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Archives for January 2017

Be Like the Birch Tree

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All change is not growth, as all movement is not forward.  –Ellen Glasgow

Yesterday I went back to school!  Oh my gosh, do I love school!  Sitting in the dim classroom with all the other students, getting the syllabus, seeing what’s on the agenda for the day, week, or semester, and meeting the new teacher or professor—it’s one of the best feelings!  Actually, this time, my school was only for a one-day conference, but it was exciting, nonetheless, and represents something that is key to my life—learning and growing.

The Birch tree right outside our front door is growing, seemingly right before our eyes.  Large and small swatches of white bark are peeling off the Paper Birch in horizontal strips.

It seems to just be bursting out of its bark!

Betula papyrifera is a fairly fast growing tree that will add 13″-24″ each year and is one of a few trees that annually sheds its bark.

Young Paper Birch bark is darker in color and when older than five years, the white bark will appear.

The Paper Birch is also called Canoe Birch, as the Native Americans and early fur trappers used the bark to make canoes, containers, and wigwams.

The bark has a high oil content making it an excellent fire starter even when wet and is what gives the bark its waterproof and weather resistant qualities.

The discarded bark was also used as paper to send messages to people, and we have been the lucky recipients of a few birch bark postcards when our kids lived up in the Northwoods for the summers.

One of the three trunks of our Birch was drilled by a woodpecker last summer in neatly spaced rows.  Often they drill for sap and insects it attracts, preferring soft bark and high sugar content, both of which the Birch tree has.  

This truck’s growth is not as exuberant as the other two and is probably using its energy to combat the injury from the woodpeckers and/or insects.

 

I am like the Birch tree with its burst of growth.  Sometimes our growth comes when we choose it—like going back to school or taking a class to learn a new skill.  Other times our growth happens from circumstances that present themselves to us—an opportunity for a new job or a trip to a different country.  And then there are times of wounding—of injury or disease, of divorce or estrangement, of betrayal or abandonment—when our souls and hearts are drilled with holes, when it feels like our life-force is seeping out.  It’s hard to believe that anything so devastating can lead to growth.  At first, all our energy goes to stop the bleeding, to send out the immune cells that protect us from losing the battle when the first shots are fired.  When stabilized, ever so slowly we begin to stitch together some new fabric, discarding the threads that no longer work and incorporating new ones that are stronger, more resilient and authentic.  The winter of our discontent begins to wane in the face of the sun.  Tiny shoots of new growth push up through the soil of darkness.  Old beliefs peel away to reveal our smooth, authentic Self.  The old bark has done its job, protecting us when we needed it, and then provides the kindling to ignite a new stage of growth.  Be like the Birch tree!   

January Meltdown

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Many of us have experienced the meltdown of a toddler.  It begins slowly, often unnoticeably, with fidgeting or quietness.  We notice it when the whining starts, the unhappy whimpers, the stiff bodies refusing to conform to car seats or highchairs, the turning away of eye contact, the swatting of tiny hands at anything within reach.  Full-on crying ensues that cannot be quieted or calmed, and usually the body is fully involved with kicking, hitting, arching of the back, and rolling around.  A meltdown is a full-body experience.

This week, typically the coldest part of winter here in Minnesota, we are experiencing an abnormal meltdown.  Daytime temperatures crept above freezing, softening the fluffy whiteness and melting the thin layer of snow on the driveway.  Freezing temps at night iced the sidewalks and roads to slickness again.  Precipitation during the day came as drizzle and raindrops instead of snowflakes, and fog formed with all the melting moisture.  Air quality plummeted.  The last three nights, the temperature stayed above freezing—normal low temperatures of mid to late April.  The melting snow dripped off the roof sounding like I was in the wrong season or place.  With all the bleak fog, there wasn’t a chance for sunshine.  A meltdown is a full-sensory experience.

 

The meltdown of a toddler isn’t an aberration—it occurs within a normal developmental stage of growth when children are egocentric and often struggling with communicating their needs and wants.  A meltdown is a reaction to feeling overwhelmed, and there is an underlying reason or reasons—they are tired, hungry, frustrated, bored, thirsty, and/or overstimulated, which often happens when our children are always on adult schedules.  An attentive parent can anticipate problems and notice the signs that something isn’t quite right.  Intervention with a snack, a nap, a change of plans, or attention can prevent a meltdown.

November was abnormally warm (Not Your Normal November), and we still had flowers blooming.  This January meltdown is also out of the ordinary, with nighttime temperatures above freezing (32 degrees F) when they usually average 1-2 degrees above 0.  We will have more snow and colder temperatures, but the whimpering has begun.  As caretakers of this Earth, it is our responsibility to notice the signs that something isn’t quite right and intervene with positive actions.  After all, we don’t want the meltdown to be a full-earth experience.

The Parable of the Flaming Sunset

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A day of snow ended with a flaming sunset that glowed warm yellow and orange in the center of the light.  Cool pink and blue surrounded the flame, reflecting the cold whiteness of the January earth.  The Old One knew this was no ordinary sunset—the light signified a special unfolding of time and events.

The next morning snow fell again.  With it came an unusual occurrence—a large black crow flew to the tree beside the dwelling and spoke to the Old One.  “Go to the top of the world where the Three Wise Guardians stand, then find the Giver of Life.”

A second crow flew to the Maple tree and this time the message was for the Young One.  “Make a path for the Old One, for the Old One has spent many years making a path for you.”  A tiny Chickadee scribe marked the words of these extraordinary messengers.

The Old One and the Young One looked at one another in dismay at the talking of the crows.  Remembering the flaming sunset from the night before, the Old One prepared for the walk to the top of the world with hope and excitement.  The snow stopped falling, and the sky became a brilliant blue, reflecting its tint on the snow.

And as they walked through the snow, the Young One made a path for the Old One, just as the crow had instructed.

They reached the top of the world where the guardian Oaks stood strong and wind-swept.

“Find the Giver of Life,” thought the Old One.  So the Old One followed the Young One down the steep hill to the River, holding on to resilient saplings for support, and was glad the trail blazed by young legs made the going a little easier.

The River was covered in ice and snow.  A circle of open water along the bank warned the Young One and Old One not to walk on the ice, for the flowing current underneath made the way uncertain and dangerous.  So they walked between the shore and the rocky outcroppings.

Old One stepped on something under the snow that crunched and gave away.  Young One, who had walked the path before the snow, said it was trash, bags of trash.  Old One was horrified that such a beautiful, life-giving place was littered with garbage.  Dispirited, Old One turned to go back, wondering why the crows had sent them down to the River, the Giver of Life, only to find danger in the ice-covered river and rubbish strewn along its shores.  All covered over with pure white, beautiful snow.

The walk back home was more difficult.  The steep hill and frigid cold grabbed the air from Old One’s lungs.  The trek that had started out so hopeful and inspiring had turned arduous and disheartening.  What did the Three Wise Guardians at the top of the world know about the journey and what lay below their watchful eye?

The Young One led the way with strength and silence, knowing the Old One was discouraged and slow but still determined.  When almost home, the Young One pointed to a log that had been split in half.  “Look.  The snow has made the log whole again.”

 

 

“I will guide you.  I will turn darkness into light before you and make the rough places smooth.”  –Isaiah 42:16

 

 

Birds of a Feather

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What if all the birds of the world looked and acted alike?  How would this homogeneous population serve the earth?  The winter birds bring activity, color, and beauty to the very coldest, bleakest part of our northern winters.  With temperatures plunging below zero this week, our feeders filled with black oil sunflower seeds have been life-giving to the varied population of feathered and furred creatures.

I read a blog post recently that made me curious about how we perceive homogeneousness.  Many are familiar with the term homogeneous from chemistry when substances are in the same phase or from geometry when angles are the same.  Homogeneous is defined as ‘essentially alike.’  The writer of the blog post, in the most general definition, lives in a very homogeneous population, yet wrote with disdain about some of the people in his daily life who chose a different path from the writer.  I thought, ‘Wow!  If this person has disdain for people who are so ‘essentially alike’ him, it’s no wonder there is little tolerance for people who truly are different.’

Heterogeneous means ‘different in kind; unlike.’  The different kinds of birds and creatures who come to our bird feeders in the winter showcase the diversity of Nature.  The Red-bellied Woodpecker flies to the feeder and scatters all the other birds who are feeding there.  His black and white barred feathers and red cap make him one of the showiest birds.  His diet of mostly insects is supplemented by the seeds he collects and stores in the bark of trees. 

The intelligent Blue Jay is the only bird that will challenge the Red-bellied Woodpecker as the dominant feeder bird.  His loud calls and large size intimidate the smaller birds.  Blue Jays love acorns and have been shown to cache 3-5,000 acorns in one autumn.  It is believed that Blue Jays helped spread the growth of oak trees after the glacial period.

Dark-eyed Juncos are small sparrows, mainly seed eaters who hop instead of walk.  They eat off the ground, scratching through leaf litter and snow to find their food.  They are snowbirds who retreat north to Canada in spring and summer.  

Purple Finches live near coniferous trees, eat berries, fruit, and weed seeds and love black oil sunflower seeds.  The males have a rosy colored head, breast and rump patch while the females are mostly brown.

This female Cardinal was having a bad crest day one very windy morning.  Usually the crests of Cardinals and Blue Jays are raised as a sign of aggression and down while feeding, but the wind had other plans.  Both male and female Cardinals are obsessed with defending their territory and will attack their own reflection in windows, thinking it’s another bird.

White-breasted Nuthatches eat mainly insects, but got their common name by storing large nuts and seeds in the crevices of tree bark, then whacking them with their bill to ‘hatch’ the seed out of it.  They are often seen going sideways and upside down on the trunks of trees.

American Goldfinches are the only finch to molt twice a year, giving them a bright yellow feathered coat in the spring and summer and a dull, muted yellow coat in the fall and winter.  Goldfinches are the strictest vegetarians and love thistle and aster seeds.

Curious and acrobatic Black-capped Chickadees flit to the feeder, grab a seed, and fly away to a branch to eat it or hide it for later.  They can remember thousands of hiding places.  Their namesake call of chickadee-dee-dee indicates a higher threat level with the more dee notes on the call.

The small Downy Woodpecker eats mainly insects, including many pest insects, but likes the suet cakes in the winter.  Only the male has a red patch on the back of his head.  Downy Woodpeckers don’t sing songs but drum loudly on wood and metal during courtship for the same purpose.

The birds share the feeders and seeds with the squirrels…

and rabbits, or maybe it is they that share with the birds.

 

What if all the birds were alike?  What if all of us humans were alike?  How would these homogeneous populations serve the world?  My guess is….not very well.  The blog writer scorned others who were in essence very similar to himself, which gave the impression that he wanted all others to act and believe like he did in order for them to be worthy.  God created a diverse world of birds, creatures, plants, trees, and humans.  All have a place at the table, a role to fulfill, and a job to do in the grand scheme that is not ours, but God’s.  Perhaps we need a biannual molt of ideas to show our new colors.  Fighting to defend ourselves and our territory is innate and at times, necessary, but too often we end up attacking the reflection of ourselves.  

 

Gleanings from December—Threshold of the New

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Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.   –Edmund Waller

I crossed the threshold into the white-steepled Lutheran church.  The old, traditional sanctuary was simply and beautifully decorated for Christmas.  In the small narthex was my Grandfather’s casket—rich, golden-hued wood, not fancy, just lovely, with a lining that had sheaves of wheat imprinted on it, and I thought to myself, “How perfect.”  My father’s father was a small man, a farmer, born in a sod house in the Dakota Territory in 1884, before South Dakota became a state.  I was in my second year of college, and this was the first death of someone close to me.  He had lived at home until two or three days before his death, had received communion from his pastor in those twilight hours of his life, and slipped away in peace.  He was 93 years old.  It was a funeral of celebration, the most peaceful and almost joyful funeral I have ever attended.

Nine years and two days after his death, I gave birth to our first daughter, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.

My sweet Grandma Irene died after a lengthy stay in a nursing home at the age of 94.  She was a teacher and a farmer’s wife.  She cared about people more than anyone I have ever known.  She was a great cook, a dedicated artist, and had a wonderful laugh.  The funeral was held in the Lutheran church where Chris and I were married, and it was joyfully decorated with a large tree, wreaths, and banners.

Twenty-one years before that day, I had given birth to our second daughter, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.

My Dad died a year and five days ago.  He was a cowboy, mechanic, and builder.  I found out about his death as I stood in our Minnesota home amidst the smell of the fir tree, the sparking lights, the greenery, and the nativity scenes.

Twenty-three years minus two days before his death, I gave birth to our son, in a hospital decorated for Christmas.

So…December.  The last two weeks of December have always been beautiful, busy, bustling, and bright.  As the years have passed, and the kids are gone from the nest and loved ones are gone from this earth, it has also been bittersweet.  It is a time of transition, from the old year to the new—in birthday years and calendar years.  December was a month of crazy weather transitions with snow, ice, rain, and bitter cold.  Blue skies and frosty days painted the landscape with diamonds of ice crystals.

Twilight thresholds of a sundog sunset—like three suns setting…

…and a full-moon rising, nestled in the pine and spruce boughs.

A bright spot in December was the annual blooming of the Christmas cactus.  My plant is a cutting from the very large, old Christmas cactus that belonged to my great-grandma Anna on my Mom’s side of the family.  It was passed down to Anna’s daughter Edith, with cuttings to my Mom and then to me.

The winter birds returned to the feeders, their daily feeding times a joyous and energetic ritual—the epitome of living in the moment.

 

The end of a month, the end of a year, the beginning of a new month, the beginning of a new year.  We’re standing on the threshold—looking back at the old in all its certainty, looking forward to the new with anticipation and wonder.  Like those days of loss when the world would never be the same without our loved ones, and we looked forward with sorrow and trepidation.  Like those glorious birth days, when our world turned upside down and we didn’t know what lay in store for us, but we looked forward with excitement, joy, and love.  Nature offers us those threshold times every day with each twilight—the day coming to an end at dusk with the setting of the sun and a new day dawning as the sun rises.  Seasons and years slowly and consistently transition, remaining steadfast as we cross the threshold marked by the calendar.  The threads that tie the old with the new are many—the love of our families, the expression of our talents, the DNA that links us, and even the generations-old Christmas cactus that blooms each December.  These threads give us the courage to step forward through the threshold with hope and determination.  We can be like the feeding birds and show up in our present moment with joy and energy.  The Latin word for threshold is ‘limen’, the root word for liminal space and liminality.  David Guyor defines threshold or liminal space as ” the place or the experience where we are getting ourselves ready to move across the limits of what we were into what we are to be.”  Sometimes those thresholds are thrust upon us and we are blindsided, and our recovery and action are slow and self-protecting; other times we stand at the threshold of our choosing with determination and power.  Gather up the threads from the past that serve and sustain us and let them carry us across the liminal space into what we are to be.  Happy New Year!