there is nothing like fierce winds, torrential sleet, and a blizzard to get your adrenaline going. it’s been a minute since a bit of quiet.
so monday morning – as we gratefully sat under our comforters and quilt and sipped coffee – the sound of red-winged blackbirds in our pine tree was like a symphony – significantly even more moving, at this moment, than listening to the ode to joy finale of beethoven’s 9th symphony.
we were in the aftermath.
even with the bits of destruction we experienced and unexpected – but necessary – expensive repairs – some already made and some on the ever-present maintenance docket – we felt the change and we rested in the sound of birds who had essentially disappeared during the chaotic weather.
the sun came out, we saw a bit of blue sky.
we took a breath.
there will be other storms.
some will be weather, some will be personal challenges, some will be directly connected to the state of this country.
and for any of it – for all of it – we need to gear up.
so – for right now – the sun, calm winds, melting snow, a few comforters and a quilt, coffee and the birds of our backyard will all help. they stoke up the fortitude, endurance and resilience we all have and we all draw on, the fragile crossing from destruction to recovery.
we talked about what this stunning vine would look like in a time-lapse video of itself – curling around this stem of underbrush, coiling in and out. it would be fascinating to see.
we watched a PBS special of a vine – reaching, reaching – for the sky. it was nothing less than intense. it would seem that vines are definitely in the every-being-for-itself gang, striving to get sun and squashing – choking – all in its way. which, in these times, sounds devastatingly familiar.
i see this vine off the side of the dirt trail we are on – tightly wrapped around underbrush – and think about how stuck it is, there on that stalk. i wonder – as I look at it – if it is even possible to unwrap itself, to loose its deathgrip on its victim, to shed its imperative to conquer as it climbs. or if it is lost in this dedication, this seeming mandate; if it is too immersed in its scheme of obliteration.
once a vine is a vine is there a point of no return, that dedication to climbing the ladder, so to speak, with no thought of that which it is crushing?
a little research shows that vines climb and block sunlight – starving the host plants. they add weight to delicate branches and foster rot. they are smothering. many are rabidly destructive, aggressive invasive species, hard to mitigate, impervious to control or checks and balances. hmmm. again, sounding familiar.
as i studied this creeping grape-vine-knot in the woods, i was struck by its beauty, taken in by its curves and the graceful way it had wound itself. it did not occur to me – as i studied it and photographed it – of the harm it may be causing. a little time dedicated to research, to asking questions, to garnering factual information and the vine-knot took on different meaning and made me wary of any championing i might give it.
“vines can deform trees by interfering with branch growth.” “active, localized efforts to manage and eradicate wild grapevines exist in wisconsin, primarily to prevent them from choking out trees and native vegetation.”
“without constitutional checks and balances, the presidency risks shifting toward authoritarianism, where the executive branch can ignore court orders, dismantle regulatory independence, and weaponize the department of justice against political opponents. this breakdown of oversight allows for unconstitutional executive orders, consoldation of power, and the potential erosion of democratic norms.”
“symbolizes wisdom, intuition, and the ability to see beyond deception or hidden truths.” (google)
it was on our way back on an out-and-back trail. we had already had the good fortune of hiking in the sun, our shadows falling on reedy marshes and fallowed underbrush of the forest, deer crossing our path.
the trail was muddy. i was watching where i was stepping.
and there it was.
a solitary feather.
a search told us it was an owl feather.
though there are resemblances to hawk feathers, i’m not minding the idea of going with owl – particularly since the symbolism is timely.
so, let’s go with that. (of course, i do welcome any birder’s opinions on this.)
we left it there, on the trail.
but we carried with us the good news of its symbolism, the wisdom, intuition and ability to discern truth. heaven knows we all sure need that right now.
in these times of unbelievable chaos, unbridled deception and grift, rank, depraved cruelty, a country being unconscionably deceived by its appallingly incompetent leaders, we are certain to need to stand in earnest wisdom with clear-eyed views of what is real versus what is propagandized or outright lying. we need to move with grace through all these challenges, protected against vast negative energy, step by step toward transformation and renewal in our country.
maybe we should all carry a virtual owl feather in our back pockets as we walk through these days.
the outside world got really quiet. the snow fell most of the afternoon and into early evening. we decided to go nowhere, immersed in the horrific news of the day. it was saturday, the last day of february.
i suppose we could have gone out – there were errands to be done. i suppose we could have gone somewhere to entertain ourselves or be entertained. i suppose we could have tipped a glass at some bistro or bar, shared a meal together, people-watched.
but this morning had brought us the overnight news of a new war conflict and – as we tried to process this new insanity – while others posted patriotic country songs clearly in favor of this pedo-files-distraction/this follow-the-corrupt-money-trail/this what-the-hell-is-this-anyway – we just weren’t up to leaving our home.
i suppose that (at least some) of mother nature will go on after we humans have utterly destroyed this planet, after we have made it impossible to live with each other, after every safety has been discarded and the world has become literally toxic in every single way.
i suppose that it may still snow. there may still be quiet days, when there is a hush outside. there may still be sun. there may still be stars. all that is likely. it will be our loss.
this morning – as i write this – the sun is in my eyes. it is bathing the quilt in light and i can’t look out the window – it is full of bright.
i can hear the birds outside. they are at the birdfeeder, on barney, feasting on birdseed and sunflower seeds. they are at the birdbath, cleaned and filled with water. everything else is still quiet, as it is early.
i’m thinking it doesn’t hurt to stoke up on these things – these sights, these sounds. it doesn’t hurt to hold them close or store them away.
because right now the future seems utterly uncertain.
we were waiting in the examining room. i had a doctor’s appointment.
we were surrounded by beige and all manners of brown.
i said aloud, “if i had a doctor’s office, it would not be decorated or appointed in shades of beige and brown. it’s all rather flat and depressing.”
i suspect – for the same reason i said that about the office – you might say that about this photograph. you might even say that about this trail – for much of it is bathed in beige and brown, the reeds along the river, cattails, leafless trees, and dry underbrush populating the trailside.
but it’s different.
these shapes and textures are completely engaging. there has been a giving-over to nature, an organic timewornness that has taken place. and in this flower’s stead has been left a stunning sculpture, full of light and dark. you just have to see it.
in the new eyes i have since going slower, i feel drawn to each of these. i could be completely happy lingering on the trail, photographing one after another of these dried flowerheads, each distinct, each stunningly beautiful. the tall and stately, the rounded, the wishing seeds clinging to the rough edges after floating on the wind. so much life in so much fallow.
my sweet momma – at 93 – would look in the mirror to apply her lipstick. she’d frown and grimace, “i look like an old woman!” i’d assert the obvious – “well, momma, you are 93!” and then, looking into her blue eyes i’d tell her – “a beautiful old woman”. for it was those very wrinkles, those spots of age and wisdom and experiences, those eyes that told a million stories of love and pain, summit moments and disappointments that gave her the actual depth, the texture, the light and dark to BE beautiful.
i look in the mirror, glance down at my hands, get on the scale at the doctor’s office – i am a changing sculpture. i frown, i grimace.
and then i remember my sweet momma. and i remember the flowerhead on the side of the trail.
every time we drove past we wondered what it was going to be. the farm field had been sold and something was being built.
up north in wisconsin are farms with structures that – at the beginning of this build – look somewhat similar to what was happening here. there are ginseng farms up there. we wondered if maybe that’s what was being constructed.
what we really hoped was happening – right next door to another farm that had posted numerous maga-loving signs – is that ‘they’ – whoever ‘they’ was who had purchased the large acreage – were building a solar farm.
we were thrilled to see the metal structures and underpinnings for this solar field as it became obvious to us that – indeed – it was a solar power generating site. we cheer each time we pass it.
it is truly beyond the scope of my ability to understand the utter lack of responsibility it takes to undermine the handing-down of a healthy planet to our ancestors as the administration gutted the environmental protection agency’s endangerment finding – an agency created in 1970 to protect “clean air and clean water and open spaces as the birthright of every american.” (president richard nixon)
“an EPA that ignores science and dismantles the tools designed to protect public health and the environment cannot fulfill its mission.” (protect our winters)
with 31 deregulatory actions on the cusp of being implemented, clean air, clean water, stable seasons and public lands are all at risk. this is the potential loss of public health and environmental stability, escalating climate impacts on the world. where – on this good earth – is accountability?
when you continue south on the road with this new solar field, turn right on the county highway after passing a few more farms, and drive about a mile further, you find yourself at another construction site.
another solar field.
cheering again, we couldn’t be more proud.
the solar development of these lands is looking forward – not back. it is not mired in the self-serving profiteering of cronies’ fossil fuels. it is not ignoring the plight of the environment – this beautiful earth – and those who follow us.
instead, this solar development is part of an initiative that seeks to support the state of illinois’ goal of 100% renewable energy by 2050. renewable energy…hydro, wind, solar, biomass.
bravo, illinois.
as a country – planning for a future that can be healthy, sustaining – a country that will care for all its inhabitants – we have a long ways to go.
dogga stands on the frozen pond out back. it is covered with snow and this is the first time – the first winter – he has not still avoided it. he’s not a water-dog so – as an aussie that circumvents it when it is an actual pond, it is surprising that he is choosing to traverse it, dig in its snow, stand on it.
winter is his favorite. it is his beach-weather. it’s his bliss.
now, i’ve heard many people lately complaining about this winter. “sick of” cold, snow, grey skies, biting winds, they crankily bemoan winter – like it’s a monster dedicated to making them miserable.
i don’t feel that way.
it’s winter, i think to myself, and winter is supposed to be like, well, winter.
the last few wisconsin winters have been easy on us, moderate temperatures, little snow, no real winterish hardships or challenges. maybe that’s made some of us less tolerant of what winter really is. but this winter feels about right, as far as i’m concerned. i think you are supposed to want to linger inside, nest, cocoon a bit. i think you are supposed to rest and maybe clean out a bit, readying yourself for spring and new growth. i think you’re supposed to take stock of it all and appreciate the change in seasons as the spinning earth revolves around the sun. i mean, maybe that’s just me.
i find great beauty in the almost-monochromatic that is winter. i find a storehouse of rejuvenation in its fallow. i find anticipation in the slowly-lengthening days, the slight uptick of temperatures. i find a little bit of hope – even in the midst of the darkness that is this country right now.
when spring comes – after the temperatures level out a little bit – we will cut these grasses down so that new growth will have room to burst through the soil. in the meanwhile the tracks around the grasses show that there are tiny creatures taking shelter in them, warmed by the fronds into which they are nestled. the snow is gorgeous – so bright out back i cannot comfortably look out the window.
it’s february. i don’t know how long winter will last. i suppose it could stretch well into april, maybe a bit into may. whatever. i am just here – me, d, dogga, our new gutters and warming cables – riding the coaster. studying the milder weather where family and friends live, i wouldn’t mind a few days in the 60s, but i kind of need the seasons to be what they are.
we watched the birds in the birdbath yesterday. there were at least seven birds splashing and drinking out there. i guess the sun was strong enough to melt the snow that had accumulated. they seem elated. they’d fly away and then return, waiting their turn on the edge of the bath together. they know where the birdfeeder is and they frequent it. their chirping and birdsong in the morning reassures me that – yes – it’s just winter and this is what winter is like.
i don’t want to race through. i don’t want to wish for months from now. I don’t want time to go by without my acknowledgement of some sort, my appreciation.
why wouldn’t nature – in all its magnificent glory – wonder what in the hell is going on?
why wouldn’t nature – in its most minuscule and its most vast – its most discreet and its most deafening – stare down humanity, shocked at the impunity?
why wouldn’t nature – in its chugging-chugging ability to keep on keeping on – shake its head as the people, living within its generosity, destroy it?
why wouldn’t nature – working around its infinite challenges to maintain a healthy and centered balance – be infuriated at so many unresolved conflicts, so much bigotry, so much extremist agenda?
why wouldn’t nature – in its symbiotic synergy – be aghast at such lack of cooperation, such disregard to interdependence?
why wouldn’t nature – in its innate ability to BE love – drown in tears of devastated sadness?
i’d say that each time we see it, it looks different.
the des plaines is not a raging river. it is not a major water thoroughfare. it bubbles out of the ground a little north and west of here and flows south, through the rest of southeastern wisconsin and into illinois where it eventually – through joining with the kankakee and the illinois – becomes a tributary for the mississippi. its origin is from glaciers long ago, a heritage it carries in its current, in each bend.
it is a treasure, this relatively unknown river. we have hiked many of its miles, getting to know it in all its different seasons, its river-ness unflailing even in drought.
a place of solace, the trails that have developed around this river must be wrapped in the magic of the flow – for it is there we go (as we have written time and again) to sort, to ponder, to laugh with abandon and to cry.
and even in the moments when it is frozen, when all appears still and fallow is on the calendar, it is still moving. it is a living and breathing river – a body of water that continues.
i suppose that could make me feel the slightest bit less panicked about this country. this is a living and breathing democracy. though it appears frozen and at inordinate peril, i suppose there are tiny streams of constitutional law that are still bubbling up, pushing their way to the surface from aquifers deep in the earth. i suppose that the river’s origin 14,000 years ago should speak to me about tenacity through challenge – both natural and manmade. i suppose that the import of this simple river on the places through which it flows should remind me that every single impact counts, every effort to eradicate invasive species makes a difference.
and so, with no small measure of hope, i honor the uprisings of those who protest against the cruelty being dealt to the people of this country. i applaud the efforts of those who push back against the authoritarian rule that has surfaced in plain sight. i acknowledge that under it all – flowing underneath the vileness of this administration – are steady, solid, compassionate, reasonable voices. the people who stand firm on the principles upon which this country’s democracy was built – not silent, not still.
as i write this, it is a feels-like of -41 degrees outside. the actual temperature is -14. we are staying inside.
this is one of the bends in the trail i really love. as we come around this outer perimeter of the trail – a section beyond which we have explored with good boots and warm weather – i know that the stand of pines is coming. and with those pines, the scent…
we stocked up before the big freeze. going to the supermarket is astonishing each time we go, so this time was no different. we had a list – and shopped to the list – though we did buy a small bag of cape cod chips not on the list – but it was still a small fortune. we didn’t want to have to go out to resupply in the frigid arctic blast.
not to mention the fact that this time – this time in this world – oddly and horrifyingly suspended – feels overwhelming.
it’s a little bit risky writing a post ahead of its publish date, particularly now. anything could happen, it seems. and we don’t want to seem – or be – tone-deaf.
in the moments of stepping away from all that is happening – and they are merely slight moments – we seek any source of reassurance, any source of comfort, any source of grounding. we try to get good sleep, eat well, drink water, exercise. we try to find things to laugh about, things that take us away from the chaos. we hug the dog. we listen – still – to george winston’s december album. we hike when we can. we plan distractions.
but we’ve cancelled some meaningful plans, things we had on our calendar for months. things we’d been looking forward to. it was disappointing to do so, but we recognized our limits – physical and emotional – and decided to be adult about it.
yesterday, sitting on the old deck glider in the living room, looking out the front window, i tried to reason with myself about it. cancelling plans and tickets and such is not just a nod to the weather or to our personal limits.
it is a deep sigh of the exhaustion we feel as we navigate – with the pummeled populace out there – the current world, the devastation we feel about our country, the shock our hearts register each and every day as we stay as plugged in as we can manage about everything that is happening – rapidly, with no brakes.
sometimes, i guess, one just has to stay still, to sit still, to stare out the window.
and sometimes the trail comes to us and wraps us in it, hoping to assuage our fears, to calm our hearts, to stoke our courage.
reverse threading 