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Appreciating the Beauty and Wisdom of Nature

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Archives for July 2020

The Exact Right Moment

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I’ve been holding on to a picture since May. It is a special photograph that I ran from the front of the house to the back of the house to snap after running to get my camera after standing up and glancing out the window at the exact right moment one morning. What are the chances?! Seriously, I love those moments so much. What I saw was a fox running across the front yard with something in her mouth. I ran to get my camera. I took the lens cap off on the run, turned it on, got to the window, pointed, and…she was gone around the side of the house. I ran to the back and got one picture of her before she slipped into the trees. She was beautiful…and elusive. I thank my lucky stars for encounters like that—even more so when I can manage to capture the moment with my camera. I have seen her four times this Spring and early Summer, out hunting for her kits, I imagine. One time was on my birthday, which is the second time in three years and at two different places that I have seen a fox on my birthday. What are the chances?! I held on to the picture to share at just the right time—so here is my serendipitous photo of the fox—please enjoy, smile, marvel, wonder, and thank your lucky stars that we are privileged to see such beauty!

Five months ago Chris and I walked across the Mississippi River on the thick ice, an experiment in comfort-busting. (go here) The River is a force in Minnesota as it flows from its source at Lake Itasca, diagonally through the central part of the state, down through the Twin Cities, then along the border with Wisconsin until it hands it off to Iowa. The power of the River is the same here as with any river that plays such a huge role in the life of a state. It is commerce, it is recreation, it is aesthetic. The force of the River comes from Mother Nature, however. It is mystical, spiritual, phenomenal. It is ever-flowing. On our bike ride this past weekend, we once again crossed over the River, this time on an old railroad bridge of bumpy, worn railroad ties. The River flowed swiftly and shallowly over rocks, as right behind us was a tall, cement dam and power plant built in 1924. The River is held up, blocked, checked, impeded, restricted, obstructed by the huge dam and controlled as to how much water is released over the dam at any given time. The spirits of the River mourn.

If you are a person who has worked on a farm, one who has ever done the physical work of chopping, de-heading, or hand spraying thistles, you know the ‘eye’ that comes from doing so. You get tuned in to seeing them as you walk the pasture or drive the field roads (or drive the public roads and look at the ditches.) The light purple flowers and prickly stems and leaves are ‘honed in on’ as the enemy, so to speak.

“A weed is a flower growing in the wrong place.” –George Washington Carver

On our bike ride, my thistle-trained eye spotted a patch of purple down the embankment from the bike trail by the River. There on a prickly thistle was a Great Spangled Fritillary drinking in the sweet nectar of that purple flower. The late afternoon sun shone on the pearl white spangles on the underside of its wings and on the lavender flowers, and the light cast a rosy hue on the legs of the butterfly. Beautiful!

“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life, you will have been all of these.” –George Washington Carver

George Washington Carver had a much deeper, broader, soulful definition of “how far you go in life” than the surface parameters of fame, power, and wealth. Reminds me of something Jesus would say or rather, did say in a number of ways. The spirit of each person is like a river, ever-flowing, the life force that we embody. It is uniquely special and rare. It is not our jobs in life to build dams that block, check, impede, restrict, obstruct, and control the moving life-force in other people. (And that has nothing to do with real and appropriate laws and consistent and responsible order that sustains a functioning community or a functioning individual.) People can hone in on whatever they were trained or believe to be ‘the enemy’—that has much more to say about the person than the perceived enemy. Thistles are on a spectrum from beautiful flower with life-giving nectar to enemy of a healthy, productive pasture. It is not an either/or issue, not right or wrong, not black or white. And like it or not, everything in this world lies on the same spectrum. We live in the long, gray area between the two extremes—or maybe I should say in the beautiful, rainbow colors of that spectrum. And that brings us back to beauty. Without a doubt, we are living through a tumultuous, difficult time, and yet, every day there are those beautiful, elusive moments that open our hearts and make us happy to be alive among God’s creation. Hold on to them. Smile, marvel, wonder, and thank your lucky stars, and then share them with the world.

Tattered

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If I were a butterfly, my wings would be tattered. It hasn’t been wind and rain but storms of other kinds that have wreaked havoc on my body and devastated my heart. Like the butterfly, the longer we live and the more life experiences we have, the greater the chances of being tattered.

Sometimes life is just plain hard for oh-so-many reasons that are out of our control—coronavirus, job loss and the cascade that comes from that, certain illnesses and losses of relationships. It feels like we are pushing against the status quo, defying gravity, carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders.

At times we get stuck and wonder how the heck we ended up in this place. ‘I did not sign up for this.’

Life can turn us in circles, bind us in the weeds, trip us up, even as we are working hard to do the right thing.

Then there are those times, thankfully rare, when we are immobilized, frozen, stuck in a web of confusion and uncertainty. We are cocooned. The life we have known is taken from us—we dissolve from the person we used to be….into….nothingness….for a while, at least. The grief and despair of being wretched out of our old life and long-held beliefs is a bottomless well—or so it seems at the time.

But there is a bottom. In fact, it is constructed for each one of us—it catches us from our seemingly fatal fall in the exact right way, often without our awareness. We are still flailing and desolate, fighting against the constraints of change.

Do not be afraid—you are on the right path. Don’t struggle against the struggle.

But what helps with the struggle? Good nutrition of body, heart and soul—food, love, and meaning.

Sunlight…

the heartbeat of Mother Nature…

beauty…

support for our well-being and growth…

and knowing we, like all of God’s creations, can get through tough times.

Where do beauty and respect abide? Struggle is a part of the human experience. It is not for nought. Struggle helps us learn. It refines our beliefs. It is an opportunity to better ourselves and our world. It is meant to be a reckoning of who we are and where we stand in this Earthly creation. So while struggle is deeply and profoundly personal—it is only ourselves who are peering down the deep, dark well of whatever is tearing apart our hearts and souls—it is also God’s call to us to reach beyond our personal reclamation. We are citizens of the community, the church, the state, the country, and the world. In reckoning and reclamation comes a responsibility to our fellow citizens—not responsibility for, but to—and to our Earth. We are not here to take, use, discard, abuse, and misuse the lives of other people or the resources of our planet. Our personal freedom is tempered by our collective responsibility. Therein lies beauty and respect. So let’s celebrate tattered wings, storms of struggle, and hard-won inner battles. Let’s reach out during this Covid time with food, love, and light. Let’s know deep in our bodies, hearts, and souls that like the old Oak tree, we can get through tough times and that there is a landing place from which to rebuild. Fly, though your wings be tattered.

Prairie Tough and Beautiful

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I was sitting in my circle of trees the other evening. The sun was low in the sky, not to be seen through all the layers of Pine trees. But I noticed that the tip-top of the tallest Aspen tree caught the twilight rays of the sun with a shining amber color. A slight breeze quivered the leaves in a soft song as the light faded away. So much of Nature is quiet and unassuming. She does her work without fanfare and most often without notice.

One of the places of Mother Nature that often goes unnoticed is the prairie. Travelers erroneously say ‘there’s nothing there’ or ‘it’s boring.’ I am a lover of prairies and will refute such talk. There is so much there! I am fortunate, not only to be surrounded by trees, but also to have a patch of prairie in the front yard. The soil is sandy and quickly dries, and whoever lives in my little prairie has to be tough. Quiet, unassuming grasses and wildflowers grow and thrive in the open, sunny spot.

One June-blooming wildflower that does garner some attention with its bright yellow-orange clusters of flowers is Hoary Puccoon. The roots were used by Native Americans to make a red dye.

A common prairie flower, one of the early bloomers, is Prairie Smoke. The bell-shaped flowers hang down, but after pollination, the stems straighten up, and the seed heads of feathery plumes form.

Pollinators are another quiet, most often unseen part of Nature that work hard and do important work. In essence, they provide the movement of male parts of the flower (pollen) to the female parts (stigma)—they help the process of fertilization so the fruits and seeds can develop. Pollinators include birds, bats, butterflies, moths, flies, beetles, and most importantly bees.

Another June-blooming wildflower in our little prairie is Shell Leaf Penstemon. Its large lavender flowers whorl around a single stalk above the opposite, clasping leaves that hold rainwater like a small shell.

The flower tubes are large enough for bumblebees to crawl inside to perform their pollinator duties.

No prairie is complete without the tough, fragrant presence of Yarrow. The leaves are fern-like, as described by its species name, millefolium, meaning ‘thousand leaves.’ The flowers are flat-topped clusters of many tiny flowers, all ‘working’ together as one.

Evening Primroses do as their name says—bloom in the evenings! The stalk of flowers bloom from the bottom up, a few flowers at a time. They open in the evenings and wilt by noon of the next day. Sphinx moths pollinate them during the night, but I also see a small bee on one of the flowers.

Daisy Fleabane is another self-described name. It was used by pioneers in their beds to keep away fleas. The radiant daisy-like flowers (actually asters) bloom from Spring to Fall on leafless flower stems.

Once grown as a hay crop, this escaped plant now grows ‘wild.’ White Sweet Clover, along with its sister Yellow Sweet Clover, is a major source of nectar for the Honeybee to make honey. The genus name, Melilotus, is Greek for ‘honey.’ Can you see the bee?

A member of the Mustard family, Hoary Alyssum is an inconspicuous white-blooming wildflower common on the prairie. It pairs well with Hairy False Goldenaster—both are covered in downy white hairs (thus their names.)

June and July on my little prairie with grasses, wildflowers, silver sages, and pollinators! It is a diverse, ever-changing ecosystem full of tough, unique, and beautiful plants.

Prairie plants and their busy pollinators, in their quiet and unassuming way, remind me of all the front-line workers of this pandemic we are living through. The nurses, EMTs, police and fire workers, housekeepers, RTs, caretakers, doctors, funeral workers, grocery store workers, and all the other workers who risk their lives in order to take care of our needs. They do their work without fanfare and so often go unnoticed and under-appreciated. They are tough—they wear their masks all day long to keep the rest of us as safe as possible. Their work is hard, and it’s important. A thousand thanks to the tough, unique, and beautiful people on the front lines of this pandemic. You are the shining stars.

Our 20/20 Vision

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Anyone who needs glasses knows that a lens or two can make all the difference in the world. With contact lenses, a person can ‘look’ like they have 20/20 vision, even as the tiny lenses float on the cornea in front of each eye’s intrinsic lens. Then there are camera and binocular lenses, microscope and telescope lenses, and lenses in a lighthouse, each performing a specific function in order for us to see more clearly. Anything with a curved surface that is transparent—even a drop of water—can be a lens that focuses light.

Thursday evening I took my camera from the cooled inside of our house to the warm, humid patio to snap a picture of the nearly-full moon. The muggy, warm air fogged the lenses of my glasses and of the camera. I swiped away the moisture with my shirttail. The moon is intriguing, even in its cyclic sameness—a lunar body close to Earth that reflects the light of the far-away Sun. Even without a change in the camera apparatus, the color of the moon can look different from photo to photo—from a greenish tinge…

…to a rose tinge…

…to gray.

As I zoomed out for another shot, I noticed a faint circle of color around the moon. The colors changed and got brighter.

I realized that the rainbow colors around the moon were only seen through the camera lens—the humid air was condensing on the lens once again and fragmenting the moon light into its spectrum of colors!

Talk about intriguing! I was mesmerized with the colorful rainbow light around the beautiful nearly-full moon.

I was so distracted by the concentric circles of color that I ignored the mosquitoes landing on my skin.

Even though I knew the phenomenon was the result of the hot, humid weather, I believed in the vision of my rainbow moon.

I mean, look at these photographs, look through the camera, how can you not believe?! (The only thing better would be a unicorn flying by.)

What kind of lens do we look at the world and our lives through? Is something condensing on our lenses when we look at other people? I lived with rose-colored glasses for a good part of my life—it was a coping mechanism I unconsciously employed in an attempt to make me feel safe, to make it look like there were no bad things or bad people in the world. In contrast, there are many people wearing dark-colored glasses who see a certain kind of people as bad, who feel like bad things are happening all around them. Neither vision is the truth, but it is our truth that we see through our lenses. Our fogged up lenses distract us from the very real experiences and happenings of life—whether it’s rainbows, unicorns, monuments, or masks. The energy is fragmented, scattered to peripheral issues that pull us away from the painful reality right in front of us. It is a coping mechanism. We all want to feel safe. Deflect and deny. In truth, the painful reality we are most afraid of is not what is in front of us but what is inside of us.

We all have lenses through which we observe the world. Many are helpful and meaningful to our life’s work, to helping others, and to our relationships. But oftentimes we have a foggy lens—what we see isn’t reality. We need to clear that lens with a clean cotton shirttail. Focus the light on our hearts. Ask yourself, “What do I see in me?” Then the rainbows (as beautiful as they are) and the fear can fall away, and we can see the moon as it is. We can see individual people as they are (just like me in many ways.) We can see harmful situations and a way to make them better. We can want for others what we want for ourselves. It can make all the difference in the world.