It wasn’t a strong or stormy wind. It was a soft, pleasant spring breeze, just stiff enough to ruffle the tops of the big pines we were walking through and cause them to whisper mysteriously together. It rose and fell with drama up above us, compelling enough to get our attention, but not enough to so much as sway the massive trunks rising around us. Sometimes, in the moments between the squeals of little girls discovering spring blossoms along the forest floor and the chattering of squirrels indignant at our intrusion on their private retreat, we’d stop to just listen to it.
There was a kind of music to it, the kind that made me want to lay right down on that thick, soft carpet of pine needles and soak it in while I stared up the towering pillars of tree trunks to the bits of blue sky like a mosaic of stained glass above. Then, as we neared a swamp hollow, the fluted tones of spring peepers harmonized as only nature can, and I had flashbacks to a beautiful wind concert I attended once, performed by talented musicians under the soaring ceilings of a grand lobby. But, I thought to myself, could a wind concert be performed in any grander a place than this remote and silent cathedral of a forest, by the actual wind itself?
At that moment, it was hard to believe not. And if you listened closely enough, you could almost hear the words…
“Sing, O heavens, for the LORD has done it; shout, O depths of the earth; break forth into singing, O mountains, O forest, and every tree in it! For the LORD has redeemed Jacob, and will be glorified in Israel.” (Isaiah 44:23)
It’s the best part of spring, that brief period of time when life begins to reemerge from the bare branches and brown earth. The world is exploding almost visibly with life, and I hardly dare blink lest I miss something. Everywhere I look there are buds bursting open, leaves unfolding, new scenes unfolding and an unending number of discoveries to make.
Then, there are the woodsy pilgrimages to make, traditions dating to my childhood, like going in search of the dainty lavender and white hepaticas that are so absolutely quintessential of a Minnesota spring.
And, if I’m paying attention and watching my step as I go, there is almost always something new to discover. Something unexpected, like the strange forms of emerging horsetail at the edge of a gravel country road. Or a pair of sandhill cranes, flapping their half-graceful, half-ungainly way out of the maze of last year’s cornstalks. Or a fisher bounding across a lonely, narrow, backwoods road, stopping just long enough to glance back at us curiously.
Beauty in the expected and familiar; beauty in the unexpected and unfamiliar. Truly,
It really wouldn’t have been a proper Minnesota April (or May?) without a good snowstorm, now would it have been? Besides, I needed proof that crocuses really do bloom under such circumstances. They seem no worse for the wear for it—and I don’t suppose any of the rest of us are either. But just in case you were struggling with the idea of snow and cold after so long a stretch of warm weather—or even struggling with some other frustration or trial that has nothing to do with snow—consider this admonition of how to live that these brave little flowers model well:
“Look, Mommy, it’s an ostrich!” cried my oldest daughter excitedly from the window.
Every spring, there’s this short window of time, just before the ice goes out, in which there are little open areas of water around the edges of our lake. All the waterfowl congregates in these puddles and pools to forage for food and paddle around in one great companionable waiting game for the lake to open.
The ducks and geese seem to have a mutual agreement that it’s a nice little community event, too, and mingle quite nicely.
Such a fuss we had from them, of fiercely territorial wing-flapping, neck-bobbing and trumpet-blasting, particularly when another pair of swans would come in for a landing (on a multi-daily basis). It was all very exciting, and we’re going to rather miss it now that the lake is open and the spring festival is over.
The night was bright with a million stars, each one pulsating distinct and three-dimensional against deep black velvet of the sky. The aurora was dancing low but visible on the horizon. Across the lake, a monkey owl laughed, and in the distant forest echoed the drum roll of a grouse. Just above the treetops, a slender waxing crescent of reflected sunlight rimmed the lower curve of dark round moon. It dangled, then dropped out of sight. One meteorite fell, and then another. It was a good night to go walking without a flashlight, and so we did.
The otters had been playing not on but in the ice while the northern lights rippled softly green, enjoying the effects of the steadily aging and honeycombing lake ice. I didn’t realize how rotten the ice was until I stood on the shore and watched their game for a good hour. They were literally running all over the lake breaking holes in all the thin places and diving in and out of them, which explained the mysterious tinkling and shattering sounds of the previous night.
“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
I’ll just go ahead and admit that I like this little red squirrel.
I don’t think I’ve ever gotten quite such a sound scolding as he and his mate gave me. As you can see, he was so put out with me, he came right down out of the tree and sat right at the end of that clothesline, inches from my face, to give me a piece of his mind. In the branches directly over my head, his mate joined the tirade, scraping little bits of pine bark into my hair in protest.
Finally, I fled for the house, and they sat back from their squatter’s rights protest, smug with victory.
When the giant rhubarb leaves began to unfurl their creases and wrinkles out by the milk house this spring, it was hard not feel a little happy-sad at the sight. One of the plants in my flourishing patch, the best one on the end with the slenderest brightest red stems, isn’t original to the property like the others are. It was a gift to me the spring I was a new bride, expecting my first child and eagerly planning our very first garden at the house we had recently moved into.
“Do you have any rhubarb at the new place?” Grandpa asked, as he tucked sturdy tomato plants, peppers and cabbage into a wooden flat for me. The white Styrofoam cups squeaked against each other as he splashed them liberally with a scoop of collected rainwater. He scrawled the variety names onto a yellow page from an old auction receipt book, garden dirt beneath his nails, fingers big and rugged around the stub of a pencil. “Rutger is a new variety,” he noted. “Nice and early, and great flavor. I searched all over town to find seed after I tasted one last year; finally found it at Fleet for ninety cents a packet. Can’t beat that price! Oh, and you’ll want some of these Sugar Cherry, too. Just like candy.”
When we moved again the following spring, that rhubarb plant came with me even though I was aware that there was already a well-established patch at our new place. Being transplanted twice like that set it back for a while, but by the next spring, thanks to several of those recommended scoops of “good manure”, I pulled my first stems of Grandpa’s rhubarb.
I beat together sugar and golden-yolked farm eggs, and folded the tart chunks into the yellow custard while they stood on chairs and watched. The legacy of love for things that grow had begun for yet another generation and I knew Grandpa would be pleased. Later, I thought of this Scripture passage as I pulled the pan of bars out of the oven and set them on a rack to cool:
It’s the one physical thing we have left as a testimony to his decades of walking with the Lord and we treasure it. It is my greatest hope and prayer, however, that this legacy won’t remain locked up tidily in a safe to crumble away and die there like my rhubarb plant would have without sunlight and soil. I hope it, too, will send out little shoots, and grow and flourish for generations to come, not in the fertile black soil of a garden, but in the soil of my heart, and the hearts of all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and beyond. It was his greatest desire as he died, and will, in eternity, be his greatest joy.
And best of all, even when all the things of this earth pass away, including all rhubarb plants of sentimental value—that is a legacy that can never perish or be taken away.
I think what makes the sweeping landscapes of the west the most compelling is that moment when you walk down the winding path from the scenic overlook into the heart of the rugged hills—and find that the valleys are teeming with life.
A coyote comes out of nowhere, and a prairie dog town bursts into whistles of warning as the sentinels stand motionless, upright and vigilant at the entrances to their burrows.
A pompous tom turkey proudly fans his splendid tail out, dragging wings dramatically along the ground. A big-eared mule doe lifts her head, whisking her flag tail nervously at the sight of us. Is there a tiny fawn hiding in that thicket behind her?
Wild mares sniff the air cautiously while tiny colts rest peacefully amidst the sage brush. 
Along a bare windswept ridge, a herd of bison move as one together. One gaunt cow grazes greedily without looking up, as her wee calf wobbles along in front of her, still a little unsteady on his feet.
And on and on it went.
The thought of that absolutely gives me goosebumps.
Rejoicing Hills 