In Pursuit of Wonder

February 13, 2025

After taking several mindful and prayerful walks in the woods each week for the past month, and especially hiking with Leah last week, I have begun to feel better. Replacing time spent weeding in my Mom’s high tunnels with spending a couple of hours in the woods was a good trade-off for me. I still miss and long to work at my Mom’s but at least I visit once a week. (Two of my brothers and their wives live on the same farm with Mom, and the one has two daughters, so it’s not just seeing Mom but other family I am extremely close to. Often, I wish I still lived there, especially now that my brothers are married.) Loneliness still threatens to overwhelm me, even in the woods. Jesse is a wonderful man but he just doesn’t get me entirely yet. His belief in my writing comes and goes — he likes my writing and says it’s good, a high compliment from him, but he doesn’t believe I can make even a modest living from it. (But honestly, I don’t make very much money milking cows for him and his dad, but housing and all that comes with it is paid for by the farm.) There’s nothing wrong with milking cows other than that it never stops (twice a day every day) — why can’t the cows take weekends off?! Also, I was already doing two more milkings a week than what my body can handle and this month another shift was added to my weekly schedule. It is just not my passion. My passion is writing, photography, gardening, and sharing it with other people so that even if it is just through my writing and photography they can connect to nature and food production. Jesse said he can make a garden for me this summer but it won’t be the same as working for Mom. 

Anyway, I headed out down the road, uphill, turned left into the pasture and across the hill late this afternoon. Finally, it had snowed a few inches, a bit more than a light dusting, which made for a prettier and more interesting winter walk. I have been increasingly concerned about climate change (formerly a doubter) but this winter has me very worried, it’s been too warm and dry. Historically, a fair amount of Minnesota’s moisture has come from significant snowfall. And winter is just more enjoyable with snow. Tufts of grass protrude above the snow adding texture. As I trudged across the snow blanketed pasture, I read animal prints like a newspaper, the recordings of who has been out and about — mice or voles, coyotes, rabbits and deer. I paused and bent down to read a particular scene; coyote prints came up the hill and then became jumbled and unreadable, perhaps a scuffle or a turning around. There were no blood splotches and I couldn’t discern if there were tracks from another animal or not to know if it caught something, which was my first thought. I long for the days when there was plenty of snow to either snowshoe or cross-country ski all winter long. It’s been years since I have skied, for lack of snow. And I haven’t used my snowshoes at all this winter. 

Opening and closing a couple of gates, traipsing downhill, I pause once more to ponder a disturbance in the snowy carpet. Not a track, the snow is pressed down and cracked, and on the very edge of one side are delicate lines, a misshapen snow angel. My guess, a hawk or owl dived for a rodent. The idea of a healthy raptor population on our farm fills me with joy. Predators are desperately needed. An ecosystem cannot be healthy without them. Not to mention, they are such magnificent creatures. Every glimpse of a hawk, eagle, or owl fills me with awe and lifts my soul. The beauty of senescent plants casting shadows on the snow calmed my spirit. My personal struggles, anxiety, and depression, aren’t all that weigh on me. I worry about the political state of the nation and what will happen with the new presidential administration that I had prayed so hard for that it wouldn’t be chosen. How has basic human decency become a partisan issue? What is so hard about taking care of people, no matter their differences, and taking care of our planet, our only home? How is healing our planet a partisan issue? I had never cared much about politics but the last nine years have really woken me up to the problem of complacency in a supposedly democratic nation. What if the United States became a nation that actually believed its Declaration of Independence, with the change of “all men” to “all peoples” for clarification purposes. What if elected politicians actually represented and made decisions in the best interest of the poorest people in their district? Why in the twenty-first century is racism still in existence? How can you possibly think you are better than some based on something you have absolutely no control over? A person’s merit comes from how well they take care of other people and the environment. At least these issues get my mind off my petty personal problems. So many people in the world have it worse than me. But these thoughts and concerns for the global human and more-than-human community doesn’t help ease my anxiety and depression. 

I climb up the slight incline, and approach the deer stand. Ducking under the fence and around the clutching thrones at the base of the stand, perched in a tree, I enter the woods. The weight of sorrow for myself and the world begins to lift. Down the rocky formation, ducking around low-hanging branches, I follow a deer trail. The sunlight shifting through the naked tree branches softens the pain. Snow frosts fallen logs, looking like a tasty treat. I relish the elegance and texture of dried plants. The shaggy texture of a tree draws my attention. Lifting my eyes up, I see dried mushrooms sticking out of its trunk. Mushrooms bring such delight to the woods. Mingled with deer tracks are squirrels too. There are also coyotes, I am so glad we have these small predators on our farm. I walk across fallen logs, slightly more challenging with a coating of snow but manage just fine. A squirrel also found the log to be a handy crossing of the small gully. The slick ice is now hidden under the snow; I didn’t test it for slipperiness. Climbing up the bluff winded me slightly, but the exertion was a delight. The busy woodland highway led me under the beautifully textured fallen and denuded tree. I paused and smiled at the metal folding chair, illuminated by the late afternoon sun. It was easy to discern which way the wind had been blowing when it snowed the other day: the northeast side of the trees were plastered white. 

Climbing the next, formidable, rocky escarpment filled me with euphoria — the effort of the hike adds to the healing powers and adventure of the woods for me. Ducking under and around branches, walking along a log on which a rabbit had sat, my thoughts turn more and more to my surroundings. The therapeutic aspect of the woods overflows my spirit and lifts it high. Was that a cardinal? The cheery whistle sounded again. Yes! Thank God, for sending one of my favorite birds to cheer me up. I glimpsed a flash of red flitting between muted color tones of bare trees. A nuthatch squeaks somewhere in the branches above. I stumble upon a deer bed, leaves provide the cushioning, a rounded snowless area beneath the trees. The woods grew darker, the sun peeked lower, on the shoulder of the opposite bluff. 

My wandering led me up the steep slope of that bluff. Breathing hard, I paused upon its flank, taking in another bluff across the highway, which glowed in the evening sun. Trudging up the hill, I admire paper birch and white pines as I pass. The elegant white pine was a welcoming splash of green, even if it was a bit dull in shade. My feet slipped and slid slightly as I descended into a gully that ran across my path, then up the other side. The man-made trail was an easy stroll, though still lovely. I halted to examine the crusty fungi growing on a maple tree that had fallen across the trail. Then ducked under and left the trail. I continued westward, down the bluff, into the big ravine, nearly sliding down the hill on my backside. The sun was sinking lower, soon the ravine would be cloaked in darkness. Crossing the ravine, I weaved between the trees, climbing up the next bluff to another man-made trail. A century ago it had been a road; Jesse said mode-ts used to drive up and down it. I have a hard time imagining that. It is eroded in a couple of places now such that a person couldn’t even take a mountain bike on it. 

I ponder staying on the trail and exiting the woods that way, but glimpsing the stone ruins through the trees, I am drawn toward it. I haven’t visited the ruins for a long time. Plunging down the steep ravine back and across it, I amble up the hill on the other side. The stone foundation is a marvel of endurance, always filling me with wonder and questions. I run my fingers along the cool stone as I pass. Back down the slope, I follow the ravine upward to the fence line and the pasture laden snow beyond. The sun is sinking fast, I wanted to be out of the woods and pasture before dark. Especially since I did not know exactly where the beef cows were and needed to be able to see the fence and gates. I crawled under the first fence, leaving the woods behind. Upon the dike, I marveled at the tranquil beauty of the frozen, snow topped pond. Tranquil. That’s what snow does to winter. It creates a tranquil atmosphere. Snow tucks in the plants and animals, providing necessary insulation from the cold. I follow the faint outlines of cow paths through the pasture to the gate. The beefy residents, nearly invisible in the failing light, stare down at me from atop the knoll, moving closer. Soon, I am back on the gravel road, the home-stretch.

Don’t forget to purchase a copy of each of my books on Amazon – Dandelions https://a.co/d/96sAFHU, Raking Leaves https://a.co/d/fnbusTI, Making Applesauce https://a.co/d/bVbQ7Hw, and Pruning Apple Trees https://a.co/d/3qUIcoV