NorthStarNature

Appreciating the Beauty and Wisdom of Nature

You are here: Home / Archives for Spring

A Primal Rhythm of Motherhood

by 4 Comments

Things were going fine. I had done this before. I was patient and attentive. We all knew the routine. Then something changed. Most Moms have experienced that moment. It seems like there is calm before the storm, but in reality the energy is gathering. Something on the inside isn’t right—tension and discomfort are building. The crying begins…and doesn’t stop. Diapers are changed; food is offered. Rocking and walking and bouncing all in one continuous, gentle movement is the motion of motherhood. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. This particular time, it didn’t. As her distress continued, my inability to comfort her distressed me. Soon we were both crying. Walking, rocking, bouncing, crying—a primal rhythm of attachment and motherhood.

In our quest for Spring this week, we achieved a landmark—the green blush of new leaves on the stands of Aspen trees down by the River. The Oaks, Maples, and Ashes will soon obscure the Aspens, but for now, they allow us to see through them, past them, to the tender green beginners.

And then the rain came—the nourishment of new growth. It was exactly what we needed, what was expected.

Onion-like Chives shot up out of the ground while Creeping Thyme slowly greened behind them.

The stems on the Ostrich Ferns s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d in spurts of growth, even as the fiddleheads continued to hold their curls.

That afternoon, the rain changed to snow. The wind picked up. What seemed like a calm Spring rain became an energetic throwback to Winter.

The wind seemed to be coming from all directions—the snow fell in swirls, the Hemlocks twirled. Spring hope was blurred out by the tension and cries of ‘Winter!’

Eventually the wind and snow subsided, but the snow stayed on the ground through the chilly night.

By noon, the snow was gone, the calm of hope and Spring had returned. Did we really have snow just hours before?! Were we distressed just yesterday?

I don’t remember how long my baby and I walked, rocked, bounced, and cried. Time isn’t a thing during such holy moments. As my tears fell and melded with hers, I didn’t know it as a holy moment—that realization only came with the third and last baby. I do know, however, that we did it together. We weathered the storm of distress together. We got through to the calm of rest and hope together. That’s what this love-like-no-other-love means to me. That’s what the holy moments of motherhood are to me.

Worth the Wait

by 6 Comments

I remember being nine months pregnant with our first child…and waiting. Patiently waiting. It had been a relatively easy pregnancy, and I was still feeling well. My last day at work was my due date. One week went by…still waiting. Everything was ready—except for the baby apparently. Another week went by, and the doctor began the induction. Nothing. He reluctantly gave me another week…for waiting.

I feel like we are doing the same thing with Spring this year. We are waiting; a learned patience is holding the reins in an easy, yet expectant way. Like the baby, there is no doubt that Spring is coming. All the signs are here. We are so close! It is time. Of course, we need to clarify the definition of Spring—what it is that makes us think Spring is finally here. I think most would say that we need leaves on the trees and some early-blooming flowers to finally breathe a sigh of relief that Old Man Winter will no longer be knocking unexpectedly at our door. And while the trees are still winter-esque in their bare silhouettes, there is evidence that our waiting time is soon over! Each branch has swollen leaf and/or flower buds. Perennials are pushing their way up through Fall’s leaf litter. Brown is still the predominate color—but not for long! Delivery time is nigh!

Lilac leaves
Lilac flower bud
Manitoba Maple tree seedling
Honeysuckle
Apple tree leaves
Wild Geranium
Wild Raspberries
Meadow Rue
Ostrich Fern fiddleheads
Sedum and Wild Strawberries
Sedum rosettes
Wild Ginger
Golden Ninebark

Three weeks after her due date, the doctor informed us that one way or another, we would have this baby—today. No more waiting. Mother Nature is on the precipice of the birth of Spring, in all its glory. Once the birthing process begins and progresses, there’s no stopping it! But wait—for just one moment—think about all the biological processes that are taking place while we wait, the things we don’t see, the marvels of pregnancy and development. Therein lies the reason for our learned patience, the reason for the waiting, the reason why we are not the ones in charge of the timeline. Things are happening while we wait. Soon enough, we will forget about the anxious waiting and the pain of birth when we hold our miracle baby. Soon enough, we forget about the cold and snow and brownness of Winter when the green and sweetness of Spring suffuses our senses. With a nod and a prayer to the Power that is greater than all of us, we breathe in the delicious smell of new baby or new Spring and let out a sigh of recognition that indeed, it was worth the wait.

Hug a Tree, Plant a Tree—Your Body Will Thank You

by 4 Comments

National Arbor Day was Friday. It is a day that passes unnoticed by most people, I would guess. I would hate to speculate how many people do not even know what the word ‘arbor’ means. Would more people pay attention if we called it National Tree Day? Trees are important for many reasons, but their most fundamental process is to take CO2 (carbon dioxide) out of the air for use and storage and to release O2 (oxygen) back into the air—for us to breathe. That alone should have us hugging trees, planting trees, and celebrating trees every day, with every breath we take. They are literally life to us.

Trees have been the lifeblood for Chris for forty-five years now—daily interactions that go far beyond the benevolent exchange of gases. They are a part of our family—they are grown, planted, cared for, protected, and loved. Four years ago I wrote about watching/helping him plant a tree, and I thought I would share part of that post:

Photo by Rosemarie Varner

My dear husband Chris has been planting trees for over forty years–this flowering dogwood in front of the Odessa First United Methodist Church is just one of thousands that are the legacy of his hands and spade.

Watching him plant a large tree is a study in precision and ease and of sweat and dirt.  He places the tree, then cuts a circle around it with his sharp spade.  He moves the tree aside and expertly skims the sod from the circle.  His foot steps the spade into the soil with a satisfying sound, and he lays that spadeful neatly beside the hole.  He continues to step, lift, step, lift, step, lift–making it look easy, even as the sweat starts rolling off his face and arms.  A sharp clunking sound and a jarring vibration in his hands indicate a rock, and with additional finesse and muscle, he removes it from the neat, straight-sided hole.  With the handle of his spade, he measures the correct depth so the tree is not planted too deeply or too high.  The width is one and a half times the diameter of the root ball.  He gently rolls the tree into the hole, cuts the twine and unpins the burlap from the root ball, kneeling in the dirt he just overturned.  By now his shirt is wet with sweat, and his cap and belt are dark-stained with the salty moisture.  The tree is in its place, and with a vertical, cutting motion with the spade, he tamps the soil into the hole to anchor the roots in their new home.  His ‘helper’ (me) turns on the water hose and trickles water as he tamps, and soon the hole is filled with dirt and water.  The sod is chunked into strips and lined around the hole, and the bermed crater is soaked with a slow stream of water.

Chris has planted trees of every kind and size in four states, has grown them from seed, has pruned them, watered them, moved them, cared for them, and reluctantly cut them down.  He has planted trees to memorialize people who have died and to celebrate people who are alive.  He’s a tree man through and through.

So Arbor Day for us is like ‘Eat Some Healthy Food Day’ or ‘Take a Deep Breath Day’—we do it every day with little thought and with much thought. Trees are such an important, integral part of our lives—they sustain us at the most basic level of biology and at the highest stratum of spirit. And they do that for all of us, even when we are not aware.

We wander our woods and yard with excitement each Spring, noticing each tree, examining them for rabbit, deer, or winter wind damage. Some don’t make it through the winter (or the drought or whatever the challenge), but healthy color and expectant buds of new growth are signs that all is well. Others rally from the damage with Spring rains and warm temperatures, and they carry the scars through the rest of their lives. As I walked our yard this Arbor Day, I wondered how many trees Chris has planted on our one plus acre in our eleven years here. I stopped counting at one hundred. That was without counting most of the small Oaks that he grew from seed or most of the shrubs that are just starting to get their leaves or any of the trees on the wooded hillside. Here are just a few:

Swiss Stone Pine
White Pine
Larch
Nannyberry Viburnum
Siberian Fir
Black Hills Spruce
Forsythia
Golden Ninebark
Red Pine
Norway Spruce
Chris’ tree nursery

I know I’m kind of preaching to the choir—anyone who reads my blog already appreciates trees and all the other amazing flora and fauna of Nature. But at this time on our planet, this becomes more than a matter of appreciation. Planting trees is one of the most effective ways in which we can stave off the detrimental effects of climate change. The Nature Conservancy has pledged to plant one billion trees, and Microsoft will match your donation up to $50,000. The Arbor Day Foundation has a new ‘The Time for Trees Initiative’ to plant 100 million trees by 2022. If you sign up to support The Arbor Day Foundation, you will receive ten free trees to plant on your own. Few people can make the personal difference of actually growing and planting many thousands of trees like Chris has, but all of us can make a difference by being aware of the importance of trees, by donating to organizations that plant trees, and by planting and caring for more trees in our own lives. It truly does affect the most basic level of our biology and the highest stratum of our spirits.

Earth Day, (Re)Birth Day, Worth Day

by 4 Comments

On this Easter Day and Earth Day Eve, I am struggling with writing about this convergence of really important things. What is ‘worth-it’ to us as individuals, as businesses, as a country? What values are we willing to throw under the bus to get our way for power or money or whatever reason we deem important? Why do we even celebrate Easter, Birthdays, Earth Day, church days, Spring days? We don’t celebrate for the sake of celebrating—we celebrate to honor the underlying message or value of each of those days.

We have a number of friends who have or soon will be celebrating the Birth Days of their children or grandchildren. What a glorious event to witness the birth of a new human being! But just as magnificent is witnessing the growth and development of every person, no matter their age. We never stop being worthy of being celebrated.

The Re-Birth Day of Easter is celebrated today by Christians around the world. Just when things look bleak and dark, when hope seems lost, when things do not go as they should or as planned, there is a transformation that startles us from gloom and despair to light and joy. Transformation of that magnitude deserves celebration!

Earth Day is a reminder of all the glorious, life-giving gifts that our Earth offers to us every moment of every day. It is a time when we examine what is worthwhile in our daily lives. How much worth do I place on being able to breathe clean air? Is it important to have clean water to drink, to fish in, to swim in, and for our ocean animals to live in? Should companies be allowed to emit whatever they want into the air and water, even when it is known to be harmful? What things can we do to mitigate the extreme financial, emotional, and collateral hardships that occur due to frequent extreme weather events? What is the real cost of the destruction of the rain forest? How can I make a difference? For over forty years, Earth Day has been a reminder to us of these and other questions.

The April full moon or “Pink moon” shone bright on Holy Thursday and Good Friday/Passover. It is called “Pink moon” after early-blooming Wild Ground Phlox and other pink flowers that symbolize the start of Spring. Just as ‘blue moon’ and ‘blood moon’ don’t indicate the color of the moon on the given months, the Pink Moon doesn’t represent its color. But clouds and lighting captured a pink glow nonetheless.

I like how the moon illuminated the pine needles as it ‘passed by.’

We are charged with being stewards of our Earth—caretakers of the water, air, and land. At times I feel despair that these resources are being used and abused with little thought for the world that our children and grandchildren will inherit. If we deem them worthy for our own selves, then, as caretakers, it is imperative that we make sure they will be available in the future. Celebrations are a time to honor and acknowledge the gifts of a new life, a developing, maturing life, the core values of a religious or spiritual life, and the very essence and sustenance of all our lives from the Earth. I challenge you to be an illuminating presence, full of goodness and mercy, as you pass by the people and places in your world.

In the Midst of the Storm

by 2 Comments

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.

The Sentry Awaiting Spring

by Leave a Comment

It seemed like no one lived here over the long frigid months of Winter—the ice and feet of snow covered the moving, living, reflecting body of water. I know for certain there were frogs of various sorts, turtles with their colorful, hard-shelled homes carried on their backs, crayfish, and densely-furred, rat-tailed muskrats buried under mud and stick homes in hibernation mode. Life was here, but like the trees and so many things in Nature, it was dormant. Awaiting Spring.

Anxious to find a temporary home, perhaps a place to build a nest, mate, lay a clutch of eggs, and raise a feathered family, migrating waterfowl found this little lake. It seemed desirable, even with the ice still covering large portions of the water. Small, thin-billed Hooded Mergansers with fan-shaped, collapsible crests courted the few females with their elegant plumage and royal carriage.

A pair of Mallards, clumsy and large compared to the Mergansers, trooped across the ice and dipped into a frigid pool that opened like a dark streak in the white frozenness. Despite their clumsiness, there are so many things I appreciate about the Mallards—the male’s iridescent green head, the curled tail feathers, and the sturdy, orange legs and webbed feet.

I wonder what it was about this place that enticed these ducks and geese to stop, to rest, and to explore. It is a quiet place beside a dead-end road, surrounded by beautiful Birch and Oak trees. It has vines of Bittersweet and petite shrubs of Wild Roses.

All seemed content in the awakening homeplace except for one Canadian goose. He/she seemed to be the sentry, the one on guard, the eyes and ears of the group. The Sentry squawked in alarm and nervously swam towards the others as I walked closer. The others gave no cares at all as they swam through the reeds and dipped their heads under water to pull up a tasty green shoot.

The Sentry scrambled onto the ice, perhaps for a better vantage point. He paced back and forth, talking, scolding, watching, and worrying.

Is this the place to make a summer home? To raise a family? Are there hidden dangers?

It pays to be watchful, to know the signs of danger, particularly if one is susceptible, like to the potent berries of Poison Ivy that seem benign without the triad of shiny green leaves seen in summer.

Finally the Sentry slipped back into the water and was joined by the other geese, and calm returned to the swimmers. My presence no longer seemed like a threat. Maybe this is a good place. Perhaps Spring is leading us to where we need to go. There is hope in the Willows.

There are parts of most of us in the North that hibernate in the dark, cold, snowy months of Winter. Some whose internal lights shine strong with abundant energy and youthful vigor can move through Winter just as they do the rest of the year. They are beacons to the rest of us. Otherwise, the shift that occurs in Spring ignites a dormant flame, compelling us to move towards an awakening of sorts. Like the ducks and geese, the hibernating creatures under the mud, and the trees and plants all around, energy is quickened. Daylight and warmer temperatures turn on genetic programming and instincts. It’s time to find a summer home, to mate, to raise a family. We need the sentries of the world to be watchful, to keep the others safe, to protect those who do not know or see the dangers that may be lurking around us. And then we move in the living, reflecting, motioning water towards the soft willow flowers of a hopeful Spring.

UnSnowed

by 8 Comments

When we lived on our little farmstead in Missouri in our younger years, we had a trencher come and dig in a water line. The machine slices into the earth making a narrow but deep gash in which to lay the water pipe so it doesn’t freeze. Once the pipe was in place, there was a slight mound of extra dirt in a line across the field. After a rain, Chris and Emily walked along the cut path. Emily noticed a beautiful, blush-colored spear point laying on top of the soil. Unearthed by machine and rain. After all that time.

In the last three weeks, we have become unsnowed. After what seemed like a long, snowy winter (not really so long as many others), the culprit has mostly disappeared in a short amount of time. Just when we think that things we don’t like and time move slowly! Change does not often adhere to our time schedule. As a snow-lover, it is leaving too quickly for me—even as the cold temps this weekend have slowed the loss and even as a part of me desires the warmth and greenth of Spring. In my fickleness, I miss the bright snow-light of the morning. After all that time.

From our last ten-inch snowstorm to unsnowed—just three weeks in time.

I discovered some green Pachysandra in the unsnowing—our eyes and memories ‘forget’ what lies underneath the real and compelling recent past.

Where did the snow go? With the frost still in the ground, the melted snow made its way down the hill to the River. The high water just about touched the old railroad bridge as ice floes and foam bubbled from the dam.

In places, it was hard to distinguish the foam from the snow.

The old mill dam was covered by a dark, smooth sheet of water that crashed over the short drop-off into a frenzy of voluminous, white-capped churning.

We caught sight of an approaching ice floe that had been dislodged from the upstream lakes and sent on its northern trek towards the Mississippi.

It was rather mesmerizing to watch the floating ice draw near the dam, change course in the current, and break into pieces as gravity and churning water broke the tenuous bonds and instantly changed the state of ice to the state of water and vapor.

Upstream more blocks of deconstruction floated quietly by, unsuspecting of the turmoil that lay ahead.

A short ways upstream, past one more highway bridge, a boat ramp accepted excess water, just as all the lower-lying areas of all these Midwest flooded rivers have done. There is no choice in the matter.

High above the River on the bluff, where the tips of the Spruce trees rise above the Oaks, is where we live, where the snow melted, where the water ran from.

An evening silhouette of Alder cones and catkins stood beside the River, against the golden-hued trees on the opposite shore.

Squiggly, golden reflections of winter-weary trees shone on the water, bypassing the blunting, matte ice still clinging to the shore. It is time to see ourselves again.

Snow has ruled our lives for the last three and a half months—there is no choice in the matter if you live in Minnesota. (Only three and a half months—not six, for those who believe our winters are unreasonable.) It is not unusual or unexpected. Seasons unfold in unmistakable ways. And now the snow is (almost) gone. We have been unsnowed.

With longer life comes the opportunities to change our states. I have been undone, unnerved, undecided, and uncomfortable. I have felt unworthy, unsettled, unsafe, and unaccepted. Events and issues in my life have been unexplainable, unbearable, unforeseen, and unfair. And I have also lived my life with unwavering hope, unceasing love, unbridled joy, and unmitigated faith. What happens within us when things are unspoken, unresolved, untenable, and unbalanced? What happens within us when we become unburdened, untangled, unmasked, and unafraid? The state of our mind and body changes. Our eyes and memories can forget the recent or distant past, and we can unearth the treasure of who we are. We can see ourselves again. After all that time.

The Mess is Real

by 4 Comments

It’s been kind of a tough week. One of those weeks when there seems to be an ice dam blocking the normal flow of life, flooding places I don’t want to be flooded with things I don’t want to deal with—it’s been a reflection of what’s been happening in physical time in the upper Midwest. My heart goes out to all who are dealing with the literal ice dams and floods—the damage is extensive; the mess is real.

Meanwhile, on our hill high above the River, Spring has arrived in a calm, quiet form. The warmish days and cold nights have slowed the snow melt after the rapid accumulation of rain and melting snow that have unleashed the fury to the south of us. We are beginning to see the ground.

With melting of the snow comes a revelation of the debris of Winter. Piles of sunflower and safflower seed hulls mound on the ground under the bird feeders as the snow disappears from the layers of Winter.

The Fall-raked lawn is now scattered with pinecones, sticks, and pine needles that Winter’s harsh snows and winds dislodged from the high branches of the mature trees.

The garden is considerably less filled with snow than a week ago but still quite a ways from Spring planting.

The deer have left some debris in their Winter pathways—we just watch our step and wait to see what grows in that fertilized space.

But the Spring stirring has started in the Maple trees! Flower buds have emerged from the branches, poised for exuberant activity to come. On the warm, sunny afternoons, sap is flowing, darkening the bark as the upward flow leaks out and flows back down.

Beneath the snow, there are millions of blades of green grass arising from dormancy, getting ready to carpet the world with life.

The patio is emerging from mounds of snow, the sun-warmed rocks being the first to push back the snow.

The remains of Fall still decorate the background of snow but will soon be lost in the riotous, new green growth of Spring.

Fall, Winter, and the potential of Spring collide in this first week of the Vernal Equinox.

With each day, the grass patches are getting larger, and the snow patches are shrinking. We prepared for Winter by getting everything cleaned up, tidy, and put away. But even in the dormancy, lots of things happen, and some of them are messy. In other words, we have to clean up after Winter, too. What of this dormancy and incubation time of Winter for us? I think this time of quiescence is actually a gathering of old, fall-like ideas and beliefs that rumble around under the insulation of our consciousness. What is uncovered come Spring? It’s kind of messy. It creates blockages in the flow of our ‘normal’ living. New ideas spring forth and flood the way we once thought or planned. We see the ground (thank goodness), but the seeds are not yet sown. I will watch my step. I feel poised for exuberant activity to come.

The Branches of My Being

by 2 Comments

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.

Unexpected Gifts

by 6 Comments

Life is always bringing unexpected gifts.   –May Sarton

I celebrated my birthday this past week—one of those decade ones that seem like kind of a big deal.  The big deal is usually a combination of ‘how can I be this old when I don’t feel like it’ and a very real realization that there is much more life behind one’s self than there is yet to be.  But I choose to make the big deal be a celebration of making it to six decades, because we are fortunate to do so.  So the big deal was mostly in my head.  There was no party planned or expectations on my part.  Then, the day before my birthday, my circle of amazing women friends brought a cake, complete with candles to wish upon and blow out, and sang Happy Birthday to me!  The next day another special friend took me out for lunch, and hours flew by like minutes.  I received cards, presents, Happy Birthday texts and messages, phone calls, and had supper with my dear Chris.  To tell you the truth, I was pleasantly overwhelmed by the unexpected gifts.  I was happy and content as I drank my cup of evening tea.  Just before darkness fell, I went to the kitchen to rinse out my cup and looked out the window.  A Gray Fox was stalking around the front yard, staring into the grass, then pouncing on some little morsel of insect food.  Another unexpected gift for my birthday!  

It’s not often that we see foxes—in the winter, we see their tracks, and at times have seen a glimpse of one as it slips into the woods.  But this beautiful Gray Fox seemed unconcerned that he was out in the open of the yard with plenty of light to see him.

Gray Foxes are members of the canine family, but interestingly, they can climb trees!  Their short, strong legs and extremely sharp, curved claws allow them to climb and jump from branch to branch.  They can descend either tail or head first.  Thus they are known as the tree fox!

Gray Foxes mate for life, have an average litter of four pups or kits in April or May (in Minnesota), and the pups are raised by both the parents.  They have keen eyesight and excellent hearing and smell.  They stalk and pounce on voles, mice, squirrels, and especially love cottontail rabbits.  They also eat small birds, eggs, plants, berries, and insects.

These beautiful creatures have a black stripe down their back and tail ending with a black tip.  The back of their ears and neck are the tawny red color of a Red Fox.

 

I was so pleased to see this fox on my birthday!  What an fantastic creature!  I was pleased to hear from my family and from old friends who I haven’t seen in years but who hold a special place in my heart.  I was happy to share time and laughs with new friends who love books, love God, and love me.  What an incredible gift!  There’s something kind of fantastic about that, isn’t there, Mr Fox?!