The Lakes Shore we once paddled continues to breathe- In and Out. The siche folds its layers over itself in fractal waves Like percussion beats. The beats of your breath, have ceased. Is life Like a butterfly? Beating its wings, effecting change Half a world away. Is it the change you fought So hard for in the world. Or is it Just the incessant beat of the world marching on? You once told me you were afraid To imagine the change we marched for- Side by side lifting a banner in the streets of St. Paul. You lived it and where is it now. Here, Now. With the Lake and the rainforests of Panama. Forever impermanently interwined with reality.
“Where ever you go, there you are.” He once told me. We had taken such different paths to that same Canadian Beach. And the waves of Mother Superior went on With the beating wings of a quail. We walked together from Hattie Cover to the distant point of rock And we laughed until the sun set over that glistening Lake. And we wept.
The waves continue From us to thee Forever impermantently intertwined While we are apart One from the other.
A Frost’s Amanita I found growing on my driveway this morning.
Today as we cleaned the trash of generations past, a friend and I discussed how we as a society will move to a more honorable, sustainable lifeway. We spent hours cleaning an eye sore of a shed, which had been left behind by the previous “owners” of land, clearing away old windows, wood carved in raccoon scat, and many tools rusted into uselessness. Around us birds sang, the wind blew, and the promise of throwing our bodies into Gitchi Gumee at the end of the day kept us going. We talked all about the future, about heat pumps and masonry stoves and floor joints. And we talked about systems.
I fully recognize my place in the world. How gifted I’ve been, and how dependent upon the fossil fuel economy I have been. All the debris cleared out of that old old shed will go into a dumpster, and to the place we call “away”, a place which doesn’t exist. My ability to create and to learn and to grow is a symptom as well of a system which cannot exist much longer. And yet we as a society do much to prop that system up. We create pipelines and open pit mines and some of us protest against such things. After all, “a body in motion will stay in motion until acted upon by an outside force”. This is Newton’s first law of physics, and applies to human systems too. The fossil fuel economy will remain in motion until there is an outside force to stop it. Many millions of us have become that outside force, acting upon systems to stop them. Today, as I clear away the trash of one system, I wonder if we’ve forgotten some other laws.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Every protest faces equal and opposite support for projects which exploit environments and people. But what we have not seen is an equal and opposite reaction to the project itself. What would an equal and opposite reaction to an operational pipeline be? What about an open pit mine? I don’t have the answer today, but on first thought I see gardens built, grasslands replanted, housing created. For every pipeline, an equal and opposite reaction to rid ourselves of the very reasons we need them.
Lichen through a microscope, an equal and opposite rection of light and mirrors?
The South Shore is chilly today, with the jet stream pushing cold polar air southward across the Lake. A sublime Autumn chill may hang out with us all week long, as our bodies still crave the celebration of August, time spent sunning on the beach or working in relationship with still growing food. Instead, yesterday I lit my woodstove in the afternoon, retreating inwards toward myself and my fire while I let my cat be fascinated by the mother deer with two fawns, and by the hummingbird who visited my feeder for some rest. Yesterday, I needed to give my curiosity a break to recover it again for the week ahead.
My woodstove gives me the most lovely warmth, while it burns away years of history. Each piece of wood I burn is a record of an individual history, full of years of bounty and years of withering. What did the trees of this fire dream of before now? How did they perceive the world? I sit, I wonder, and I listen to the crackle of the fire as history heats my heart. I’m thinking I will post poetry on Sundays and essays on Wednesdays for now until my big move in November. We’ll see how it goes.
What season is it?? Who knows.
In the flame of the woodstove Witness the dreams of the universe As embers weave their way through the air before Revealing themselves like stars Just more delicate Fewer parts of hydrogen to fuel Your heart. They are multitude and small Simple as a hallucination The one that tells you that you turned off your Alarm Clock, that morning the sun had not yet peaked through The window to your naked body. Your alarm clock still sang The sound of waves crashing, even though Those same waves are frozen now.
The same waves that made rainbows in the mists of the sea caves The same waves where we kissed and first began to dream Of things like windows, things like orchards, things like birch trees Those same waves who are frozen now And without motion are they still waves?
The universes hallucinations, as Vast as the love between all the people When it shrinks and cracks between two, Rekindles between others And healing must take place. Healing as though humans were stars Or embers With a constant spark, Meant to be bright, To transcend without a wisp or a name. Yet to be the material of us all. A staggering bend between Aspen trees and sandstone cliffs The dream of a spark And little more Along your beaten path To those waves between us.
Listen to the crackling of the woodstove, As it boasts the story of 20, 30 years of life, A crackle as 1999 burns
A dear friend recently told me “I love knowing things by the way I don’t know them” as we spoke about differentiating species of lilies. I loved that phrase deeply, and I’m still trying to find all of its meaning. To know something by the ways in which you do not know it is an action. You are actively seeking what you you do not know about a thing, without seeking to answer those unknowns. I am simply wondering “what will the color of this lily be?” or “what are the parts of their flower and how do they react to the midsummer sun?”, and then I am letting the lily tell me in their own time. This attitude has some similarity to the scientific method I think.
The curiosity of a naturalist is bounded not by the discovery of a thing, but by the rediscovery of that thing over and over, as our perspective of the thing is changed by time. Year after year, my observation of the lilies in my yard is changed and given depth by my own sorrows and wonders, as well as the minute details of jetstream chaos, temperature differences, and forest canopy coverage. This could be considered a variation of phenology, keeping track of the year-to-year changes in nature’s timing as we track our own changes as well. To me, phenology is the realization that our own perception of nature’s changes affects those very same changes.
The best emotional state with which to make phenological observations is with a cool and rational mind, looking for the first bloom of the marsh marigold the instant its petals unfold! But that same rational mind tells you little about your relationship to that marsh marigold, or everything that is happening around it. You sure could wait beside the wetland boardwalk all night, waiting for the petals to open before the morning light. Or you can find yourself on an adventure, and suddenly remember “ah yes, I’m looking for Marsh Marigold today, who were they again?”. By allowing ourselves to be curious about the mysteries around us, we may lose some scientific pinpoint accuracy, but we may discover so many more connections between all these little things we may have never seen before.
Knowing a thing by the ways we do not know it means simply asking questions, not expecting an answer, and loving that thing through the mystery of what we ask. To love something or an interaction of things for its mysteries is a practice of honorable interaction with the ecological system of our Home. I know Gitchi Gummi by the way I never know what she will give me on any given day. By the way I don’t know what is around the next bend along her rocky and winding shores. Just as I purposefully forget the color of the lilies in my yard, year after year. I do this so I may hold that surprise each time it blooms, and may love again those petals, as their ornage petal unfurl to the mid-summer sun or those Superior waves as they crash about a mysterious pointe. I invite you to find yourself in boundless surprise, by allowing yourself to never know too much, and to always forget one little thing.
The habits of a naturalist are eternally ordinary. Watch, count, find wonder, and repeat endlessly (there is always an end, but let’s ignore that part for today). In walking with a friend at Siskiwit Falls today, in the tiny village of Cornucopia along Gitchi Gummi’s southern shore, I counted the steps one of the waterfalls had carved into the sandstone in one particular spot, 13, and compared it to another spot. All this counting before wandering down to a sandbar where a bare tree lies, a mystery to be identified and cataloged. And by cataloging we may know a little more or satisfy our inner curiosity, through which we naturalists build an honorable relationship with Place.
My friend and I debate the patterns of bark and growth, and find meaning in the speckling of knots along the debarked tree. We guess everything from alder to box elder to cottonwood. Through all this we find meaning from each other, deepening human bonds over curiosity in the slightest mystery. The habits of a naturalist are all about noticing relationships and tying niches together into a whole picture of a biome, large or small, and that includes human connections as well. My friend and I are just getting to know each other, and this mystery is our connection point. It is soon forgotten when they find an orchid along the river’s banks, a green bog orchid, which I still check in on every so often.
Along the same banks, we later observe layers of sandstone, separated from the main body of bedrock. Here on the South Shore our bedrock is glacial till and sandstone on top of igneous gneiss. Here in particular, the river has eaten a path in the sandstone, and along these banks’ underneath cedar roots and their threads of roots, disks of sandstone have fallen from the main body of bedrock, to be cradled aloft by the roots of the cedar. I feel that way sometimes. Separated from the beloved source, and held up by the barest of gossamer strings. Somedays, I feel as the debarked tree must, or as the sandstone steps of the waterfalls. Feeling deep relationship, kinship even, is also a habit of a good naturalist.
I am in between lives at the moment. As are the chickadees, and the maple trees in their way. As food grows more plentiful the chickadees have stopped flocking, and returned to somewhat more solitary lives. Maple sap, the sweet elixir of the Northwoods, flows from roots to branches. I love the process of gathering and turning it to syrup. The walk from tree to tree and back to the central fire. Each tree I visit today I see as a different future. A different life I can possibly lead. Unresolved futures. The central fire though has not shifted from its spot in a long while.
Walking between lives
is like being a melting glacier
I uncover new beauty with each retreat
And mourn the loss of myself
Drop by drop
Each piece of myself is a flood in Miami
And a drought in Phoenix
A degree warmer and I vanish
Along with the communities within
ideas and dreams and timeless records
down to the scraping of soil from the rock
Love lost to 400 parts per million of CO2
As we walk the chasm together
taking one step after another
to a future spun on the barren Earth.
Recently I’ve spent some time reminding myself that we can each craft a mission for ourselves in life. Mine is to help myself and others create relationship with the natural world through how direct interactions with Gaia, specifically within the Lake Superior watershed. This is my central fire, through which I refine those many futures down to life lived well. Lately I have little faith in myself that I can reach that goal, but still I try. What is your mission statement? How does it do good for your Place in this era of The Great Turning?
Sugarloaf Cove as the ice breaks apart, one potential life to lead.
Today, now, yesterday, and tomorrow, I sit at my little corner, with my salt lamp, record player, a friends lovely plants, over looking Gitchi Gumee, now bluer than the sky itself. The narrows of Wolf Lake stretch out before me, the space between mountains three.
It was through these narrows the other day that I lead a class of seventh graders, snowshoeing to the cedar grove where it all simply stands still. They were unimpressed. However, it wasn’t for that day that I sought to impress them in this place, nor for today about a week later. Maybe tomorrow it was for? The cedars and the chaga in the birches takes their time to work their way into our hearts, but inevitably they eventually do.
Yesterday was a very different adventure. A walkabout alone, through the melting network of ski trails along the Baptism River. I could hear the rushing waters of the Spring melt in this day before the equinox, but could see down the hill stood on. Between myself and the Baptism, a forest of spruce and fir and endless wet and sharp snow. A less interesting venture than a jaunt up the hill, towards a section of birch and the possibility of early buds. There were none, but many grouse and mystery birds abound.
Learning in place is learning by existing and questioning. Why does this birch bend differently from all the others? Who is making that mysterious call (it was a blue jay)? Will this sunflower seed pop like corn or wild rice (nope)? In the past few years I’ve struggled with finding my own way of asking questions. But yesterday, standing at the deep snowed trail beside the hidden Baptism, I realized that I was asking these questions all the time, but wasn’t taking the time to notice them. As I welcome the Spring equinox today, I create this intention for the next three months; To take the time to notice the questions I’ve been asking myself all along.
Quacking Aspen buds how do you prepare for the warmth of the sun? Can I do the same?.
Lake Superior sunsets are loud, particularly in this time of year. We are between the tumult of the winter with its night time winds, and the songs of summer, with the birds and the frogs and the wolves all calling to each other. We are even before the Spring, with its sounds of people, out and about once again. We are in the inbetween time, when the sun thaws the top of the snow, and the night freezes it over again. The ground itself becomes a sheet of icy mystery. And we as humans project our own stories and anxieties into that icy layer of barren snow.
The sound of a Lake sunset is loud. It tells stories of the traditions of college students biking down to the rust belt breakwater on a first date. Stories of fire spinners and lovers shy together in tender moments by the creek. Never in the same spot from year to year As the creek shifts between channels. The Lake sunset tells booming stories in echoes of colors But not the colors themselves Giving space for new stories New kisses under cotton scarves And so the colors are ever brighter and sweeter in their memory Until they go grey in their eyes. And then dark.
In one sense this is the season of greatest hope for the future, when the sap is just about to run and buds just about to bloom. Then again it is the season of greatest waiting, in anticipation for the sounds. And the silence seems timeless. The sunset and moonrise the only solace of time moving forward. All potential still.
There is a dichotomy between filling my life and the lives of others with experiences, and trying to function in a the world of environmental education and justice in a capitalist world. The two simply dont mix. Today, I am confused and hurt, and still processing in walks with friends up mountains, and in observing the behavior of a nuthatch as it bounces between my head and its spruce tree home. There is so much more to say. But today I tire, and fall into dreams. Tomorrow is full of snowshoe adventures and planting peppers for the season of growing. Hopefully my dreams are full of those peppers.
Gitchi Gumee ways flowing between icy cliffs and sandy islands. Each story building upon what has been before like the sandstone which builds the south shore's cliffs. And the water which tears them apart bit by bit into caves and beauty. The storms between storytelling and sap-flowing, pushing between expansion and experience and back again. Tearing me apart. I cannot stand before the storm. I can only take shelter in past selves and could have beens. Empty selves shaped by the waves and silences. Broken by a gift of chaga from a child filled with wonder.
The universe is created by division. The river splits in two, and the cells in my body divide and give rise to story and stormfronts between selves. And I dont know where the river flows next What story there is to be told between now and dust.
Every step we find ourselves in dreams- Of the moment the snow fled from the freshly covered Winter boughs Towards the ground that holds us so tight The gravity of Gaia pulls so much Softer on each crystalline snowflake Than she pulls upon our aging imaginations. So trapped by Moloch as they are Encased in screens and responsibilities.
Our minds soar like forming hail Down through the clouds, then up again, Then down again, and so on until We have so much icy weight that to the ground our mind returns. Falling and falling in And within the winds. Towards The withered stream, held by toxic soil.
Gravity holds me tighter than your touch Folding and unfolding both on the level of the strings That make the universe The strands which weave us together For only a stitch or two, Before splitting apart into new patterns And old.
I meant to post this yesterday, or the day before. But each time I thought about what to say to accompany it, adventure pulled me away. A ski at Tettegouche, where my Mother’s ashes rest. An unexpected opportunity to teach. Each bringing to a space of new discovery outside the realm of everyday gravity. I want to use this blog space to share my work regularly, predictably, in the grounds of the everyday routine, the gravity which holds us to our lives. That gravity isn’t a negative energy. It’s just that I cant let it control me while I live a space so magical as this.
That’s what this piece is about. Holding that gravity as a friend, rather than a prison guard. And letting the orbits that are our relationships to others run their course naturally. That is something I am still learning. In Love I hold and hold those with whom our orbits meet only briefly, and try to force the gravity of our lives to stay orbiting together when they would’ve naturally drifted apart. When do we hold on? When do we let go?
Gossamer Naturalist 