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Dodging Cars and Bullets

March 11, 2018 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Have you ever woken in the morning and even before you open your eyes or move from your last position of sleep you feel weight pressing in on your mind and body? That’s how I woke on Friday. Sometimes it’s a low barometric pressure squeezing in on me; sometimes it’s from the energy-draining not-enough-sleep for a couple of nights; other times it’s a worry, a fight, or an anniversary of something only your body remembers that your mind does not want to recall. It’s when you drag your body out of bed and hope that breakfast and caffeine will boost your energy and dissipate the pressure.

Do animals ever feel that way? How do deer wake and show up for their day? They sleep in the snow and cold, have to forage for their daily food, and at times have to dodge cars and bullets. Sounds like a recipe for having a horrible, no good, very bad day. But I don’t think they do.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d. I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition. They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago. Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. –excerpt from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

When I was young, I thought animals were easier to understand than humans, so I wanted to be a veterinarian. I loved this poem by Walt Whitman, even in its irreverent way. I argued with Walt’s line that ‘not one is respectable,’ for I had great respect for animals, especially my horses. Before we were married, Chris made me a present of a framed picture of this poem in calligraphy with a drawing of a horse. I recite the first lines often in my head when I feel the pressure of living in our human world.

Chris, in his wisdom of knowing me for thirty-eight years, suggested on Friday that we go to the pine forest in the snow, to where the animals live, to where I could get out of my head and out of my funk, to where the old pines whisper their secrets. I begrudgingly agreed, even as my body wanted to just splay itself on the floor with a blanket. So in the late afternoon, we drove the short distance to Warner Lake County Park to bathe in the solitude of the pine forest.

The little creek that runs into the lake wasn’t frozen, and the trail had been ‘groomed’ for cross-country skiing.

Walking was relatively easy on the groomed trail (not on the ski tracks, of course), but hard work in the short areas where we blazed a trail. Energy returned to my body as we ventured deeper into the woods.

The forest was a constellation of light and shadow, with outlines and crowns of snow.

The late day sun cast long shadows of the long trees. Animal tracks cut across the trails—their footprints leaving the history of their day.

In a small clearing, we saw a shining young pine, enveloped and radiant in the Winter sunshine, as the old, wise guardians surrounded it.

It was peaceful and quiet in the snowy forest—a silky balm for my out-of-sorts mind and body. I was a welcome visitor in the animals’ house, with no host needed. They were willing to share their majestic home with seekers of beauty and peace.

Our lives are a constellation of light and shadow. Some days we live in the darkness, and often we don’t even know what is casting the shadow. It feels like we are dodging the flu, or the axe, or the bullet. The recipe is written, and it seems to spell disaster. But what if the recipe for your day is written in pencil? What if sitting in prayer or meditation erases worry? What if ten minutes of exercise erases pain? And talking to your friend takes away the blues? We are each a shining star, like the radiant young pine tree in the forest. Dissatisfaction melts away to gratitude. The mania of owning things morphs into a willingness to share. Anxiety and worry transform into placid self-containment. The whispered secrets of the ancient guardians begin to work their way into the tracks of our days. And we live like the animals and are happy.

When I Breathe, I Thank a Tree

November 26, 2017 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

“For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver.” –Martin Luther

Have you ever felt like you couldn’t breathe? Whether from asthma, smoke, pneumonia, or fear, the strangling, helpless feeling of not being able to replenish the body with oxygen kicks us into survival mode. The only thing that matters in that moment is to breathe. The physiological processes of breathing, delivering oxygen to all cells of the body, and removing carbon dioxide waste are miraculous! Just as miraculous are the processes of trees and other green plant materials taking our waste of carbon dioxide, using it to provide nutrients for themselves, and in turn, providing oxygen for us. We and trees are partners in this thing called Life.

Our Black Friday consisted of heading to Warner Lake County Park, spending energy via leg muscles, and buying a great day at a bargain price. It was unseasonably warm with sun and chances of passing showers, and we eagerly hit the trails.

The wooded trails were eclectic with areas of conifer and deciduous forests, which is common in this area of Minnesota. One uncommon aspect of this park was the high population of mature Red Cedars that grew among the mighty Oaks and Pines.

A small walk-in campground area in the mixed forest seemed like an enticing place to camp. Deciduous trees were like ghost trees among the evergreens.

The sun broke through the clouds and shone on the butterscotch bark of a Scotch Pine tree.

We walked on, and then this…

” And into the forest I go to lose my mind and find my soul.” –John Muir

The tall Pines were mesmerizing as they swayed and whispered in the breeze. Chris said this is the place to take a sleeping bag and spend the night! Imagine lying on a bed of pine needles, safe in the bosom of Mother Earth.

Breathe. One tree provides 260 pounds of oxygen a year, while absorbing more than 48 pounds of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. The burning of one gallon of non-ethanol gas produces 20 pounds of carbon dioxide.

After we left the Pine forest, we saw other interesting trees and a grove of Birches.

When we circled the lake, we looked across the ice-covered water to see the Pine forest rising above the other trees.

It is great fun to discover a Pine forest of such beauty and serenity. I’m thankful someone created the park around the small lake and big trees. The deciduous trees in our area are not contributing to the oxygen levels in the air we are breathing during their dormancy, and the evergreen trees have slowed their production of oxygen in their non-growing state. But trees around the world are doing their part in their active, green growing state to provide us with what we need to breathe and to clean up and recycle what we do not need. This is a world-wide endeavor. Silver and gold, shopping and gifts, spending and gadgets are moot points if we do not have clean, oxygen-rich air to breathe. Trees are our real treasures, if we rightly consider—their gift to us is the only thing that really matters.

Homecoming

October 15, 2017 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

“Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering.” —Charles Dickens

An old black pickup pulls into the driveway every weekday afternoon and parks in front of the garage. An old black dog inside the house who’s waiting and watching by the floor-length window gets a shot of adrenaline in anticipation. The homecoming has begun! Chris exits the pickup, gathers his small red cooler and extraneous sweatshirts, boots, and clothes that are mud-streaked, oil-stained, and grass-smelling and walks slowly toward the house. If he’s dug holes, planted trees, or been on his hands and knees pulling weeds for too many hours of the day, it shows in the limp of his gait. But pure happiness and joy meets him at the door in a rush and a dozen rubs against his legs. There is a smile on Chris’ face as he sits on the bench, looks at his gray-faced friend, and rubs behind her ears as she wags her tail in contentment. The three of us then take a walk down the road—Chris and I check in with one another about our day as Tamba checks out the new smells on the old pathway.

It was Homecoming at Saint John’s University last weekend. Aaron and his friends met to eat breakfast in the Reef—the cafeteria on the basement floor of the thick stone walled Quad building. After a short walk across campus, they entered the pine tree enveloped football stadium where the Johnnies whomped the Auggies in a no-surprise win. Tailgating, catching up, reminiscing, and sharing a beer and a game of pool rounded out the day. Chris and I joined Aaron for a hike at Saint John’s the next day—it was a beautiful, sunshiny day, and the Maple trees were in spectacular color. Families, students, and alumni hiked the extensive network of trails, reveling in the magnificence of the place.

What does a place one wants to come home to offer? What brings people back ‘home?’ Saint John’s emphasizes a sense of community and friendship that I witnessed during Aaron’s four years there and that has continued in the years since he graduated. It is a place where you can fall, and there are people there to help you back up.

Home is a place of beauty, however you define that. Saint John’s University is surrounded with hundreds of acres of natural beauty—lakes, streams, Maple forests, grasslands, and Oak savannas—and contains historical and modern architecture that awes and inspires.

Coming home should be a safe haven in the rough seas of life. The heart-breaking reality is that many children don’t have a safe haven at home; they consider school and their teacher a place and person of safety where they can have food, kind words, and care and help with learning and being. We never know when we are someone’s port in a storm.

Home lets us be who we are with no pretenses, embraces us no matter our size, color, mistakes, or shortcomings.

Home is a place to hang out, to get close, to have a conversation, to hold one another accountable, to soak up the good things in life and to deal with the bad.

Home is a place of encouragement when a task is daunting, when we wonder how the heck we’re going to climb this next hurdle, when the steps are right in front of our faces but we are unable to navigate them for whatever reason.

Home is a place of growth and learning where books and experiments, chores and hands-on doing, creativity, mistakes and solving problems of every kind are used daily. We learn, we grow, we shed our old ways and constantly become new creatures.

Home is a place that helps us out of the muck, that throws us a rope when we’re stuck, that will wade into the mess we find ourselves in, pull our boot out of the mud, and help us back to shore.

Home is where all the paths of life lead back to—often we lose our way and wander through the trees. We get confused about what direction we’re going and whether it’s the right way. We get scared of what’s to come because of the dark nights that have come before. But always, the Light of home is calling us forward through the shadows.

For Aaron, homecoming at Saint John’s was fun and nostalgic, satisfying and bittersweet (Jake, you were missed!) For Tamba, Chris’ daily homecoming is a time to celebrate with joy and contentment. So what does a place or person offer that one wants to come home to? Safety in all realms, acceptance of who we are, beauty for the eyes and soul, responsibility of internal and external dynamics, help when we need it, a culture of learning and growth, and fun, happiness, contentment, and joy! Home is the place we return to, it is the people we can count on, it is the God who sustains us, it is the path we travel on the journey back to ourselves. Home is truly where our hearts are, where we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we matter.

The Things Our Eyes Can’t See

October 8, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

When I was in graduate school, I could get lost for hours looking into a microscope—looking at things our eyes can’t see—red and white blood cells, chromosomes, uric acid crystals in urine, sperm cells, and so many other incredible structures. It was a whole other fascinating world that we carry with us, that is us!

Our woodland Cooper’s Hawk flew to an Oak tree branch when I happened to be looking out the window. I know he saw me looking at him—in other words, he watched me like a hawk. He wasn’t too perturbed, as he sat there for quite a while, fluffed up his feathers, and continued watching.

Hawks and other raptors have excellent vision—they can see 4 to 5 times farther than humans, have superior color vision, and deeper foveas that allow their eyes to act like a telephoto lens. They need this acute vision to focus in on their prey from a great distance, then accurately capture it.

With our much more limited eyesight, we get a bigger picture of the world by moving our eyes and heads. We are capable of seeing the big picture and the details of things that are close by but often overlooked. The big picture of Autumn is the changing colors of the landscape, but I thought I would focus in on a more detailed look at Fall through the camera’s telephoto lens. The needle-like leaves of the Larch tree are changing to a golden yellow and will drop to the ground like a carpet.

Spiny seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace have begun their dispersal by wind or clinging to the fur, feather, or pantleg of a passerby.

Scarlet cones of Sumac berries top the equally beautiful crimson foliage and will remain as a food source for dozens of birds throughout the winter, long after the leaves have fallen.

Huge white puffs of ‘Annabelle’ Hydrangea flowers gradually dry to a rich, toasted brown color and can be brought indoors for a beautiful Fall decoration.

Individual seeds on the Purple Coneflower light up like pegs on a Lite-Brite screen.

Fast growing fungi popped up all over the yard after days of rain. Isn’t it incredible that such a strange structure, complete with unique colors and shapes, can grow so quickly then melt away to nothing?

Like a huge bouquet of tiny rosebuds, each ‘Autumn Joy’ Sedum flower spreads its namesake to all who see them.

Behold the first leaf to change from green to wine on one of the many ‘Nannyberry’ Vibernums we have planted in the woods.

Dried Fern fronds remind me of the racks of drying tobacco I remember from my childhood, that hung in Pennsylvania barns.

The lace cap flowers of ‘Quick Fire’ Hydrangea bloom a pure white and gradually turn pink as Summer wanes and Fall arrives.

Joe Pye Weed seedheads look like pink sheaves of wheat blowing in the breeze.

A tangle of plumy seedheads from a Purple Smoke tree is rarely noticed at this time of year.

The landscape of Fall is beautiful; the details of Autumn are intriguing, just as the landscape and microscopic details of our bodies are amazing. Though we don’t have the keen distance sight of a hawk, we do have the marvelous ability to see the big picture and the details, both literally and figuratively. But what happens when we are only focused on one certain thing?

The other objects in sight are rarely noticed or are distorted beyond reality. At times like this, a person’s world and vision gets small—when the focus of his sight and mind is singular and obsessive. It happens when a person is fighting for her life. It happens when despair covers a person like a cloak, and she seems to melt away to nothing. It happens when one is lost for hours, days, years in addiction. It happens when suffering people are unimportant compared to money. It happens every day. It is rare that a person in this situation can correct his vision on his own, let alone have the inner and outer resources to change his world. That’s where the rest of us come in, for if you think you live your life as an island, you are either a fool or delusional. We are our brothers’ keepers. Before that seems overwhelming or raises the hackles of defense, know that we are hard-wired as social creatures. We are meant to look out for one another. It starts with taking good care of ourselves, our partners and families, then our friends and community, our country, our Earth. Like a hawk, we can watch for despair or addiction, for suffering and injustice, and though we cannot do the inner work for the people affected, we can stand by their side and do what we can to assist them. We need to be able to help them see the big picture, yet work diligently with the details. And then there are the things our eyes can’t see—love, faith, hope, resiliency—that sustain us even when the material world has dried up and fallen away or been washed away in a flood. Behold!

What Does Home Look Like to You?

July 30, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

What does home look like to you? How does it feel? How many generations of your family have lived in the place you call home or in the place where your soul feels at home? What is the history of your family? Is your home tied to the land? Or is home about the people you are with at any given place or time?

We visited Mille Lacs Kathio State Park last weekend—over 10,000 acres near the mammoth Mille Lacs Lake. The park is a National Historic Landmark District. The early French explorer known as Duluth was the first European to accurately record a visit to this area in 1679. He found permanent established villages of the greater Dakota nation band known as the Mdewakanon who lived near Mdewakan, the Spiritual or Sacred Lake, now known as Mille Lacs. This area known as Kathio has been home to the Dakota and later to the Ojibwe people for over 9,000 years. (Stone tools and spear points were found at a site that was radiocarbon tested.) 9,000 years—how many generations of Dakota and Ojibwe people have lived here?! It has been the site for archaeological digs for over a century with 30 separate sites identified thus far. It was the perfect place to call home with forests, lakes, rivers, plentiful food sources and other natural resources.

We began our day by climbing the observation tower to get a bird’s eye view of the park and surrounding lakes.

Loggers removed most of the red and white pine forest in the mid 1800’s, and now most of the trees are oaks, maples, aspen, and birch.

Three large lakes connected by the Rum River could be seen from the tower, the largest being Mille Lacs Lake.

It was a beautiful day for hiking—not too hot or buggy. We saw interesting fungi, five-foot-tall ferns, and delicate wildflowers.

While driving through the park in all its wildness, I commented to Chris that it looks like a good home for bears, thinking we weren’t in bear territory. But when we walked through the interpretive center, one of the displays explained that indeed black bears live in the park! Then we came across this tree on one of the hiking trails—looks like bear activity to me!

The swimming beach at the picnic area was a man-made pool not far from the banks of the Rum River. The only one wading in it was a Great Blue Heron!

In 1965, Leland Cooper of Hamline Universary was sent to survey areas of Mille Lacs Kathio State Park. The site that was later named after him was excavated a year later by Elden Johnson of the University of Minnesota. The Cooper site showed that the ancient Native people lived there from about 500 to the 1700’s. Summer and winter homes, a log pallisade wall, and ricing pits were discovered along with arrow points, stone tools, pottery, and trade goods, including glass beads and Jesuit rings–metal finger rings that French missionaries of the late 1600’s gave to the villagers. This is what the Cooper site looks like today:

Ogechie Lake is a long, narrow, shallow lake that for thousands of years has produced wild rice for waterfowl and the people who made their home along its shores. In the mid 1950’s a dam was built at the south end of the lake to keep the water levels high in Mille Lacs Lake for fishermen. This basically flooded the Ogechie rice crop for decades with little to no production. Two years ago, a new, lower dam was built, and the wild rice or manoomin is coming back so the present day Ojibwe can once again harvest the ancient food.

The land my grandparents called home in South Dakota has been in the family for three and four generations now—it seems like such a long time. But consider the 360 or more generations of Dakota and Ojibwe who have called the Mille Lacs Kathio region home! Home to me is the prairie, rolling hills of pasture, sloughs full of geese, memories of my family. But there is also a connection to Scandinavia where all my ‘native’ ancestors lived. Home to the Ojibwe of Mille Lacs is ‘thousands of lakes’ with fish and wild rice, forests of hard woods and conifers, wild animals and birds, traditions and stories of their ancestors. When we look from a bird’s eye view at our own lives in the long history of our ancestors, what do we see? Were there huge changes to where or what home was? If we are the descendants of immigrants, refugees, or slaves, that would be true. What is the ‘river’ that runs through all those generations, connecting them and us? How do we wade through new waters to make our home? We each have our own definition of what home looks like to us, but this I know: The land matters. History matters. People matter.

Imminent Failure

June 25, 2017 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Warnings are posted for a reason, but sometimes the message is rather cryptic, and one is left wondering the exact meaning of the short notification. I guess it helps when one knows the language and context—which I don’t when it comes to computer talk. “Smart hard drive detects imminent failure.” It doesn’t sound good, no matter the language and context. Imminent and failure are two words that don’t belong together if a person wants to feel good about what’s to come.

What I do feel good about is the week we spent with our oldest daughter Emily and her husband Shawn—no computer needed! It had been three years since they were here for a visit, a year and a half since we saw them in Texas—much too long for a mother not to be in the presence of her child. We went hiking at Charles A. Lindbergh State Park one day this week in Little Falls, Minnesota—570 acres that included the boyhood home of the famous aviator Charles A. Lindbergh, Jr. who completed the first solo nonstop trans-Atlantic flight on May 21, 1927. The family donated the land for a park in 1931 in memory of Charles A. Lindbergh, Sr. who was a lawyer and US Congressman.

Pike Creek runs through the park and meets up with the Mississippi River. Charles Lindbergh, Jr. spent most of his time as a youngster outdoors exploring the woods, creek, and River. He collected rocks, butterflies, feathers, and other natural objects.

“When I was a child on our Minnesota farm,” Linbergh wrote, ” I spent hours lying on my back in high timothy and redtop…How wonderful it would be, I thought, if I had an airplane…I would ride on the wind and be part of the sky.”

The forested area of the park has many old white and red pines. Imminent failure struck this 280-year-old white pine when it was hit by lightning in 1986 and died the following year.

Have you heard of Forest Bathing? Shinrin-yoku or ‘taking in the forest atmosphere’ originated in Japan in the 1980’s for its health benefits. Studies have confirmed that being in the presence of trees lowers cortisol levels, lowers pulse rate and blood pressure, improves immune system function, and increases overall feelings of well-being.

The beauty of flowers like this blue flag iris…

the calming smell of a pine forest…

the intricate essence and relationship of flowers and insects…

and the unassuming presence of old, stately trees all contribute to the forest atmosphere that calms our bodies and improves our well-being.

At the hydroelectric dam on the Mississippi River not far upstream from where Pike Creek empties into it, there are warning signs and barriers to keep people from imminent danger.

Torrents of rushing, splashing water tumbled from the spillways, hitting rocks, causing chaos, stress, and danger. It’s not hard to interpret these warning signs to stay away when the destructive power of the water is literally hitting you in the face.

I am sure there were many times in Charles Lindbergh’s life when warning signs of imminent failure flashed before his eyes—during his childhood raft-building days floating on the Mississippi, during his barn-storming days, his trans-Atlantic flight, his military flight training and midair collision, Air Mail routes, and combat missions during World War II. Imminent failure also presented itself in 1932 when his 20-month old son was kidnapped from their home, ransomed, and killed. How does one go on after the gruesome loss of a child and years of public attention in the wake of ‘The Crime of the Century?’ What saves us from imminent failure?

Lindbergh and his wife Anne Morrow fled to Europe with their second son in December of 1935—a hiatus from the spotlight and turmoil that had engulfed them after the kidnapping of their son, a time apart from the normal routine of life, a sequestration of the body for the healing of the soul. I’d like to think that his forest days in Minnesota, his riding on the wind and being part of the sky days helped to save him from imminent failure, though his subsequent years of questionable political beliefs and secret double life with three European women and seven children he fathered point to an acting out of destructive wounds. “Life is like a landscape. You live in the midst of it but can describe it only from the vantage point of distance,” wrote Lindbergh. If life is stressing you out, get some distance from it by immersing yourself in a forest, by surrounding yourself with children and loved ones, by exploring trails and collecting memories, and by forgetting about phones, failing hard drives, and imminent failures.

Over the Edge in Love

June 11, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I remember the electricity I felt when I met Chris—could he be more handsome or sweet? Gosh, he was a good dancer. He talks kindly of his mother (important!) He was humble, interested in this unusual prairie girl, and had a sense of humor I had never experienced that kept me on my toes. I wanted more of him, even as he drove away down 400 miles of interstate highway. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was falling over the edge in love for the first time in my life. There were three other times when I stood, with Chris, on the precipice, staring into the face of a newborn child, and I was swept away, over the edge in love, for no rational reason—when you know you are either in the realm of crazy or the sacred realm of Spirit.

We traveled 400 miles of interstate highway last weekend to celebrate Chris’ brother and sister-in-law and their 50 years of marriage! How does one go from falling over the edge in love to celebrating 50 years together?! I was also fortunate to once again stare into the faces of my first- and second-born and feel the electricity of the all-consuming love parents have for their children, even when they are adults. My spirit sang its song of joy.

The day before the anniversary party, we took to the trails like we had done so many times when the kids were little. We explored Parkville Nature Sanctuary on a blue-sky, hot and humid day. (All relative when coming from Texas and Minnesota to Missouri!)

Most of the 115 acres of the Sanctuary and White Alloe Creek Conservation Area is forested, along with streams and wetlands.

We found some little treasures along the trail—bright red fungi and a wise old turtle.

But the main attraction of the Sanctuary was the waterfall. Water cascaded and tumbled over rocks, bubbling with activity in places, then calmly pooling in others.

Downstream from the main falls was a bridge where a mom and her kids were watching a couple of Northern Water snakes in the swift current. The female snakes are much larger than the males and both get darker with age. Gestation is 3-5 months with a single litter of 30 live snakes in August to October!

The female climbed back up a small debris dam as the male washed down over more rocks and falls.

Nothing says ‘beware’ or ‘stay away’ like this tree. Honey Locusts have frondy branches with small leaves that turn a brilliant yellow in the fall. The spring flower is strongly scented, and the fruit is a flat pod, 6-8 inches in length, with an edible pulp that encases the seeds. Honey Locusts are hardy, resilient, and fast-growing.

The trunk and branches, however, are covered in huge thorns that negate the positive qualities of these trees. Luckily, cultivated thornless varieties have been established.

We all stand at the precipice, at the top of the falls, at some points in our lives. The air is electric, and the water is urging us forward. Things look pretty beautiful from our dopamine- and serotonin-saturated brains. It’s easy to fall over the edge in love. At first, falling over the edge is beautiful and effervescent and carefree—until we hit some rocks, and we lose our way. Until we encounter snakes and things that scare us. Until we are tangled up in a mess of thorns that we didn’t ‘see’ until it was too late. So how do we avoid a false positive for happy-ever-after? What gets us through those tough times? What keeps us connected to the things that matter?

Sanctuary. Walking stick. Bridge. Sanctuary is a sacred or holy place, a place of refuge. It is for protection, peace, growth, faith, and hope—qualities that sustain us over a lifetime. Walking sticks are used to more easily navigate a tough trail, to keep us safer, to help us out. There are many times in the span of 35 or 50 years of marriage when we need something or somebody to help us get through the tough spots. Bridges allow us to move from one side of something to the other side across a divide that may seem impassable. Love is a bridge—the enduring, respectful, committed, treasure-filled type of Love when you know in your heart and soul that you are in the sacred realm of Spirit.

last photo by Chris

This Glorious Day!

May 11, 2017 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Dear Nature Lovers,

Just wanted to share this glorious day in Minnesota with you! Spring is now bursting out all over the place in our yard and woods!

Love, Denise

Hostas, Ferns, and Lily of the Valley

Brunnera

Hosta leaves

Virginia Bluebells

Maple leaves

Purple-Leaf Plum

Iris

Apple blossom

Pagoda Dogwood

Crabapple

Foam Flower

Jonquil

Ajuga

Larch tree

Dandelion

Epimedium

Ostrich Fern

Candles on White Pine

Bergenia

Oak flowers and leaves

Spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm.

–John Muir

Camouflage and Curiosity

November 6, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

One of our childhood games, as with most people I would guess, was hide and seek. Living in the country with four children in the family, it was the perfect get-outside-and-run activity with just enough ‘players’ to make it fun and last for a while, at least. I remember that giddy excitement after the designated person started counting—‘Where should I hide?!’ Or being the counter at the large pear tree, which I did slowly and deliberately, and finally yelling, ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ The seeking and the hiding both had an element of anticipation and surprise and would most often end in laughter, with only occasional arguments and crying. Yet I remember one morning when hide and seek wasn’t a fun game. When I woke up, I noticed my younger sister wasn’t in her bed, which was unusual. I went downstairs, but she was not eating breakfast or watching tv. I went back upstairs to look in her room, check under the bed, and look into my other sleeping siblings’ rooms. I felt the panic rising in my body. I couldn’t find her. I don’t even remember if it was summer, a weekend, or if my mom and dad were home or at work. After much frantic searching, I found her sleeping on the floor behind the couch. I was so incredibly relieved that I had found her, and she was safe. I know I asked her why she was there, and I know she had a reason that had made perfect sense to her at the time—but I can’t remember what it was.

Hiding is a survival mechanism for many animals in the wild. Camouflage by color—a rattlesnake or tree frog, and by shape—a walking stick or katydid, are common ways for animals to blend in with their environment in order to hide from predators. While driving along the gravel road at St. Croix State Park last month, we saw little creatures dart across the road and disappear into the foliage. ‘What was that?!’ I asked Chris. We slowed down and once again caught sight of one by the road but lost track of it when it moved into the woods. Finally a couple of them stopped, and we stopped, and I could get a picture of the Ruffed Grouse! They were so camouflaged with the surrounding environment that the camera had a difficult time focusing on anything!

These chicken-like birds with short legs and a crest of feathers are non-migratory, live in heavily forested areas, and forage for seeds and insects on the forest floor.

In spring, the males’ mating display includes a black ruff of neck feathers and fan-shaped tail feathers. Most notably, they stand on a log or rock and make a booming ‘drumming’ sound with the movement of their wings.

In winter, Ruffed Grouse eat buds of deciduous trees, roost in soft snowbanks for protection, and grow projections on their toes that act as snowshoes! The bird in the back of the photo has the crest of feathers up on his head.

Another woodland animal that uses camouflage is the white-tailed deer. The adult coat color blends in with the surrounding environment, and very young fawns with their white spots, hide in the brush while their mothers forage for food. Another characteristic of deer is their curiosity. As we hiked along a grassy road in the forest at St. Croix State Park, I looked up to see these three looking at us!

We stopped when we saw them, and I started taking pictures. The fawns were so cute and curious–it makes me smile every time I see these pictures!

They stood looking at us with bright eyes and attentive ears as long as we stayed still.

But when we began to walk slowly toward them, their ears flicked one way then another, and they looked around with wariness…

and soon scampered off into the woods.

Hide and seek. Camouflage and curiosity. Our mammalian brains are wired to ensure our safety. We take in cues from the external environment, just like the deer, and decide what is important, threatening, or dangerous. Most of this is accomplished without our conscious brain ‘knowing.’ This part of our brain is also where our emotions reside, which explains why I remember certain emotionally charged things about trying to find my sister but completely can’t recall other details surrounding it. I’m sure most of us can remember times in our lives when we just wanted to blend into the environment and not be seen or times when we wanted to run and hide—that is our brains working to keep us safe. Luckily, we also have a highly developed cerebral cortex that gives us the ability to learn, attach meaning, do abstract thinking, plan, predict, imagine, and choose, all within a sense of time, context, and empathy. Our brains are amazing! Within the confines of a safe place, our innate curiosity is unleashed, and we seek to learn about ourselves and the world around us. Childhood games and play are the training grounds for our minds and bodies for learning how to cope with our daily challenges. From our safe place, with curiosity, courage, and caring, we can yell, ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ and be prepared for whatever comes around the corner.

Gleanings from October—A Reflection

October 30, 2016 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

There have been days in my life when a glorious mixture of Light and Love from a combination of earthly wonder and heavenly grace has shone upon me. The brightest of them all were the days in which I married my partner for life and I bore our three children. Each of those days is etched in my body, mind, and soul as a reflection of everything that is good and holy. Each of those days included mundane tasks, messy happenings, and marvelous emotions.

October is a reflection of those kinds of days—bright and beautiful, colorful and chaotic, yet peaceful and priceless! It seems like October days pass by too quickly, as the vibrant-colored leaves fall and dry to brown, and the warm days fade to cool nights. Maples of all species are the shining stars of autumn color in our yard…

and in the woods at St. John’s Arboretum, where a Sunday hike on the trail is like walking through a grand, gilded cathedral.

The stillness of the beautiful Lake Sagatagan reflected the autumn colors and housed a community of lily pads with only the stems remaining of their exquisite flowers.

The reflection in a pond along the trail seemed sharper and more realistic than the actual trees in the woods…

until the focus changed to the individual leaves floating on the stained glass water.

Our destination for our Sunday hike at Saint John’s was Stella Maris chapel which sits on an island-like peninsula across Lake ‘Sag’ from the campus. Stella Maris is Latin for ‘Star of the Sea’ and ‘Our Lady Star of the Sea’ is an ancient title for the Blessed Virgin Mary. The original chapel was built in 1872 but was struck by lightning and burnt down in 1903. It was rebuilt in 1915 and has had three renovations since that time.

The beautiful stained-glass star window and pregnant Mary statue simply adorn the inside of the chapel.

Moving on through October, another celestial body displayed its beauty—the full moon.

A hazy reflection of the Sun’s light illuminates the darkness.

And then a foggy morning diminished visibility and gave the changing leaves a muted glow. Such a changeable month this October!

A clear, crisp night frosted the blades of grass and tipped the outlines of fallen leaves with white.

The bright sunlight soon melted away the frost and shone on these robins who grabbed a bite of crabapples.

By the end of the month, the gloriously colored leaves are gone, and the silhouettes of the trees are lined against gray skies. We move into our late fall landscape.

October reflections of light, color, and brilliance are gone before we are ready for them to leave. Once again we are reminded that Nature’s time schedule doesn’t bend to our wishes and wants. But those days of illumination stay with us and quietly and stealthily renovate our hearts. We build our lives with the stones we have available to us, and sometimes the fires of life tear down those walls in order for us to rebuild something new and better, all while retaining what is good and holy. At any given moment, we believe we see the reflections of our lives clearly—but what happens when we change the focus? Hindsight has a way of honing in on what matters most and of illuminating the flaws of our thoughts and actions. And the best thing we can forgivingly say to ourselves is ‘Live and Learn.’ We move into a new landscape of life, our eyes see differently, and we receive new wonders from our earth and new graces from the heavens.

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Spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm.

–John Muir

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