Tuesday, November 10, 2020

Thursday, October 22, 2020


And then she flew, using her wings for the first time and I only knew when I looked up to find her gone. 


I did not see her form into her chrysalis or emerge, I missed those too, in the same way I missed her departure - moving my attention for what seemed like moments.  Her private moments - not mine.  Her own life.

I stepped outside into the filtered sunlight and looked around for her.  It is late in the season and I doubt she will accomplish the journey to the winter grounds that Monarchs seek more than 2,000 miles from our home.  

“More life is better...“ my husband had offered, his voice attempting comfort through the phone, attempting to shorten the distance between us, as I lamented her plight - perhaps I should not have interfered with the caterpillar.  

But now this tiny creature has felt the sun and will travel the breeze and know the freedom she was made for.

Tears gather in my eyes and I stand in the kitchen searching out the windows in hopes of a possible glimpse of her on the other side of the house.  But these windows look northwest and that is not the direction she is called to.  She is a mystery now.  As are these tears.

I return to my writing table and look through the glass door on the now-empty branch of spent Joe Pie Weed that I watched her perch on for the past few hours.  That spot is emptier now than the space recently occupied by her small body - the combined space of her presence and my attention.  

Over the next few hours, I glance up occasionally, partially from new habit, partially in hoping she has returned.  The sun recedes slowly and the small stems that held her are left in the pale light.  

She did not return.  I hope she is following the sun.  I hope she is tasting the air.  I hope she has more life.    

With gratitude,


Sunday, May 17, 2020

Nachusa {midwest wandering}

Sometimes, often times, when I walk, I am flooded with words.  My mind fills and describes in characters the space that surrounds me.  But here I was not.  My senses were flooded.  My eyes with bright colors and vast spaces.  My skin touched by warm sun and a fickle breeze and air cooled by the shade of oaks.  My nostrils were greeted at intervals by the soft aroma of flowers and grasses and mud.  Birdsong was with us constantly.  I used my camera to record what I saw until I gave my camera to my children and released my eyes to see and the rest of me to feel.  I want to know the character of the land as it was when it still belonged to itself.  I want to see what my ancestors saw before their dreams and their plows turned it under.  I want to know my place in the world as the world was; when it belonged to its own character.  This place offers the blessing of a glimpse and a blessing to the land itself and to all the tiny beings, me included who need the land for breath. 

Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, Illinois, May 16, 2020

With gratitude,

Friday, January 17, 2020

St. Joseph

I pulled into the town of St. Joseph in southwestern Michigan on a chilly Wednesday afternoon in January to begin my search at the local Heritage Museum for a small chapter in the life of my great-great-great grandfather: the location of Alexander Voorhees’ early 20th century summer resort camp, Camp Voorhees at Ox Bow Bend on the Old St. Joe.  Less than two hours after arriving, I headed south out of town on the rural two-lane River Road using Google maps, and forcing the app to continuously recalculate to the route I sought.  I found the spot, as indicated by a caption in a local photo history book, at the end of Ox Bow road, just north of Tabor farm and pulled my car to the side of the road. 

The sky was low and gray as I put on winter boots and trekked across a small barren plot of plowed up farmland to a steep slope that descended to the St. Joseph River.  The hillside was barren except for a thick blanket of fallen leaves that had no doubt previously clung to the now bare branches of the deciduous trees that spotted the riverbank and for the sticky remains of the dormant underbrush. 

I managed my way through the scraggly brush to the river’s edge and stood for a long while listening to the flow of the water and looking out over the dramatic bend in the river known as an Oxbow.  This is Ox Bow Bend.  It would not be until later that evening while looking through turn of the century plat maps at the local library that I would know for sure where the camp had been located; that it indeed had not been under my feet but across the river on the sharp inner curve of the waterway. 

Nothing remains of him here, Alexander Voorhees, my great-great-great grandfather, Civil War veteran, man who lived to be nearly a century old.  The land has not recognized him.  A few photographs record the time he spent, outside among guests and cabins and modest canvas tents and trees and of course the river.  But I have brought something of him back, his genes are in mine.  This visit is a discovering and a returning.

I walked along the hillside crunching dry leaves beneath my boots and took many photos of the land and the waterway, now flowing solemn and solitary through the early winter landscape.  I recorded the sound of the water rushing through a collection of fallen branches and took a photograph looking down to where I stood on the coverlet of leaves.  This is all that could be done here – standing and looking and listening, feeling maybe.

After it seemed that I had spent enough time trespassing and that my eyes and senses had absorbed all that they could, I climbed back up the slope and walked across the small earthen field to my car.  This is exactly what I came for, and so much more.     

With gratitude,


I would like to offer a very sincere thank you to the Heritage Museum and Cultural Center in St. Joseph Michigan for their research assistance and sharing of materials including the historic photograph included here.  Thank you also to the St. Joseph City Library for the use of resources in their local history room.  

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

...in the snow

Narrow is our vision to hold that it is the pleasant expressions of nature that hold the most treasure.  Narrow it is of us to wish her to share only those expressions that suit what we wish to feel – the warmth of summer on our face, the beauty of autumn in our eyes.  How can we believe these are the best of her offerings when the cold of winter ushers forth the birth of spring? 

Orange autumn leaves on crisp white snow. 

I am sitting in the cold writing these words just so I can be near her.  My fingers and toes falling victim to the temperature as I feel myself falling open to her wisdom, as I feel the fog clearing from my eyes, my heart.  She invited me to sit down beside her, glorified, humbled, resurrected. 

With gratitude,