Looking forward, looking back

Day Twenty

Today was another Spring milestone--the opening of our little lake!

It was a glorious day.  The temperature peaked at 69 degrees, with abundant sun and the sound of Spring peepers growing into a chorus that can be heard through the walls and windows of our house.  Of course, when those windows were opened after lunch, their song echoed throughout the house.  It is truly the sound of awakening, of being roused from sleep, and I know the trees are listening.

On our afternoon walk with Penny, the barred owls joined the song, and more than one pileated woodpecker added a few solo bars for good measure.

It is the live concert event of the year, every year, and I feel so blessed to be working from home, where I have a front-row seat--no matter where I sit, it seems.

I took my place in one of my favorite seats, at the hill's edge by the lake, to laugh at the last portion of ice, stubborning attempting to fight fate.  From here, I spotted some migrating hooded mergansers in the water, paddling about and splashing each other in the cold water.  I looked at the familiar spots where painted turtles gather, and wondered how long it would be before they make their first appearance.

I try to capture this moment, the opening of the lake, each year.  This year was no disappointment.

As I turned around to walk back up the hill, I saw the sun waving at me.  And I had one of those moments when, maybe as we all do, I wondered how the view could be so stunning in both directions.  I thought I was drinking in what was in front of me--the new water, the end of the ice of Winter.  But when I turned around, I saw before me the sun, headed West, waiting to rouse others for the next day.  

We marked the day, simply, in proper style for the first true t-shirt day of the year.  Burgers, beans, and a cold beer (it is also national beer day) were, I thought, the cherry on top of what had been already a near-perfect 12 hours of daylight.

But as my children begged, and received some ice cream, we looked out at the rising moon and enjoyed the grand finale: a "pink" super moon.  The last holdout of ice sits, trembling, beneath it as it is reflected on the water.

It's all too easy at times to get lost in all this beauty, and to forget that we are here as a family because a pandemic has placed us here, at this time where we would otherwise be at work and school.  

It compels me to think about how I really need to open my eyes, and be more attentive to the beauty that is around me in every place, and every moment.

Spring has arrived each year that we have called our rural Collegeville paradise "home."  Despite what is surrounding us all, I feel like this one may be the most beautiful of them all.  Maybe it's because I am here to absorb so much more of it than I usually would.  Maybe it's because of how well it distracts me from the news.  Maybe I am overthinking this, and just need to stop qualifying how and why I enjoy it so much.

Tomorrow will bring more delights.  And I will be ready.

A taste of what is coming

Day Twelve

Maybe it reflects some impatience on my part.

Yesterday's 5 inches of slushy, sloppy snow was all I could take.  March is always a tease in Minnesota, but in the mix of shelter-in-place orders and a sudden 60 degree afternoon, I had all I could take.

The girls enjoyed some back and forth time with an old soccer ball.  Kris and I enjoyed a little fire.  Penny, well she enjoyed everything all at once.

The gloves had come off at this point.  I knew this could only add up to one thing.

Step one.

Step two.

And the rest just happened.

The family descended.

They ate.  They laughed.  They smiled.

They left.

And it was a beautiful day.

One to be repeated many times over in the days ahead.

All the better it will be with friends, once again.

I otter get out more

Day Eight

It's amazing how the days start to run together so much faster than you can imagine.  I wish I could say it's because the fun never ends.  There have certainly been wonderful things happening in my woodland homestead.  But in truth, I think the time has passed because the uncertainty of what is happening, and what is to come in the midst of this virus is bigger than the time used to measure it.  

I have decided to do more to distance myself from the news and continuous "updates" that are re-tooling the same information and speculation.  

As a family, we have been blessed that, to get out and go for a walk, we are just as likely to see other people now (few enough to satisfy social distancing standards) as we were before people started staying home.  We are in a rural wonderland, with a little of everything in just a short walk's distance.  There are fields, lakes, streams, wetlands, pastures and my favorite--woods.  This time of year is in many respects the most magical.  Everything begins to wake up again, and the older I get, the more my inner Ferris Bueller tells me to slow down a bit and look around.

Every time I do stop and look, I see something new.  Over the past several days, the shrinking snow and ice mound on my deck has disappeared.  The moss on the slopes is already turning bright green, and the lake's edges are now water.

The cardinal was today's serenade, as I walked to the bench swing overlooking our tiny lake.  

But he was not the main event.

I did a double take, then a triple.  I have seen many things on the ice over the years.  Bald eagles, coyotes, foxes, deer, mice, woodchucks.

Today, an otter.  I froze, and he dove back into a hole in the ice.  A moment later, he emerged with something in his mouth, and noisily set about crunching away on it.  Then, back under the ice.  This continued for some time.  He would dive under in one place, and pop up in another.  A buffet in my backyard.

The world around me is waking up, again.  Even in the midst of what feels like a hibernation, a retreat from the civilized world, there is undeniable evidence that life is abundant, if we let ourselves see it.

I'm going to keep looking for it.  And I know it won't disappoint.

Pay it forward

Day Two

It started with less promise than I was willing to give it.  Cloudy, cool, humid, foggy.  I used to love days like that.

Two years ago, we adopted a border collie named Penny.  And that's when I noticed that cool, humid, foggy days like this had a corresponding price to pay for the austere beauty they offered--mud.

Penny is my frisbee-catching pal.  It's a type of meditation, the back-and-forth exchange of disc and dog.  She never tires.  And she never chastises me for lowsy throws.  All love.  

So, I was a bit grumpy when I looked out the window in the morning.  I was not up for bathing the dog.

I set about my work for the day as intended, noting numerous times a sad Penny at the base of the steps, near the back door.

In the afternoon, I drove into town to pickup groceries and a few things from work.  On the way home, I had the idea to grab a take-and-bake pizza.  The family needed a little mood lift, after a week of staring at screens and awaiting better news in the world.

The pizza place was empty.  I walked to the door, and as I opened it, I noticed a woman walking toward me, with some haste in her step.  I held open the door and we exchanged kind looks and smiles.

She jumped in front of me in line (okay, there was no line, and I was in no hurry), and I took the opportunity to review the whole menu.  After a couple minutes, she was still at the checkout, and the person at the till asked me if I knew what I wanted.  I didn't think anything of it, and gave my order.  At that point, I saw that the woman in front of me was waiting to pay for her order, and thought, "Great, their system must be down."  Another victim of COVID-19, or something like that.

After another minute, the woman was handed a receipt.  She turned around, and placed the receipt in my hand, grabbed her pizza, and quickly left.  

It took me a moment to realize that she had paid for my pizza.  I looked up at the person at the till, and she smiled, and announced, "She said somebody paid for her order this morning, and she wanted to pay it forward.  I guess that means it's your turn, next."

The other folks working that shift were delighted in watching this whole thing play out.  Downright giddy, to be honest.  I guess it must not happen all that often.  As my pizza was placed in my hands, I was told again, "make sure you do this for someone else."

As I told the story to my wife when I returned home, we both teared up a bit.  It seemed such a small thing, but not one we will soon forget.

And then I looked out at the grey and gloom.  It didn't look so bad, after all.

Shaking like a leaf

Day One

I admit that I am usually stubborn when asked to entertain the significance of coincidences.  I'm not superstitious.  I'm not a fatalist.  I don't look for, or wait for signs and guideposts to give me clarity or tell me what to do, next.  I don't go looking for answers in unexpected places. 

But every now and then, I'm given opportunity to reconsider things.  At least, for a moment.

Two weeks into my first year of teaching, 9/11 happened.  I remember so vividly the events of that day, not so much the planes and buildings, but the shape of my office, the stairs in the hallway, the posture of students gathered around a television, and the faces of my colleagues.  I have since walked those stairs thousands of times, and once in a while, I would suddenly be caught in a wave of memories.  When people would ask me how long I had been a teacher, I was tempted to say, "since 9/11."  The two events have become one for me.

I started a new career in January, and only a short time into it, finding myself reflecting on that first year of teaching.  It started last week, as I drove to work and decided to play a little music instead of the news.  I found a great cover of Paul Simon's "America," and by the first refrain, I was just about sobbing.  I couldn't even identify why--I just felt incredibly sad.  I thought about all the disruptions of life that were coming, closed schools and businesses, people losing their jobs, and families huddling together in their homes, waiting for the virus to come.  I thought about all of that, and kept seeing the images I remember from 9/11 in my mind.  Why?  I don't know, and I'm not sure I will ever know.  Perhaps it has all been a trigger to a time where I felt such strong emotions and worries for the world.  Perhaps it is about the meaning and purpose of working with young people, and those who teach them.  

I've come to think that when these unsettling convergences (and they are, for me, unsettling) occur, I need to at least acknowledge that they are affecting me.  And this "pause" in life, this time of social isolation, is a tremendous opportunity to find some new space to reflect.  

I remember seeing images of people gathering in the dark, with candles, praying and singing, in the days following 9/11.  They were collecting and sharing hope in a beautiful way--one that we need to, but cannot do at this time.  As our churches have now suspended gathering for prayer and worship, we are compelled to wait until we can do so again.  I know that this means new opportunities to grow with our families and to connect with others.  But I am sad.  And I can only shake it for a little while before I think about it, again.

For a considerable period of time in my life, I wanted to be Rich Mullins.  Rich was the antihero of Christian music.  He was a phenomenal storyteller, and his music bore his own unsettled conscience into lyrics that are not soon forgettable.  Rich seemed to have a gift for being able to say "just what I needed to hear" for so many people.  I haven't listened to him for a long time, and pulled up my favorite old album last night. 

Hold me Jesus

'cause I'm shaking like a leaf

you have been King of my glory

won't you be my Prince of Peace?

I took a walk in woods this morning, and had one of those moments that I usually find suspicious.  A coincidence?  A sign?  An answer?

It was the leaves.  The snow is melting quickly, now, and at some point will be gone.  But there, in the woods, most of the leaves which were atop the snow were now settled deep into it.  They rest, in safety, in perfectly formed "beds" where their gentle weight has bore their imprint on the snow.  Over time, the snow has formed a shelter that has kept the leaves intact, yet held them steady.  Hundreds and hundreds of them were around me.  No longer shaking.  

Won't you be my Prince of Peace?

Today, it was the leaf.  I don't know what will help lead the way tomorrow.

Thank you, Rich.  It was everything I needed to hear.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9T3tL5U67w&list=RDd9T3tL5U67w&start_radio=1