Winter on the Prairie

January 19, 2010. Here in East Central Minnesota we've been experiencing the mid-January thaw, that amazingly regular spell when the temperatures pop up from bitter cold to near or slightly above freezing for a short time. Occasionally the warm air that moves in over the cold landscape causes a fog that not only hangs in the air but freezes in thin plates and crystals on the trees and bushes. They all become part of a frosted fairyland. The frosting can be bad for the trees but it gives us a show as good as a midwinter fireworks display. This morning the skies were solid gray. A quick look out the window showed that the freezing fog had been at work during the night. The familiar world had been transformed into one of white, gray, and black.

The light was flat, which can be pretty good for photography in the snow. In mid-afternoon I shoved my little Olympus camera into a warm pocket, put on my cross-country skis and headed out for a tour of the two acre prairie we are restoring year by year. Part of the beauty of a prairie landscape carries through the winter when the unique stems and flower heads of summer poke out of the snow adding an interesting texture to the landscape.

The first character I met going down the hill on the east end of the house was this sky blue aster. About now it's probably blue with the cold, but early in the fall it, and its like-flowered associates, regaled us with clouds of blue flowers. It seems to have produced a good crop of seeds so we'll be looking for more of the odd almost black stems of this plant in midsummer.

A few feet further on stems and seed heads of yarrow brought back memories of patches of white blooms that lasted a good part of the summer. Yarrow is a coarse plant, not one of my favorites, but it's a great starter-upper in  a new prairie.

A good part of the hillside is covered by black-eyed susans. These were the most prolific plants in our one year old prairie last summer. Their bright yellow flowers came on in early summer and only faltered when the severe heat and drought of late summer spoiled their party. This is one of those plants that is so common that we don't pay much close attention to it, but we should. The seed heads looking like arrows poking skyward seem to indicate this plant still has lots of get up and grow.

The white cedar by the compost pile got it's share of frosting. This dense foliage is a haven for birds frost or no frost. I could hear a few dark-eyed juncos in the branches as I went by.

I couldn't help but take a close up of this interesting pattern of the frosty cedar branches.

Looking down toward  the southwest corner of our lot I noted that the trio of box elder, white oak, and a sixty foot high black cherry made a nice grouping. The landscape arrangement is courtesy of mother nature.

To the south, behind the rise covered in staghorn sumac the leaves still clinging to the red oaks gave a touch of color to  this otherwise white and frosty landscape.

The view along the line of trees running  east, up the hill to our neighbors lot, made me think that some landscape painter had been working here but with only white paint.

The ice fog isn't a very common occurrence so I never take it for granted. The fragile frosting typically only lasts  for a day or two and then becomes a memory. I never tire of looking at the almost surreal landscape it creates while it lasts.

Freshening Up

I recently heard nature writer - poet Diane Ackerman say "The more familiar something becomes the less attention we pay to it." I imagine most of us can agree to that statement. It seems like a no-brainer, perhaps bordering on trite. But it is a sweeping summary of a characteristic that has probably been a significant part of animal nature from earliest times. After all the familiar is almost by definition nonthreatening. If danger is anywhere around it must be hidden in the unfamiliar. Thus safety requires that the unfamiliar, the new, is where we  should focus our attention.

The bluejays that come to the feeder on our deck are feisty birds. They don't fly away when other birds come to the feeder. They don't fly away if the neighbors cat stalks by.  But they are so attuned to the unknown  that they fly off anytime they catch a glimpse of me moving around the kitchen. It will be interesting to see if I become familiar enough over time that I drop out of their attention span.

An odd exception to the idea that animals fear the unfamiliar is found in the vertebrate animals in the Galapagos Islands. The animals of the Galapagos show no fear of human intruders. I can recall spotting a vermilion flycatcher in a path-side tree as I walked along with a tour group there. A friend lifted his camera and began adjusting the telephoto lens. "I lost it. Where did it go?" he asked seconds later. He didn't understand why our group was laughing until he moved back from the viewfinder and saw the bird blithely perching on the end of his lens. Apparently the animals of the Galapagos Islands have lived without threatening neighbors for so long that they have lost all fear whether of the familiar or the new.

If we get so familiar with some piece of our natural surroundings that we don't pay it much attention, it may take on the aspect of a familiar friend. Most of us will find some comfort in an old familiar relationship. But at the same time we may be losing more than we gain because we've foregone some of our original sense of awe, and that engenders a sense of respect.

One way of getting closer to the earliest pleasure we found in a relationship is to freshen it up in much the same way councilors recommend freshening up a marriage that's running in a routine that's boringly familiar. Take a bit of extra time to scrutinize your subject just as you did on first acquaintance. Look for little physical or behavioral characteristics that you might have missed before. Read about your subject. Learning something new about a person can create a bit of excitement and an increased appreciation. It can do the same for your old familiars in the natural world. There's no need to have stale relationships even if they do provide a bit of comfort.

Bridging and Bootstrapping

We can experience something in the natural world without knowing exactly what it is we're seeing, hearing, and feeling. And we can learn about some aspect of nature through second-hand knowledge, without ever experiencing it with our senses. Each situation represents a partial connection. The former may affect us at deeper levels than the latter, but adding some cerebral knowledge will make it a more complete connection and may add a new dimension to our joy when we revisit our experience. On the other hand if we immerse ourselves in a new situation of which we have foreknowledge but not experience we will have the unmitigated thrill of watching our knowledge play out in our sensory space. And the result will be a much stronger connection to that the event that we witnessed.

So if we start with an immersion experience we can buttress it with knowledge and make it into a stronger, longer lasting connection with nature. If we have become acquainted with nature by first observing it through the windows of the mind, we can turn our knowledge into a strong and lasting nature connection by stepping outside and having a relevant experience. Or better yet, many relevant experiences.

No matter which way we approach the natural world we can strengthen our connection through bridging between experience and knowledge. And by doing so we bootstrap ourselves to stronger more enjoyable connections with nature.

Maybe this sounds blatantly obvious. But so do all the admonishments we hear regarding the combination of diet and exercise as the way to a better life. We should keep in mind that the obvious provides no benefit if we fail to act on it. So let's go out for experience and in for knowledge and bridge them to create nature connections that will soothe us when we want soothing and elate us when we reflect on the wonder of it all

Froggy Pond, Part 1

In the book "Last Child in the Woods" a great deal of emphasis is placed on the authors contention that kids need places to go, on their own, to meet nature face-to-face. I heartily agree. When he died at age seventy three my father had more familiarity with nature than me, even though he had no particular interest in nature as a pursuit. But he grew up on a 15 acre homestead that was in the countryside of the early 1900's. There were few cars, primitive airplanes were almost nonexistent, and none of the neighboring farmers were upset to have my father and his wild band of brothers and friends roaming over their land. So in the course of years of just being at play he met nature in many guises and accepted them all as interesting aspects of the world he lived in. Stories of some of his encounters came down to me and my brother Terry as our father introduced us to hunting, fishing, trapping and just being observant outdoors. My brother and I never became the sporting type of outdoors men because we were growing up in a different culture. Thus many of our fathers teachings remained as lessons of the head. Perhaps the biggest one was implicit: that our opportunities to meet nature were slimmer than his had been. But neither of us ever lost touch with the enjoyment of being outdoors that our father had instilled. Even in those early 1950's when developments were putting down roots on all the best open land surrounding us we managed to have meaningful natural encounters around our small town. I believe that there are still many, though fewer, places for kids to meet nature alone, face-to-face. Safety is more of an issue in our crowded modern world, so we need to make safe venues for kids to explore on their own.

"Froggy pond" was one such place in my early life. It was a place that in some ways shaped my future from the time I was about 10. To get to Froggy Pond we walked perhaps a half mile down Pennsylvania Avenue, then slid or tottered down the ten foot railroad embankment, and finally poked along about another half mile on the seldom used track. I don’t remember the discovery of Froggy Pond. I’m sure it grew out of the sense of adventure that always came with exploring along the railroad tracks. Today that would be a big no-no if indeed anyone could find a stretch of seldom used track. Most were torn up long ago.

Froggy Pond wasn’t a pond at all. Today I would call it a seep or spring. It was a hole a foot or so deep and perhaps three feet across. Cold clear water welled up slowly from the bottom of the hole, flowed out toward the tracks, and then along a little ditch beside the tracks.Within fifteen or twenty feet the water seeped back into the ground, defining the eastern end of Froggy Pond. It wouldn’t have been an interesting place for adults, if indeed they even noticed it, but for me, my brother Terry, and my friend Bruce it was pure fascination. And that’s what kids need to really get acquainted with the natural world.

Courtesy of Clampert11 on Flickr

A Modern Reminder of Froggy Pond

There were tadpoles in Froggy Pond and tadpoles were fascinating because they were odd looking little creatures and they were fun to catch. These weren't big tadpoles like those we saw in nearby French Creek, but that didn't matter.

Courtesy of Birdybirdbits on Flickr

Tadpoles

Cupping our hands in the cold clear water we would surround a tadpole then bring our hands together to trap the soft little creature in a tiny hand-held pool. Often a tadpole would escape into the deeper water. Then we'd wait patiently for another one to wiggle into the shallows. On one ocassion we kept at it until we had perhaps twenty of the little guys. Carefully and proudly we carried them home in cans we'd found along the tracks and filled with water. We were hoping that on the way home someone would ask us what we had. Someone other than our parents that is, because we knew they would probably condemn the tadpoles back to freedom. We transferred our prized captives to gallon-size jugs of water, and stowed them in a corner of Bruce's detached garage where no adult was likely to venture. We fed them on bread crumbs sneaked from the kitchen, changed the water when it got sour, and waited. Periodically we would check in on our collection by holding the jar up and swirling the water a bit to get the tadpoles moving. And sure enough after a few weeks, or was it days, we saw tiny knobs pushing out on the sides of the tadpoles. At first they were just little bumps. Eventually they took on the unmistakable shape of legs, and soon thereafter became real legs. As the legs grew out the tail began to shorten and disappear. As these changes took place the tadpoles spent more and more of their time floating at the surface with their noses sticking out. As they changed into adult frogs this became their normal position. Without knowing it we witnessed close-up one of the multitude of truly miraculous transitions that occur in the life of every developing animal. Usually they involve the sequestered embryo, but these were right before our eyes. For certain we were learning a great lesson, but to us it was just a fun thing to do.

Flashing back to the theme of knowing in the head versus experiencing I recall that to us there were only two kinds of frogs at that time: big frogs and little frogs. But we knew far more than the names of frogs. We understood how they came to be. Later when we took our frogs down the street and asked my grandmother if we could dump them in her fish pond she was delighted to get them. She told us they were called spring peepers. So now we had some head knowledge to cap off our experience.

Courtesy of  Bortolo100 on Flickr.com 

Spring Peeper

Sometime later yet my grandmother showed me the gelatinous strings of eggs that a bullfrog had laid in her fishpond. She showed me where to put them in the midst of the lily pads so the goldfish would be less likely to find and eat them. I took some home in a jar of water and watched as the little dark spots in the eggs developed an elongated form and hatched into tadpoles. Then I had the complete picture of how frogs come to be.

Courtesy of  "Connecticutt Birder" Linda Ruth on Flickr

Frog Eggs

Does this item remind you of an experience from your own life?

If so, please share it as a comment. Thanks!

First Connections: When and Where

 As a society we are currently investing a lot of time and money in attempts to connect people of all ages with nature. By "nature" I think we mean various aspects of ecology: the interwoven fabric of geography, geology, and living organisms. Often the first step is teaching people to identify something, i.e. attach a name to a picture or specimen. But naming is an adult activity, and connections starting this way are "adult". Being introduced to nature at this adult level is a wonderful step forward in life, for adults. But there is a more primitive way of connecting which is seldom discussed. That is connecting through the senses, by immersion without the use of language and with no holds barred i.e. turning ones curiosity loose on the world and soaking in an experience with no adult feeding information into the mind. This can only be a solo moment: an individual in a situation. It can be re-experienced later, recorded, shared with others. But the moment of connection can involve only one person's unique self.

The connections to the natural world that shaped my early life all happened while I was alone, even if there were other people nearby. They happened without the benefit of language and explanation. The most impressive ones happened when I was young. They were comprised of feelings more than thoughts. And that is what I think of yet today as experiencing nature.

I'm sure I am not the only person who met nature this way. I'm sure it  happened to lots of us, but as we moved on into the more cerebral role of adult human being we left those feelings and memories of them behind, buried under a mound of busyness.

Here's an example: I must have been three or four years old. I was visiting my grandmother for some reason. Probably with a parent. I wandered out into the yard. (I now know her lot was a full block deep, a gardeners dream. And the place I wandered to was "down back" a naturalized area of flowers that more or less took care of their own propagation.) At some point I became aware that I was standing in the middle of a patch of blue, and white, and pink. I looked and looked at the flowers that surrounded me, that sprouted from stems taller than me. I absorbed their colors, their shape, their lacey leaves, even a certain odor the plants exuded. This experience permeated my nervous system without benefit of words. It was just a wonderful feeling of being there, at that moment, knowing these nameless flowers in great sensory detail. I felt good being with them. I was transfixed, awed, even though I didn't know at the time that there was a word for this feeling. This was such an intensely wordless experience that I never thought about describing it to anyone until today.

Years later, as I grew up at my gardening grandmothers elbow (or should I say at her hoe handle) I learned that these flowers were called larkspurs. The shape of the little spurred flowers was fixed in my brain. There they seemed gigantic compared to the little larkspurs I saw as an older and much larger person. Through this bridging I learned the appropriateness of the name I had never known before. Later yet I learned about the seeds they produce. And even further on in my adult life I learned a bit more about where they fit into the botanist's array of plant families. But above all, to this day when I love all sorts of plants, I still have special warm  feelings for larkspurs.

The "What" of connecting

What's the difference between knowing about nature and experiencing nature? The "What" of knowing and the "What" of experiencing are different. Let's focus on the difference.

Knowing is an exercise of the intellect. It involves a flow of conscious thoughts and it happens inside our heads. The modern world provides us with almost endless resources for learning about nature. We can know about nature by watching a film or a TV show, by reading a book, or perusing one of the wonderful nature magazines published by various non-profit groups like the Audubon Society or National Wildlife Federation. Browsing the internet is a great way to learn about nature. There are literally thousands of nature-oriented pages and probably millions of plant and animal pictures available via the internet. One could spend a lifetime learning about nature without ever truly connecting.

Experiencing nature involves the senses as well as the mind. Consider this comparison. I can learn all I want to know about the spotted towhee from references: books, television shows, or web pages. But the experience of standing under a long leaf pine tree on a warm afternoon, watching a towhee scratching for food among the dead leaves under a yaupon holly involves all of of my senses as well as my intellect. I can see the bird in its true colors, I can take in all the greens of the various plants, I can sense the temperature and feel the sun on my skin, smell the tangy scent on the air, hear the rustle of leaves being scratched and the occasional call of the towhee. It is a complete immersion into nature even if it lasts only thirty seconds. During that time I have created a picture in the multidimensional space called me. And while creating it I am free of external concerns. I am totally present to the experience, a state of being that many work to achieve through meditation or eastern religious practices.

Is experiencing better than knowing? If we're considering the beneficial effects off nature on the body it certainly is.  Knowing goes on in the "noisy" environment of the mind and doesn't involve the kind of relaxation that comes with experiencing nature. Have you ever heard of anyone meditating while reading a book or watching TV? Probably not. Those two kinds of activities are mutually exclusive. Even a person concentrating on some subject of interest can be pulled back to the complex world by an intruding thought, a noise, or a sense of passing time. But when the whole self is anchored in an experience through the senses all "noise" fades into oblivion and the body relaxes. It seems that in meditation one learns to suspend the self in a peaceful, noiseless world. I suspect this happens naturally to many artists when they are completely engrossed in taking in a scene for painting a picture or imagining a theme for composing music. Those are activities that primarily involve the senses. True relaxation and healing that regenerates the inner self- spirit if you will- comes most readily when we are contemplating something conceptually much bigger than ourselves. That means just about any aspect of the natural world.  When so immersed in contemplation we are steeped in a feeling of wonder and awe - the basis of the religious experience for many people. The pathway to wonder and awe is also the pathway to a more peaceful, and therefore healthier life.

Why is the nature connection important?

Six months before writing this I met a lady who is a Professor at one of Minnesota's fine universities. She teaches English.  She is also certified as a Master Naturalist in the state of Illinois. At the time she was very excited about a new nature writing course she had designed. A key part of her envisioned course involved sending students to nature venues to observe and write. I felt envious of her students. I would have loved such a course in my student days, especially with classes  taught by someone with worldly experience in the topic.

Recently I met her again and asked "How did the nature writing course go?" I expected to be regaled by wonderful stories of student achievement.

"It was something of a disaster", she replied. That really got my attention.
"What happened?"
"The students were afraid to go out into nature".

That is really sad. And brings up one of the reasons for this blog. I want to do whatever I can to encourage parents and their children to make connections with nature. And the earlier in life, the better. By the time we've grown up it may to be too late to easily tap into the nature connections that have pleasured and strengthened  humans from the beginning of civilization. If we deprive our children of those connections we are doing them a great disservice.

We seem to live in an age when almost everyone in the USA (I don't have recent experience of other countries) is preoccupied with "must do" activities. The "must do", I suspect is often self-imposed to satisfy some sense of "keeping up" with everyone else.

Book shelves, magazines and websites dispense endless information telling us how to relax and be healthy. Urgings to exercise and follow a certain diet are typically part of the mix. I don't recall so much frenetic advertising and unsolicited advice hammering on my skull a few decades ago. Yet all these supposedly helpful torrents of information and advice, if we take them to heart, add one more smothering layer to our busyness.

When I open my email I am barraged by forwarded messages that refer to "the good old days". They refer to the long ago when people felt less stressed. It's true that past eras always seem better looked at in retrospect. I believe most of us have a perception that life was in some general way better when we were children, no matter when that was. The reason may simply be that we were children and we lived the lives of children, more taken up in just being and less occupied with distracting concerns.

Amidst all our driving, texting, chattering and other doings we don't often escape from busyness to regenerate, to recharge the batteries of our mental and physical selves. Such "recharging" is really a time when we integrate the pieces of our lives at the level of feeling rather than thinking. Unfortunately it is the connection with our feeling level that busyness tends to overwhelm.

I recently heard an author say that our modern high-speed multitasking life is measured by clock time. Our busyness separates us from the more important personal time that she refers to as "moments". Moments are intervals when we focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else. Meditation is one way of preparing ourselves to achieve more moments. Selling meditation seems to be a good business these days, so there must be a perceived need for periods of peaceful withdrawal from the busy, noisy world that resides between our ears most of the time.

Experiences in nature can give us wonder-filled moments if we're prepared to accept them. These provide some of the same benefits derived from meditation. And they often include an educational component as a bonus. And they can usually be accessed very  inexpensively.

An experience in nature can lift us out of the world of busyness into a state of relaxation and self awareness. That's important for our personal health, the health of our cosmic home - planet earth,  and for our sense of well-being and enjoyment of life

So in a nutshell that's the value of connecting with nature, of which we are a part. Whole books have been written on the topic, but I think we've got the essentials here. In the next couple of posts we'll consider the "how" and "when" of connecting.