a capital A) in a way that my ignorant and scientific mind will never be able to fathom.  I don’t ‘know’ it or ‘get’ it, but I try, by association, to appreciate it at some level.  One of those people is my sister-in-law Julie.  She has worked as a docent at the Nelson Art Museum in Kansas City for decades, and her home is full of amazing art that is strange and foreign to my untraveled, untrained mind and eye.  But there is something that links me to her taste and ability in the arts—Nature.  She is also a skillful gardener, talented designer, and Nature-lover.  Her whole backyard is a garden of delights with unique plant material, beautiful design, interesting sculptures and urns, and unprecedented plant pairings, yet looks natural and artfully wild all at the same time.  We were fortunate to spend a couple of days with Chris’ brother and Julie, and they took us to the Overland Park Arboretum and Botanical Gardens on the western outskirts of Kansas City.  The day was warm with a crisp breeze—warm compared to the snow we had left in Minnesota, and crisp enough to need a jacket and hat.

The first wonder that greeted us was the strange, unique protuberances under a Bald Cypress tree.  Thanks to Chris, our intrepid tree man, we learned these were cypress knees.  The knees grow up from the roots of the Bald Cypress tree and have been the wonder of botanists for centuries.  Bald Cypress trees are deciduous conifers (like our Northern Larch or Tamarack) that typically grow in swamps where the roots are waterlogged for at least part of the year.  Some have theorized the knees provide the roots with air for gas exchange; others proclaim them to be structural to keep the shallow root system strong, and the tree upright.  They are one of Nature’s wondrous mysteries!

Our next surprise was Monet painting at the edge of the pond!  The French Impressionist painter Claude Monet was an advocate for plein air painting—in the open air—in order to capture the lighting at different times of the day and the colors during different seasons of the year.

We encountered a trio of Lacebarks as we strolled along the winter paths—Lacebark Elm, Lacebark Oak, and Lacebark Pine—all with interesting, exfoliating works-of-art bark.

Alight and rest for a moment on a dragonfly bench!

High in a Sycamore tree sat a hawk who seemed unconcerned with the passersby below.  The American Sycamore grows stately and tall and holds its seed clusters most of the winter, like tiny balls decorating the bare tree for the holidays.

We walked through a tall, metal gate that fenced the deer out of the Gardens and entered the dry, wooded swales, a low-lying area by Wolf Creek where Cottonwood and Sycamore trees grew into giants.  Flooded creek waters had washed the soil away from the roots of nearby trees creating tangled works of art.

One common workhorse of a tree in the mid-plains is the Osage Orange or Hedge Apple tree.  The Osage Indians made superior bows from the tough, flexible wood.  The yellow wood resists rot, burns hot, and is used for fence posts and railroad ties.  The trees themselves were used for living fences before barbed wire was widely available and less expensive—the low branching trees with strong, sharp thorns grew ‘horse-high, bull-strong, and pig-tight’ as a hedge.  The yellow wood extends into the roots…

…and the large yellow-green hedge ball or fruit ball contains a messy, milky sap that is supposed to repel insects and spiders.

We returned to the Gardens through another high gate after our hike through the woods and found ourselves on the Sculpture Garden trail.  Elaborately pieced fairy houses—miniature natural architecture with colorful trinkets and stones—were placed at intervals along the trail.

Beautiful sculptures were tucked into the trees along the paved path, a melding of Art and Nature.

 

Like Monet, I appreciated the colors of the winter season at the Arboretum and Botanical Gardens—the muted green grass, the rusty oak leaves, the ice-blue sky and water, and the honey-colored hydrangea blooms.  A painting in the making.  I love how Mother Nature is the ultimate artist—the color and form in the feathers of a bird, the patterns and designs in the bark of a tree, the making and dispersal of seeds, and the color and contour of the inner characteristics of a tree.  I liked the juxtaposition of whimsical, woodsy fairy houses made from the materials that surrounded them with the bold concrete and metal sculptures that had found their new homes among the trees.  I am thankful for the time we had with family and friends on our trip south.  There is something sacred and life-giving in sharing space, time, food, laughter, perspective, ideas, and talents.  It’s what links us together on the wondrous, mysterious journey of Life.

Start by Surveying Your Territory—You May See the Dead Deer

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It was unusual to see an eagle just sitting in a tree along the highway.  They do that beside the River in search of fish or close to their nests.  It’s usually hawks that sit in trees or on posts surveying the ditches for signs of mouse movement in patient anticipation of a tasty tidbit.  Once I got his photo and we drove on, I commented to Chris how unusual it was to see an eagle in a tree beside the road.  While I had been staring at the eagle, Chris had been surveying the road behind us where we were pulled over and the road before us where he noticed a dead deer in the ditch.  I was totally focused on the eagle and didn’t see the dead deer—and that was why he was sitting there in the tree.

We continued to our destination—Wildwood County Park—for a chill-busting hike in the Maple and Basswood forest where some of the towering Maples are 300 years old.  It is a well-managed forest; tractor tracks followed the ski trail where freshly cut logs of downed trees were piled in the scant snow, and I didn’t see any Buckthorn invading the woods.

We crossed a creek flowing under a layer of ice with bridges of fallen logs—some bear-sized, some mouse-sized—connecting one side with the other.

With no leaves on the trees and no ‘greenery,’ the trees themselves became the focal points—the trunks and branches, the colors and textures.

We found a ‘fort’ made of branches, a shelter from the winds on the ridge.  Would you stay here?

One of the dead Basswood trees was obliterated by a Pileated Woodpecker.  Huge white patches of drilled wood stuck out in the gray day, and a hefty pile of shavings gathered at the foot of the tree.

At another creek, two deer paths diverged from the creek into the woods.  Which way would you go?

In any mature forest there are many downed trees—all a part of Nature’s recycling program.  Oftentimes we forget about the extensive root systems that anchor trees and keep them nourished.  An eroded bank exposed some of the roots of this oak tree, reminding me of the unseen network of support.

A large burl interrupted the smooth flow of a tree trunk.  The dark, bumpy, tumor-like growth is caused by an injury, a genetic mutation, insects, or fungal and bacterial infections.  The cells divide more rapidly than normal (like many cancers) or there is excessive cell enlargement (hypertrophy).  Burls are coveted by woodworkers as the wood has unique and beautiful grain patterns due to knots from dormant buds and the swirls of the unusual growth.

The woods of Wildwood were bare and stripped down on this cool, gray day with interesting things to see and life lessons to learn if we are so inclined.

 

I’m sure the eagle spotted the dead deer when he was soaring high above the ground surveying his territory—it’s what they are meant to do.  The deer would provide food for many days—if the eagle could safely access it.  They are not swift on the wing to get out of the way of cars, so from his perch in the tree, he could watch for an opportunity to feed on the carcass.  Seeing the eagle and not the deer reminded me that we ‘see’ what we look for, what we are focused on and many times, we don’t see what else is ‘in the picture.’  That’s when it helps to have other eyes and other points of view—Chris saw the deer—the reason why the eagle was there.  He kept watch for danger in passing cars as I looked only at the eagle.  The Wildwood showed how bridges connect one side with another—natural things like logs, laughter, love, and lively conversation.  What creates our shelters from the wrathful winds and storms of life?  We must build them log by log, bit by bit.  Is it prayer or yoga or daily walks?  What makes each of us resilient?  What do we do with the old, dead parts that no longer work?  We mine them for the morsels that will continue to sustain us, then discard the rest.  We choose our paths, and all the while, we remember our network of support, that we don’t make our way in this world by ourselves, by only what is seen.  Who holds us up?  Who sends nourishment to us?  Who helps build the shelters and bridges?  The burled tree reminds us that ugly things can be transformed into beautiful creations.  It usually takes time, hard work, dedication, and the ability to see beyond the ugliness.  When we survey our territory and see and learn the lessons the eagle and the woods have to teach us, we can see the opportunities, not be blindsided by the dangers, stay safe in our shelters with those who sustain us, and create Beauty for all to see.

 

Hiding in Plain Sight

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I stared out the window into the brown woods and could not see the deer Chris told me was there—right there!  Right behind the black pole that held a hanging bowl of sunflower seeds for the birds.  Finally I saw a subtle movement.  I zoomed in on the large black eyes of the hiding deer.  It was the first weekend of the firearms hunting season for deer—the little resort motel beside the Sauk River just down the hill was full of cars, and early morning gunshots rang through the air.  I’d be hiding, too.

It was a classic example of crypsis, a type of camouflage, when an animal, person, or object avoids detection by blending into the surroundings.  It is one of the most common and successful defenses in the animal world, and, in turn, one of the most common and successful offenses of the hunting world.

Later that week, I saw the twin fawns browsing their way through the yard and woods.  Their furry winter coats had displaced the spots of their smooth summer coats as they grew into their ‘teenage’ bodies.

They were not afraid to be seen—maybe it was their youthful naiveté or the fact that they had been here most days of their lives or maybe it was the lure of the apples on the ground beneath the tree.  I did not see their mama this time, though she was probably keeping a watchful eye from somewhere deeper in the woods.

Soon the two of them wandered into the woods, into the Gray Dogwood, Sumac, and I hate to say it—Buckthorn.  Right before my eyes, they disappeared by camouflage!

They are still there—can you see them?!

 

Camouflage uses a combination of coloration, materials, or illumination for hiding in plain sight.  Nature knows about survival.  Our mammalian brain works in much the same way—if we feel threatened, we want to run and hide.  We want to protect ourselves.  Our strategies are much more complex than Nature and the deer.  We hide in plain sight all the time.  We hide behind smiles, behind humor, behind walls of shame.  We wear masks of happiness, masks of productiveness, masks of toughness.  We cover up hurts with compliancy, with silence, with ‘it could be worse.’  We conceal reality and the truth of our lives behind alcohol, food, materialism, and other addictions.  We carry our well-developed and effective protective mechanisms with us from childhood through adulthood until they no longer work….until we can no longer hide.

Very often, all the activity of the human mind is directed not in revealing the truth, but in hiding the truth.        —Leo Tolstoy

But then what?!  Then comes the hard part—the part where all the courage and brilliance of our past protective strategies morphs into the very means by which we walk out into the sunshine to be seen.  Zora Neale Hurston wrote, “Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”  The catalyst is Love.  It’s the Love that holds us when we run and hide to be safe.  It’s the Love that was always ‘right there’ but we could not see.  It’s the Love that says the time has come for us to be seen.  It’s the Love that helps us to finally love ourselves.  “I am still here—can you see me?”  

 

 

The Hard Way

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It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness.  –Lucius Annaeus Seneca

After our easy way of exploring the Saint Croix River on a paddlewheel boat, we picnicked beside the River to renew our energy for the afternoon.  The paddleboat company, the town of Taylors Falls, and Interstate State Park seem to be intertwined.  In fact, we started our hike by walking up one of the hilly side streets after crossing the one, busy main street through town.  We passed an old railroad depot that I thought had been moved up there, but then I realized that we were hiking along the abandoned railroad way.

It soon became evident what a marvelous engineering feat it was to build a railroad through these bluffs!

We came to a place in the woods where the old railway had continued over a steep ravine on a bridge long gone except for some concrete pillars that now had colonies of wild ginger strewn at their feet.

We descended the wooded ravine, and at the bottom, the trail diverged—and we chose the hard way, the scenic way according to our guide Aaron Brake who had hiked here before.  And so we followed another ravine and began the winding ascent to the very top of the bluff.

In the creek bed at the bottom of the ravine were shiny, glistening rocks of basalt.

Fallen trees created bridges of varying size and structure.

We climbed and climbed and though we were in the shady woods, the warm, humid day and exertion caused me to sweat like crazy.  “I never sweat this much,” I exclaimed a number of times, and the only response I got from Emily was, “You need to up your workouts, Mom.”  Finally we got to the top of the bluff and saw the River way down below.

On the trail down we explored more of the sandstone bluffs.  One place was called Curtain Falls that now only flows after heavy rains and snow-melt.

Living on a steep, rocky bluff is a hard way for a tree to survive.  I was amazed at the survival strategies we saw from some of the plant life, like this tree root scaling the rocky cliff, clinging to any soil it could find.

The way down was ‘easier’ than climbing to the top but was in no way easy.  There were many places where wooden stairs helped us get down the steep rock faces.

We arrived at the campground of Interstate State Park—the parking lot and camping spots were full on this Labor Day weekend.  But our hike wasn’t over yet—the trail continued along the River, through trees and over rocks, back to the entrance of the park where we had boarded the boat earlier in the day.  Now we could see the River from the top of the rock cliffs adjacent to the water.

Rock climbers are welcome at the park, and we saw many ropes and climbers.  That’s a hard way of getting up and down the cliffs!

It was beautiful hiking along the rocky cliffs among stately pines, wild blueberries, and various types of ferns.  What a different perspective of the Saint Croix River we had from the edges of the huge rocks compared to floating down the middle of the River. 

 

By the time we returned to the entrance of the park, my feet hurt, my legs were sore, and I wanted to sit down for a while.  When I polled the young twenty and thirty-year-olds about the difficulty of the hike, they proclaimed it ‘moderate.’  I had the word ‘challenging’ in my mind, but chalked that up to our 30-year age difference and my need to ‘up my workouts.’  I’m glad we took the hard way, the rough road, the scenic way.  It really was so beautiful, and it impelled me to exert and sweat and do ‘the work.’  It led us to the heights of that scenic River and the greatness of Nature.  There are times in our lives when the hard way is presented to us, when we don’t have a choice, no matter how badly we want an easy option.  Marie Curie said, “I was taught that the way of progress was neither swift nor easy.”  So what do we do?  We anchor our support ropes, take it slow and easy, use the steps and bridges to get us down the steep parts and over the ravines, and we do the work.  We make progress, we do what is right, and in our own way, we are led to greatness.

After the easy way and the hard way, we ended our day with the ancient way…to be continued…

The Easy Way

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A ship in the harbor is safe. But that’s not what ships are built for.  –John A. Shedd

We got our tickets and were told the Taylors Falls Princess was docked in Interstate State Park, as the water was too rough and rushing over the rapids at the usual dock.  Up the hill, turn left, past the park entrance, and down the hill.  The Princess is a paddlewheel boat operated by Taylors Falls Scenic Boat Tours—a family owned and run business on the Saint Croix River since 1906.  The upper deck was already filled with site-seers, so we took our seats at the front of the lower deck to get the best standing spots once the gate was closed.  It was an easy way to explore the Saint Croix River, complete with a knowledgeable tour guide and seasoned captain.

This area of the river cutting through huge rock formations is called ‘dalles,’ a French word for rapids of a river through a narrow gorge.  The base rock is basalt, a dark, fine-grained volcanic rock that was later covered with a shallow sea that deposited sandstone above the basalt.  When glaciers began to melt, the St. Croix River was formed.  When the melting ice water intersected an old fracture in the basalt, it took the easy way, creating a sharp bend here at Angle Rock.

Our tour guide pointed out rock formations that looked like various things—Lion’s Head, Elephant’s Head, and the Old Man of the Dalles.

Supposedly, French fur traders of the 1600’s saw a cross in this rock face and named the river after the ‘Holy Cross,’ though the River was known by many different names before and after that time.

We paddled down the River on the Princess and saw many paddlers in colorful kayaks and Alumacraft canoes who weren’t taking it quite as easy as we were!  The Saint Croix River is part of the National Wild and Scenic Riverways system established in 1968.  

We saw an eagle and eagle’s nest…

…and a gaggle of geese taking it easy on the shore.

My favorite story by the tour guide was about the island that wasn’t supposed to be there.  When they were building the road on the Minnesota side of the River bluffs, the contractor told his assistant to order two tons of dynamite, and she mistakenly ordered twenty tons.  He blew the bluff into the River!  Is that an easy way to make an island or was the assistant an easy scapegoat to his big problem?

The Saint Croix River begins in Wisconsin about 20 miles south of Lake Superior, and the last 125 miles marks the border between Wisconsin and Minnesota where it then merges with the Mississippi.  The Interstate State Park is on both the Wisconsin side and Minnesota side around the Dalles area. 

The Saint Croix has been one of the cleanest rivers in the Midwest, but like most lakes and streams in the state, it has a problem with nutrient (phosphorus) overload in the summer.  The dark brownish-red color of the water is from tannins that come from decaying plant material that lines the shores of the River; tannins are not considered to be a pollutant, but we did wonder about the constant stream of white foam.  

 

Our easy eighty-minute excursion on the paddlewheel boat seemed to go fast—the River and the rocks were beautiful.  The history and stories by our tour guide were interesting and informative.  Our easy way of exploring the River and bluffs cost us money in order for other people and machines to do ‘the work.’  We were safe within the rails of the boat (never in their long history have they ever had to use the life vests.)  Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “A smooth sea never made a skillful sailor.”  The easy way doesn’t challenge us—it may keep us safe, be the way we’ve always done things, and be the most comfortable for us.  But is that what we’re built for?  Is that what we’re born for?  How do we build roads where once there were rocks and trees?  How do we make an island?  Our day at the Saint Croix River was just beginning.  The easy way was over. 

To be continued… 

Meet Me at the Bend in the River

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There are times in our lives when we are floating along—smoothly going in the direction we want to go, enjoying the scenery, life is good—when we come to a bend in the river.  If we follow the flow of Life, we are swept along in a changing direction; if we resist, we flail about trying to stop or turn around and go back to where Life was easy.  But it is no longer easy—we are going against the current.

Our oldest child left the 100-degree August heat of Austin, Texas to spend time with us in Minnesota.  On one of those beautiful days, my Mom came over from South Dakota.  We spent the afternoon at Bend in the River Regional Park north of Saint Cloud.  The Park is located at an old farmstead high up on the bluffs of the Mississippi River—at the bend in the River.  The old Red River Ox-cart Trail passed by a log cabin built on this site and later became the Point Douglas–Fort Ripley Military Road in 1851.  In 1912, Edgar Graves bought the farm and built a barn, then a house, and subsequent other out-buildings.  The house is formidable in structure, but closed to the public.  I kept saying that I would live in that house!

Around the house towered Bur Oak trees that were over 120 years old.  While the floodplain below the bluff always had fire-protected forests, the bluff was more prairie with sparse numbers of Bur Oak that could survive drought and wildfires.

We walked the trail from the farmstead along the high bluff overlooking the River.

The native Ojibways called this expanse of water “Misi-ziibi” or “great river.”  The French fur trappers in the 1600’s translated that to “Messipi,” which was later Anglo-cized to “Mississippi.”  That great river flows on.

Acorns crunched under our feet—it was an abundant year for Oak seeds.  A pair of Mourning Doves ignored us as they foraged the gravel trail for seeds.  A Garter Snake lay sunning itself on the soft moss between acorns.

At one of the overlooks, we saw two young men fishing on the Great River.  Meet me at the bend in the River—let’s catch some fish.  Let’s spend some time together.  Let’s slow the pace of our lives for a few hours.

We walked down a side trail that descended the bluff to the floodplain area beside the water.  The power of the water rushing around the bend in the River had pushed logs and debris up onto shore.  There were rusty wheels and tires and hardened, lost shoes.

And right at the bank of the River, a fine mossy grass grew and on that lush greenness lay a turkey feather, like a dropped handkerchief—personal and universal all at the same time.

The water reflected the sky, assuredly giving the weather report for the ones gathered at the bend in the River.

 

Three generations of our family met at the Bend in the River, slowing time as we walked and observed trees, animals, and the Mississippi.  We learned about the history of this place, how it progressed with time from ox-cart trail to military road to potato farm.  Why was I drawn to the old prairie farmhouse and the outbuildings for all the animals?  Why was I thrilled that Carlton Graves ran a veterinary practice out of the basement of the house?  Why was I so pleased that this place high above the bend in the River was turned into a Park for all to see and use?  The flow of Life moves us forward, even as we ache for things to be as they were when we perceived that life was smooth and good.  Life changes our direction for us—we need to be able to navigate the rough waters and the bends in the river.  We don’t want to end up like logs and hardened souls all piled up under the trees as Life moves on.  Let’s meet at the bend in the river.  Let’s meet where things change direction.  Let’s honor our history and slow down the pace of our lives for a few hours.  Right there, on the soft, transitional terrain, let’s pick up the lost feather, the lost handkerchief.  It is personal and universal, all at the same time.

Down the Road With Me

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“An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.”  –Henry David Thoreau

These past days have been the epitome of Summer—very warm, slightly humid, and sunny.  But we are past full-on Summer; when we roll the calendar over to August, we see changes.  The Ash trees have a tinge of yellow in places, Sumac and Poison Ivy leaves are turning red, Goldenrod is blooming gold, Crabgrass grows and goes to seed, and the noisy chatter of the House Wren no longer interrupts the sounds of the day.  The mornings have been still—in movement and in sound.  Into that stillness I walk with my pal Tamba—she limps now, groans when she lays down, has lumps and bumps, so I know that our twice-daily walks are numbered.  Yet every morning she pulls herself up and eagerly heads down the road with me.  I hear the low, melodic call of Mourning Doves, and instantly my mind transports me back to my Grandma and Grandpa’s farm.  What amazing brains we have that we can time-travel when we hear or smell something!  The stillness and humidity allow dew to form on everything during the cool night, and the morning sun freely transforms all into a treasure of shining gems.

The intense sunlight soon dries the dew, but the late summer flowers—Gray-headed Coneflower, Liatris, Sunflower, Purple Coneflower, and Allium—shine on in all their glory.

On the other end of the day, when dusk was settling around us, it was still quiet and calm.  Tamba lay in the grass.  We sat on the patio as the smokey sky turned the sun red.  The setting sun streaked through the trees and shone on the rose-colored Joe Pye Weed and etched burning embers onto the live Oak trees.

Soon we heard noises in the woods—a Blue Jay was tapping on a branch with an occasional squawk.  Then bigger noises—was it squirrels?  It seemed too loud for squirrels.  Then I saw a big tail in an Oak tree—a big, feathered tail.  It was a turkey!  Two mama Wild Turkeys and their chicks were flying from tree to tree.  Wild Turkeys love acorns, and we wondered if they were eating the acorns from the trees since few have fallen to the ground yet.  Like chickens, Wild Turkeys have a crop for storage of food and a gizzard where grinding of nuts and seeds occurs.  When the mama flew to another tree, she and the chicks would cluck and chirp to one another and soon the little ones followed.  At dusk, Turkeys fly up into trees to roost for the night for protection from predators like coyotes, foxes, skunks, and raccoons.  Soon the turkeys in our trees settled down for the night.  At dawn, they will fly down to the ground again to begin another day.

 

The sounds and sights of August, despite the heat and humidity, allude to the waning Summer and the upcoming Autumn.  Summer in the North is indeed short and sweet.  But Nature prepares us always for the transition.  We are gathered up in the progression of time, seasons, and lives whether we are aware of it or not.  Just as an early morning walk can tune us in to the blessings of a day, silent stillness can hone us in on those things in our lives that matter, that are important, that are the shining gems in our treasure box.  One of those gems for me is a big, Black Lab dog who has walked with me for ten years now.  Her transition time, our transition time, is nigh.  Dusk is settling around us.  And each day I am so very grateful to walk down the road with her, as we are, where we are, in all our glory.

The Art of Being Stuck

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I don’t know about you, but there have been a number of times in my life when I have been stuck.  Not stuck in the mud or snow—though that has happened a couple of times, too—but stuck in my life.  To be fair to myself, most of those times the stuckness was only in a certain area of my life while there was movement and growth in other areas—all at the same time.  Like one boot sucked down into the mud so far that your foot comes out of it as the rest of your body propels forward, but you falter because you want to save your boot.  And you don’t want to take the next step into the muck with only your sock on.  Being stuck isn’t a good feeling, and I would venture to guess that no one chooses it.  There is a convergence of thought, belief, and circumstances that stop us in our tracks—and keep us there for a while.

Chris and I, after wandering around St. Cloud trying to find the parking area, went hiking on the Beaver Island Trail that follows the Mississippi River south of the University.  It is a biking and hiking trail that follows the old railroad path and the area of the River that contains the fifteen or more islands known as Beaver Islands, as named by Zebulon Pike in his expedition up the River in 1805.

One of the first places where we were able to get close to the River, we saw a log stuck on a rock.  The water was rushing around it, and we laughed about how it ended up there.  It almost looked like a sculpture of some sort!

We walked farther to another island with a sandbar of rocks that was populated by crows, not beavers.  They were noisy and chippy with one another.

As we walked on, we saw a ghostly dead tree among the varied greens of the other trees.  We saw pretty, but noxious Purple Loosestrife swaying in the wind beside the water.  And we saw another log stuck on a rock.

The paved bike path was getting farther away from the River, and with all the trees and horrible Buckthorn, we couldn’t see the water.  We did see a historical marker that commemorated where the original St. John’s Benedictine Monastery was located in 1857 to provide for “the spiritual and educational needs of German immigrants.”  Ten years later the monastery was relocated to its present location in Collegeville.  We saw the belltower of the Catholic-run St. Cloud Children’s Home high on the hill above the tree tops.

Flowering Sumac and robust Poison Ivy grew along the tree-lined bike path.

We took a narrow trail off the bike path to go down to the River, trying to skirt our bare calves around the poison ivy.  There were large Jack-in-the-Pulpits under the huge, River-fed trees.  The air was humid and warm, like a storm was brewing.  Once down to the River, we saw Canadian Geese on one of the islands and a pair of granite boulders stuck in the sandbar of another.

And another log stuck on a rock, perfectly balanced, in the middle of the mighty Mississippi.

I walked on a huge tree that had fallen into the water and caused a log jam of debris.  Scum folded into accordion pleats against the logs, stuck between the current and the unmoving dam of logs.

The River was wild and interesting in this Beaver Archipelago, and I had a strong desire to explore some of the islands, even as I wondered if I would have the courage to take on the current in a canoe.

We headed back to the bike path, back to the car, back to the City and saw that there was indeed a storm brewing.

 

In our short Friday afternoon walk, Nature provided plenty of examples of the art of being stuck.  The ever-flowing, ever-changing Mississippi River was the reason logs ended up in sculpture-like poses on rocks protruding from the water.  It would also be the reason, with a torrential storm and rising waters, that the logs would become un-stuck.  The boulders illustrate a different story.  Perhaps it was a glacier that deposited them there—it is more of a mystery.  Would the most powerful flooding waters move them?  I’m not sure.  The huge, fallen tree will hold back the current, the logs, the debris, for years, but will eventually rot away and succumb to the movement and power of the River.  Life is our River, ever-flowing, ever-changing.  It is the reason for our stuckness and the reason we move on.  Sometimes the dead ghosts of our past stop us in our tracks, and we are afraid to step into the muck of our feelings.  We stay stuck as Life flows past us.  But the current of Life or an ominous, brewing storm can propel us from our rock, from our muck, from our hidden place behind an old log.  Once again we enter the River and feel the exhilaration of that life-giving force that quietly supports us in our static pose of stuckness and steadies us in the joyous, tumbling current of Life.

The Branches of My Being

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When I was a child, supple-muscled and fresh-faced, I had my own room.  It had blue walls, blue and white curtains and bedspread, and white furniture with gold trim.  I made my bed every morning and had all my treasures arranged on my dressers just so.  I liked to keep things neat and tidy.  Cleaning was a Saturday morning ritual not to be messed with, and I learned to be thorough and efficient (because the ‘fun’ stuff could only be done after the cleaning.)  It also became a meditation of sorts, with my body moving through the mundane motions while my young mind processed all the thoughts and e-motions of my life.

Even though decades of raising three kids and an aging body have softened my ‘neat freak’ mind, I still like to clean and keep things in order.  So I have been particularly bothered these past years by the dead branches that hang from some of the trees in the yard and the woods.  I look at them and feel compelled to trim away the dead, thinking they would look so much better.  But my tree-man husband puts off my compelling aesthetic arguments for the sake of the trees.  Certain trees and shrubs should only be trimmed at certain times of the year in order to preserve the health of the tree or to promote blooming.  Not only when the leaves are looking pretty and one is simply bothered by low- or dead-hanging branches!  Then when the leaves are gone, I don’t even notice the dead ones on the bare silhouette of the tree!  So the dead branches remain, and like any other thorn under our skin that we live with, our relationship with it changes.

The reason this old Oak tree has some dead branches is because of a physiological phenomenon called self-pruning.  When a branch does not produce as much carbohydrate by photosynthesis as it uses in respiration, food, minerals and water are withheld from the branch.  The tree seals off the limb with resins, and the branch eventually dies.

Access to light is the most important reason for self-pruning.  Trees that grow in open areas rarely shed their branches for this reason, but trees that grow in the woods do not have enough light to maintain all the branches.  Self-pruning happens frequently with small twigs, and as the crown of a tree gets bigger, the large, lower branches may also die.

Shade intolerant trees like Aspen, Paper Birch, Red Pine, Elm, and Ash are known for sequestering food from lower branches, causing them to die.  The actual shedding of the dead branch occurs over time as it weakens from water, fungi, and insects and then comes down with wind, snow, or animals.

In a forest of Red Pines, the lower dead branches are of varying lengths with many short, truncated staubs that look like steps up the straight trunk of the tree.

 

The dead branches, those thorns under my neat-freak skin, no longer bother me like they once did.  Now I see them as an essential part of the story of the tree.  They are expressive parts of the younger tree, when the sun shone strong and bright, when nothing impaired its growth and vitality.  They are part of the history of the tree.  Just like us.  We have these parts of ourselves from our younger, growing self and life that die and get truncated.  We don’t have to cut them away, no longer to be seen or thought of again.  Each is an essential part of our stories.  I still put my treasures on the dressers just so—they are even the same dressers, though the white and gold paint was stripped off to reveal the mahogany wood underneath.  Every past interest, friend, longing, hobby, and experience are all branches of my being.

Zero to Sixty

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In two weeks’ time, we have accelerated from Spring to Summer.  The normal progression of leafing out and blooming has been disrupted this year—things seem rather confused.  The very warm temperatures of these last days have pushed some things to bloom, while at the same time the early bloomers are just catching up from the delay a late snowstorm produced.  So now the daffodils, honeysuckle, lilacs, crabapples, viburnums, flag irises, and anemones are all blooming at the same time!  Instead of Spring slowly unfolding in its progressive, orderly way, it’s been like a tire-spinning Ferrari going from zero to sixty in 2.9 seconds!

On Mother’s Day two weeks ago, we took a short hike around Rockville County Park.  The leaves were just emerging from the trees, which made bird watching easier.  We saw a Baltimore Oriole and a Rose-breasted Grosbeak and heard their beautiful songs.

An adult Eagle floated in the sky above us looking for food to feed the two hungry ‘babies’ in the nest.  They have a few years until they grow into the elegance of their parents.

A tall, showy Serviceberry was blooming in the woods, looking almost out of place with the other bare, brown-with-green-tinged trees.

Later, back at home, a lone turkey wandered through the front yard.  She circled around the garage, then was scared by a tractor going down the road.  She ran to the backyard and flew up into the oak trees, defying her size!  She stayed there for quite a while, cautiously looking around to determine her safety.  Finally she opened her wings and glided to the ground.

We had a few rain showers in the last two weeks, though it still seems very dry, especially as the temperatures have gone so unseasonably high this past week.  The rainy days helped the Purple Leaf Plum leaf out and bloom, helped the Purple Flag Irises open their tissue-paper-thin flowers, and gave the Baltimore Oriole a shower.

On another trek to Eagle Park, we saw Purple Martins sitting on the porches of their house.  Just as we got out of the car, they all flew away, and I saw a Hawk capture one in the air, going zero to sixty!  He flew to a branch of a tree with the Purple Martin in his claws.

Then he dropped it!  He looked down at his fallen prey but did not fly down to get it as we watched!

 

It seems like we waited so long for Spring to come this year, and then when it did finally show up, it zoomed into summer—what crazy weather!  I remember when the kids were younger how we waited for milestones—when they walked, talked, tied their own shoes, started school, and dozens of others.  While the waiting seemed long, when they finally passed a milestone, things started to move faster, and we looked back thinking how time had zoomed by so quickly!  How could ten years, twenty years, now thirty years have passed since we held these dear babies in our arms?  Crazy time.  These children of ours—we try to keep them safe, provide food, shelter, learning and love, help them to bloom, and teach them to fly.  Sometimes desires and dreams fall from their grasps—from our grasps—and we look down and decide whether or not we will pick them up again or let them go.  We all take a couple of years or a lifetime to grow into our elegance.