Recently these words in a poem by Denise Levertov caught my attention:

But after a few steps, I paused, impelled again

to linger, to look North before nightfall-the expanse

of calm, of calming water, last wafts

of rose in the few high clouds.

And was rewarded:

the heron, unseen for weeks, came flying

widewinged toward me, settled

just offshore on his post,

took up his vigil.

                               If you ask

why this cleared a fog from my spirit,

I have no answer.

Sometimes when simply ambling through my home prairie, something catches the eye … 

I’m often amused by how we commune with nature. When canoeing or kayaking on one of the nearby rivers, especially the rivers, typically there is a point where I’m rewarded with an uncharted deep breath and a sense of unrelenting mental freedom. How addicting, and a feeling I cherish wholeheartedly. Sometimes this also happens in the woods, or simply ambling through my home prairie. Maybe something catches the eye, often unexpectedly, a momentary glimpse of a wonder in nature.

Yes, a fog clearing from my spirit.

Many years ago, my river buddy, Tom Kalahar, and I led a group on an overnight fishing and camping expedition on the Minnesota River. Among those floating with us was a philosopher/college professor from Argentina, a man noted for silent pride and ongoing reflection. As we were getting ready to push off after breakfast, the philosopher was missing. After concerted efforts to search the wooded bluff, and even along the adjacent sand bar, he was found quietly meditating in a little wooded “room” he had discovered at the top of the bluff that provided a beautiful window to an expansive view stretching upriver. Among us he became “the Ponderer.”

Hidden along the Minnesota River, and found while “sauntering” along the river bank.

Later that same morning we stopped the canoe caravan on a gravel bar created by the inflow of a small, clear water creek. After about 45 minutes and surprisingly little action, we were ready to head on downriver. But, no ponderer. His son-in-law sent his son up the little tributary in search and moments later the young teenager burst back through the brush. “Dad!,” he cried, “Grandpa was laying up in the creek naked!” The philosopher, laying in a calming pool of clear water beneath a gorgeous canopy of May, wooded greenness, was clearing a fog in his spirit in ways we weren’t.

Somewhere along a path, on any given path in nature, a “walking ponder” becomes a “saunter.” To hike one must have a gait, and humorously, if you’ve walked a European sidewalk with me my fastest “hike” might be considered a “saunter” by many. When afield in the woods or prairie, my saunter is natural, expected and ever more pronounced .. observing, discovering momentary wonders and fleeting moments of nature .. of clearing fog from spirit.

“August” was a momentary, fleeting moment in the lower loop of my home prairie, a stumbling onto the unexpected in the midst of not looking.

Thoreau take on it was: “The saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.”

I’m now reading “The Hour of Land,” another fine work by author Terry Tempest Williams, who shares a conversation with New Mexico artist, Lawrence Fodor, who says, “As artists, the beauty, and all the revelations therein, is in stumbling onto the unexpected when we are in the midst of looking/not looking for something else entirely … that sensorily aware state of not assuming anything, not purposely looking for anything in particular but completely in touch with the moment and where we happen to be.”

A moment on a “foggy saunter” in the Bonanza area of Big Stone State Park.

To saunter is a fine way to find something when you’re not looking for anything at all, or perhaps for clearing fog from your spirit. As to why, like the poet Denise Levertov, I have no answer.

via Poems of a Prairie Winter

A friend who is a recognized geologist suggested from the lay of my prairie that this may have been the shoreline of a glacial lake. It does have the slope, and there are decent ghost-like wetlands during the spring melt. Plus, just over the rise is a very nice wetland frequented by thousands of ducks and geese during the spring migration. It takes very little imagination to envision all of this adjacent land as being the bed of an ancient lake.

So, yes, there is slope, though only a true flatlander would suggest this a hill. Having just climbed from the bindings of my cross country skis, the thought of this being a “hill” is simply outrageous. My eight acres of former tillable is now embraced with a layer of fresh, new snow … the first real snow of the winter. With new bindings screwed into place, skiing over the mowed trails provided a fine winter exercise good for both the heart and eyes. The heart for exercise, the eyes for catching special messages hidden within the forbs and grasses!

You can come across special messages hidden in the forbs and grasses, poetry created by prairie winds.

My neighbor, Lance Lindeman, comes over about once a week in the summer for lawn meditation, or what we jokingly call “yard yoga.” Away from his job as a union organizer, he cuts winding trails through the prairie with a rider mower. His winding paths are wonderful for three of the four seasons. Not now. Not in the winter with a decent covering of snow … which is now a rarity with the change in climate … when one seeks a good, long satisfying glide. Apparently I have little to complain about!

No, this really isn’t all that troubling since the idea is to combine a little nature with the exercise, and that can be done without driving away from the farm to one of the area state parks or nature areas. Also nice is being able to take a camera into the prairie, for you can come across special messages hidden in the forbs and grasses.

Yesterday I came across a heart-shaped “valentine” written in the snow, and I’m pleased I had the camera for on my loop through the prairie moments ago the heart was erased by the same winds that had created it.

Most of all is my love of catching sight of “wind poems.”  These “poems” are etched in the snow by the tips of the prairie grasses, aided by the wind, and some are just beautiful. Yesterday I came across a heart-shaped “valentine” written in the snow, and I’m pleased I had the camera for on my loop through the prairie moments ago the heart was erased by the same winds that had created it. Tomorrow, with another covering of snow and a nice breeze, we’ll seek new poems and messages created by the wind and prairie grasses. Among my favorite grasses is the side-oat gamma, and I’ve yet to see a side-oat creation. When it happens it will surely be surreal.

My farm sits in an area described as the Prairie Pothole Biome. The prairie grasses are a major part of that ecosystem. Some 99 percent of the Biome was lost to “progress” and “civilization” through ditching, cultivation and eventual drainage. Big Stone County, Minnesota, is rather unique, for it is one of the areas still counting a number of potholes. They’re also called “wetlands” by government entities, or “sloughs” by the locals. Same thing, sunken relics left behind in the prairie by the melting of the last glacier thousands of years ago. Winter graces these wetlands (my favorite name for them), adding seasonal grace to the shallow earthly depressions. Yes, you can find messages here as well. Winds and aquatic plants create interesting ice and snow dune formations. Yes, a different poem … poems less delicate and boldly stated.

Winter graces these wetlands, adding seasonal grace to the shallow earthly depressions. Yes, a different poem … poems less delicate and boldly stated.

Ah, but there is more! The third natural feature of the Prairie Pothole Biome are the burr oak savannas, and yes, Big Stone County has a fair share of these on the shady sides of hills. A beautiful and huge savanna is found on the weathered bluffs along the old river … now Big Stone Lake. I love sitting in the wooded savanna at the nearby Bonanza area of Big Stone State Park during a slow, drifting snow, or even hiking or skiing along the trails hugging the lake shore. Snow in the savannas adds an entirely different layer of beauty and mystery, a poetry of  striking beauty and grace, often times haunting.

Snow in the savannas adds an entirely different layer of beauty and mystery, a poetry of  striking beauty and grace, often times haunting.

Yes, I look at the prairie differently than many. That’s okay. We each have our own creativity and ways of interpreting nature. When I find messages left by the wind, the grasses and forbs, the trails left by mice, pheasants and coyotes, the icy sculpturing the wetlands, the oaken arms ladened with silhouetted snow, I’m pleased. If I don’t find them, will you? Will you read them the same way? Does it matter? In winter, prairie poems come to life, etched as they will by wild winds. This poetry provides hope and warmth on a wintry, snowy day.

via The Parallel of Mirrored Times

Recently a friend sent this note: “You’re never too old to have another goal or dream!”

So, for several moments recently, I sat in my window seat, grasping a warm mug of smoky Lapsang Souchong, to stare at the snow-covered, frozen prairie and wonder about my goals and dreams. Bluejays and Redpolls mingled with the woodpeckers and juncos around the feeder while sparrows hopped across the frozen grounds for dropped tidbits. What kept interrupting my consciousness was more immediate, of being torn between attending a political planning meeting or a jam session organized by dear friend, Lee Kanten.

Pondering life around the bird feeders …

Dreams and goals? Realities of the moment? I opted for the political meeting, and the dreams and goals await.

While our country and much of the world is going through such troubling times I find it hard to look forward, to dream and to set goals. At my age, when so many simply look forward to spending time in a recliner or killing an afternoon on a barstool, I seek meaning. A purpose. To contribute. I still strive to make a difference, to be part of the solution, and as a friend once confided, “You don’t know a damned thing about retirement!”

As incredulous as we find these political and economic times, they ironically mirror one of the most interesting years of my life. Recently I was reminded that this is the 50th anniversary of 1968 … when dreams, goals, politics and arts were smoldering, personal issues for my generation. It was a time when we moved from a “Pleasantville” existence to exploring and realizing deep inner feelings. Yes, there was anger; yet yoga and meditation mingled with passion and protest.

While this transformation began earlier in the 1960s, it seemed that ‘68 was the “moment” of colorization, of the engaging enlightenment, even the beginning of our maturity. So much of this was linked to the arts and music. Alvin Ailey’s dancers were breaking barriers and chains on stage as were various music bands on vinyl. When tuning in a radio station, you never knew what new music you would hear or where the next major protest would rise.

Politically, I was among those clinging to the possibility of Eugene McCarthy bringing his message of peace to the presidency, and along with it, an end to the Vietnam war. It was a hope we held as dearly as many of us did in this past election with the candidacy of Bernie Sanders. In 1968 we would mourn the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, and then Bobby Kennedy. Our dream of McCarthy would end in back room political maneuvering when he was ousted by fellow Minnesotan, Hubert H. Humphrey. That was in Chicago, in a year that marked my first real chance to put my feet on the ground as a journalist with the Dubuque newspaper.

Indeed, my managing editor assigned me to cover the park protests in Chicago. Seven years earlier, within a year of my high school graduation, I spent the bulk of my Army years at Fort Sheridan just north of Evanston. Seeing the Constantine wire stretched across the streets in the “loop” of downtown Chicago, patrolled with armed jeeps, was the beginning to the end of my cultural innocence on the eve of the Democratic convention.

I fear I fail in recapturing those times. Yet, 50 years later, our nation is facing political unrest that seems even more fragile, tense and unsure as were the final days of the Johnson presidency. McCarthy’s run foreshadowed that of Bernie Sanders for people of my thoughts and beliefs, and both were diminished by the same political party in back room dealings. This brought on the Nixon legacy, of his treason and dishonesty along with his efforts to diminish the press — times that now mirror our current president and Congress. Yes, there are some amazing if not ironic parallels between 1968 and our state of affairs in 2018.

I wish for a nation with a peaceful and equal existence for all regardless of race and gender, and an acknowledgment that our planet has finite resources all of mankind, and especially those in political power, needs to respect and conserve.

Now, as I edge into the aged and fight against thoughts of being considered elderly, I seek a dawning of a new revival to bring forth reasoning and honesty, cooperation and accountability, for us as a nation. I wish a peaceful and equal existence for all regardless of race and gender, and an acknowledgment that our planet has finite resources all of mankind, and especially those in political power, needs to respect and conserve.

Which, ironically, mirrors many of  the same dreams and goals I championed 50 years ago as a young man. Dreams and goals that many thought we had long since outgrown.

via Sculpting of Thoughts

For a few weeks now I’ve searched for solace and inspiration with ice. More specifically, icy sculptures and formations created by nature on the small, undrained wetland potholes in what was formerly the prairie. Many of the sculptures form early morning or overnight, depending on wind direction and speed, along with the necessity of surface water.

Initially the ice froze beautifully, finely crafted as the surface of a mirror … before warming temperatures and fierce winds broke through the sheets.

My writing, though, is not necessarily about ice. Consider ice as metaphor.

Like our government, our freeze-thaw cycle is out of whack. Along Big Stone Lake many residents were thrilled with the early formation of the ice sheet. That came on a calm night and was as finely crafted as the surface of a mirror. Ice skating was being talked about as time was counted for an appropriate thickness that would grant safety. Nearly as quickly, warming temperatures and fierce winds broke through the sheet and waves brought fractured slabs upon the shore or slid them atop the ice that remained. On some nights the ice seemed to refreeze in the shape of windblown waves. Now, as someone mentioned the other day, it’s a “damned mess.”

One early morning I passed an ice sculpture that seemed created by Picasso as one of his huge inner city sculptures. Other wetlands made stumps appear as candy kisses, or in the eyes of some, the upturned butts of feeding ducks. Another wetland on a late afternoon appeared as a regatta with each cattail seeming a mast with finely trimmed sails listing this way and that. All across the wetland.

Winds made stumps appear as candy kisses, or in the eyes of some, upturned butts of feeding ducks.

These sculptures won’t last very long. They’re as vulnerable as they are interesting.

Which brings me to this … vulnerability. Many of us gathered on a cold, windy night in an old schoolhouse the Sisters Kay and Annette Fernholz had decorated for a special gathering in honor of the upcoming Advent. Most of us were long-time friends. We arrived from our various small prairie towns in search of spirituality in the face of uncertainty and vulnerability. Our spirituality, as individually unique as a chanced ice sculpture.

Trying times such as these foster such endeavors and gatherings. Speaking only for myself, there is immense confusion. At one point after a moment of silence, I confessed to the others of feeling caught between devastating dismay and a Bob Marley doctrine of “don’t worry ‘bout a thing, cause every little thing gonna be alright …”

In one wetland, the wind created what appeared as a regatta, with each cattail seeming a mast with finely trimmed sails listing this way and that. All across the wetland.

Would these times, these political policy shifts that will long affect the vast majority of U.S. citizens so needlessly,  last lifetimes? Or would they, like the ice sculptures, transform and ooze in shifting winds back into waters?

My nephew, of a conservative bent though no fan of what is happening, suggested that in a few years we will continue along in a “new normal.” As a father of four children, I wonder how he gathers his thoughts around his children’s future. In this political climate, one so seemingly devoid of compassion and caring for the vast majority of citizens regardless of economic stature, though certainly vividly against anyone of color, what does our future as a nation hold?

It was almost Picasso like, floating for a short moment in time before transforming back to water.

Shortly after the last election two of my closest and dearest friends seemed optimistic and incredibly hopeful of our future. (Warning, for here comes the sweet rhythm of reggae and the Marley lyrics! Here comes the shifting winds and ever sculpting waters!) No, neither would be caught dead voting for the likes of Trump for president, yet both … one in Hungary, the other nearby … spoke the same basic message: That his election as president, and what this Congress is doing, is absolutely necessary to awaken a vast majority of people who have grown so complacent that half do not even bother to vote. “We absolutely needed this,” said my area friend.

Seeking solace in nature, in times so uncertain and vulnerable.

These are thoughts I carry as I travel nearby roads attempting to find solace in nature. Here I seek a personal calm in a world that is decidedly not. I commune with the frigid prairie wind that creates incredibly interesting forms, then as quickly shifts to take them away, to sculpt something entirely different or nothing at all. Life, as is nature, is uncertain and vulnerable.

I only wish I could sing like Marley of not worrying, that every little thing will be alright. The music, though, is more Dylanish … so faint, blowing in the wind.

via An Anonymous Gift

A hearty wind roared through the prairie last night. Some would say a “freight train” wind. Hardly a rarity, for such winds are historically common if journals of immigrant prairie women serve witness. These winds are among the reasons why our autumns here on the “high, wide and lonesome” seem so abbreviated.

Leaves, so delicate and beautiful in death, are quite vulnerable to such winds. Same with snow. We find it quite odd, for example, to have snowflakes drift down from the sky, as if there is gravity. Snows here come horizontally, at near breakneck speeds, it seems. I was thinking of these horizontal happenstances while on a recent trip to Brede, Holland, where we were blessed with a beautiful little alcove balcony over a courtyard where stood a beautiful, 200 year old oak with leaves as golden as the sky was blue. It was actually mesmerizing to watch as leaves simply “rained” from the limbs and branches in descent to soft, splash-less landings.

Along the hills and ravines of Big Stone Lake, the colors were briefly magnificent.

Those leaves were a troublesome malady for our hotel host, Suzanne Kranze, who spoke of her frustrations of having to sweep the courtyard clean every few days. “Unlike your time in Minnesota,” I joked, “where the winds would blow them off to a neighbor’s yard?”

“Only if that would happen!” she said with a smile.

Our’s was actually a very colorful autumn, truth be told. In all my years here I cannot recall maples offering a more vibrant display. Magical and vivid. Then in the first weeks of October the winds came and within days much of the yellows and reds littered the savannas or were blown away to distances unknown.

Yes, the maples were as colorfully vivid as ever before.

Ah, but autumn. You of magical colors, of browning, windblown grasses; of trees glowing in the late afternoon light. Warm afternoons following mornings of frosted grasses. If only you could last a little longer.

If I were a poet I would write a sonnet. If I were a composer, perhaps a concerto. Being neither, I try to make the best of it with a camera.

Peeking through the early October greenery, a moment of splendor!

Yet, ours was a tough autumn. Especially for the farmers. Too much rain on top of a soaked water table. Yet the colors were magnificent, even if the oaks and some of the other trees grasp their greenish chlorophyll in last gasps of annual oxygen. I was reminded of just how condensed out autumns really are after that brief trip to Europe that included a train trip across Holland and a car trip into the hillsides of Hungary. Outside of Budapest we traversed through roads that would have made the Ozarks proud, surrounded by a mix of hardwoods in full autumn splendor. Even in Missouri last week some color existed. Not here.

In fog along the Minnesota River … beauty in yellow.

For a short while our nearby hills were blessed, and the road that curves along Big Stone Lake guided you through a glorious and beautiful setting. On what we call the “lake road” weaving north out of Ortonville, our autumn colors held steady with leaf color all around … while they lasted. In what gives the prairie grasses their chance to dance and wave as a foliar sea, the same caused the demise of our colorful splendor. Yes, those winds of the prairie.

Coots on migration peek through a Big Stone Lake dogwood tree.

Winds like we experienced again last night. Winds that seemed to roar and rumble especially in a quiet house where my sweet dog, Joe Pye, cuddled against my leg with the only other sound being that of the subtle turning of a page of a book being read.

To awaken to bare ground this morning was a blessing, yet it was a wind foretelling of a seasonal shift. High winds, like that of a blizzard, seem more common in winter than autumn.

And the leaves? Long gone, both from the trees and from the lawn. An anonymous gift to some neighbor downwind …

Source: Capturing the Magic