Nature Notes
Nature Notes — from August 2020 to September 2021
October 1, 2021
What are my Nature Notes? When I send friends, family and a few others emails about new posts on Given Word Now, I usually add a paragraph or two about nature or my week. A few friends like my Nature Notes more than my posts. For them and for readers who don’t get my emails, here, slightly edited, is a year of Nature Notes—(If you want to get my emails, you can email me, ginny@givenword.com).
Today, by the way, is clear—utterly cloudless. The warm sun strives against an edgily cool breeze. It was quite a sensory experience to stand on the front porch under a blindingly brilliant noonday sun— with heat soaking into my back as decidedly chilly hints of winter’s colder winds stroked across my face in autumn’s breeze .
August 11, 2020
In fast moving circumstances beyond all control, like the recent weather change, my heart can jump like a jerking knee. Often, I react before looking to the Lord. I’m asking, “Father, when change comes fast, and pressure builds, will you please bless us with intervals enough to look to you?” Like this poem about geraniums on the window sill in winter, may Jesus keep us blooming despite the outside weather and change of seasons.
All’s well in our Southeastern Michigan niche. Between strong heat and timely rains, the corn is tasseled out, the woods are richly green and local fields of grain and hay have ripened into gold. Masked and respecting social distance, I ventured into the grocery store last week and felt my youth renewed—well, more accurately, I felt more like fifty or sixty than twenty or eighty. It was fun to put cheese and carrots into the cart. How fortunate we are to have food choices. Lord, help us know how to help those who are suffering from failing businesses and unemployment.
My foggy widow’s brain is clearing and I can concentrate on writing once again. I’m continuing to revise the poems from Places. These 2020 versions are better than the published ones. I hope you agree. Warmly, g
October 22, 2020
I hope you are all doing well, staying safe and enjoying the season. It’s beautiful here. The SE Michigan County countryside is bursting with fall colors—scarlets, golds, bronze, oranges and crimsons. All the goldenrods are gone, but wild periwinkle-blue asters bloom on despite several early frosts. On a dimmer note, in the midst of nature’s beauty, our covid-19 numbers are spiking again. My Minnesota family heard news of the U of Michigan’s shelter-in-place before I did. Also dim is the unrest stirring over the coming elections; it percolates into conversations with friends from both parties. And the weather today? Like the future, it’s foggy—vivid colors shine through a gray wash and visibility is low. The weather fits this post called Fog. I hope you’ll like it. It reassures me that much is hidden, foggy, if you will. It strengthens faith that our God is ALL seeing and ALL powerful. He give us grace glimpses of what’s ahead and steers us through our fogs. g
November 19,2020
Oh my friends, pray for our nation— and seek God’s will, His Presence, His prayers for His Kingdom to come and His will to be done in our lives. . .
It’s part of God’s will to enjoy the vitality of the natural world around us, even as we enjoy Him. Looking at the bare trees and feeling a bite of cold in the air, I like thinking about transcendent moments in nature— every season has them— the sparkle of sun on a snowflake, the surprise of spring flowers, a drop of translucent dew on a still leaf, the brilliance of fall. May we all stop to smell the roses in our lives.
May each day be filled with trust in an all powerful, all loving God Who—no matter what— still “has the whole world in His hands.” May He we seek His face and will—for ourselves, our loved ones and our nation.
January 15, 2021
I hope you’re all holding steady during these changing times. Today’s post is about change. It describes the reality of mid-western winter for the tall cedars growing along the back-line of an old (1840’s to early 1900’s) cemetery not far from where I used to live. Current on-line photos show me that the trees have changed. Once, every straight tall trunk was bare and every oval crown was full. The topmost branches reached out sideways as much as upward— each tree was entwined into the branches of its nearest neighbors. Large communities of crows nested high in their protective boughs. Most likely the tree roots were equally entangled and linked together below ground. The trees seemed impregnable. Winds blew, rains came, snow and ice lay thick upon their evergreen needles but not one surrendered to incessant change. I hope you like Cedars. It’s one of my early favorites.
February 3, 2021
Posting a long slow poem written on a long slow Southern Indiana summer afternoon is an antidote to the single digit temps heading our way. Brrrr . .
February 21, 2021
On the personal note, it’s still cold out here—with lots of snow on the ground. I’m praying the Spring thaws will be slow and gentle. Smiles and blessings always, g
February 28, 2021
On the home front— The sunshine is warm and the snow is almost gone. Our local roads are mud and pot holes. Catmint and thyme are greening up around our entryway and a second robin is scouring the back yard for worms.
Kind neighbors shoveled more than a foot of heavy snow from our deck. It was too deep for our aging dog —they tossed loads of the heavy stuff away from the house. I was grateful. When the fast current melt began, our basement stayed dry.
I’ve much to be grateful for. Smiles and blessings always, g
March 7, 2021
On the home front— the goldfinch are beginning to yellow up, the smaller black and brown birds are flocking back—a few with red and yellow-wings. The sun is finally warm enough to turn down the heat and this morning I saw five robins. My old arthritic dog is frisking like a young prince—yesterday I had to call him back from a possum. The local white tailed deer (with one early fawn) have been circle dancing in the tall grasses—yes, like in Narnia. At times, all I can see is their white tails jumping high— as if for joy.
It’s getting on toward spring. May we all make a joyful noise unto the earth—and unto the Lord!
Smiles and blessings to all, g
March 13, 2021
All is well here. Signs of spring continue to build—the turkey buzzards are back and the grass closest to the house is green. My first spring flower was tiny as a pinhead with four white petals. A few maple branches are red and quivering with life and one or two distant tree tops are tinged with hues of ochre and yellow. Quite a change from just a week ago.
Our neighbor lit a controlled burn in his hayfield this afternoon— the air is pungent with smoke, stirring up childhood memories of autumn evenings with piles of burning leaves everywhere. That was long before we heard about environmental toxins. Ah— change. Like the changes in our culture, our nation, our technology— the changes of growth and aging . . .
I steadies me to know that Lord’s loving plans are constant—unchanged from before time. May we seek Him and soak in the warmth of His love. May we seek Him until we are filled to bursting with the love, joy, peace, faith and hope of lives yielded to His Holy Spirit. Lord, will you help us to pray for that? I’d love that. How about you?
Until next week—or the next post— Smiles and blessings to all, g
March 17, 2021
I began to write this post, “Beauty”, as an antidote to winter blahs. Words came until I ended up with descriptions, memories, stories and thoughts about human blindness to beauty and beauty of God. That’s a lot. I learned as I wrote. Beauty’s meaning enriches our experience of it, but experience is vastly more meaningful that head knowledge. Can you take your eyes off the computer right now? Stop a while— long enough to search for beauty, sing a beautiful note or listen for a beautiful sound? And not return to the screen until you’ve rested a moment or two in a gift of beauty that God has planned for this moment of your life?
May smiles and sunshine fill your day, g
March 20, 2021
On the home front, I saw the first pair of sandhill cranes this week. It feels strange to have a mud-less March. The ground has thawed and a neighbor who is already Roto-tilling his vegetable garden says the ground is dry. We need rain.
As Resurrection Sunday draws near, may we all be drawn closer to Jesus.
Smiles and blessings, g
April 3, 2021
On the home front, after a week of colder weather, it’s warming up again. We’ve had a couple of good rains and more grass is green. So are fields without herbicide. Here and there daffodils and forsythia are opening. Violets are blooming and the first chipmunk has begun to sun bathing on nearby rocks. The woods across the way are softly reddening, a sure sign that the deciduous trees are readying up to blossom.
May the Risen Christ Jesus be more real to you day by day.
April 16, 2021
On the home front, despite Michigan’s spiking covid-19 and concerns over various current events, the Lord’s word continues unchanged— Trust Me, Praise Me, Seek Me— Follow Me and Love Me.
Above, the rainclouds are heavy, dark and moving at quite a steady pace. Below, forsythia and daffodils continue to bloom along the roadways. April showers promise May flowers and early leafing trees tinge the woodlands with tenderest green. The grass is a deeper, richer color; in places it’s shaggy and tall enough to mow. A few yellow dandelions brighten the ground with sunshine. Two days ago, I counted about twenty buds on my first lilac bush. Last summer a good friend dug up a pot-full of spreading lilac roots from her garden for me to plant in mine. She said it’s her favorite lilac—a fragrant deep purple brought from Alaska decades ago. Soon the wrens will return. Change. In the natural world. In us. In the world of man. How grateful I am that God said, “I am the Lord. I change not.” Have a good week, g
April 20. 2021
On the home front, it’s snowing. Steadily. Ick! ? or Joy! ? or a quiet acceptance of circumstances once again beyond our control? The roads are melting, but the green grass, fields and woodlands are quite well dusted with white. The swelling pink buds on the flowering tree outside my window are covered with a dense blanket of white wetness. The lighter, more limber limbs, are sinking under the weight of wet snow. If the sun could break through, the leaves and branches would glisten like stars. My heart is heavy for local fruit growers because killing frosts are predicted. My prayer, is “Mercy, Lord! Mercy!” And mercy on the roadways too. Traction will be needed as this freezes. In the recent 60+ degree April heatwave, most of us have exchanged our snow tires for warm weather wheels. We keep on. May you hold steady this week, with your eyes glued to eternal truth, through all the various ups and downs that come your way. Smiles to all, g
May 7, 2021
On the home front, the azaleas have come and gone and honey bees are humming around the flowering trees. Hooray! The wrens are back; the dark purple early iris are opening their petals to the sun; and all three oak saplings we planted last fall made it through the winter. The grass has needed cutting twice. Our rabbit population is way down. I’m not sure what got them—the cold or the hawks. Last year the adorable little rascals decimated my herb garden. The surviving plants, a few bedraggled stalks that straggled through last fall, are now off to a hearty start. If all goes well, we shall soon have fresh cilantro and oregano for our spaghetti sauce.
I hope you’re able to get out and smell the sunshine warming up the earth, catch a breath of spring wind, feel a raindrop or two upon your face, and smile and wave in grateful worship to God.
May 12, 2021
Keeping up with the season, we took out the garden hoses yesterday. We’ve found three yummy asparagus stalks in the weedy patch we purposefully mow around to save the asparagus (and a few native prairie plants). Our Spring growth is steady and full of surprises.
A few years back I planted two or three columbine. They reseeded until last year I had about fifteen or twenty plants. This morning I counted more than forty. I’m already imagining this bright patch of naturalized flowers bringing Colorado color to Eastern Michigan.
Another morning’s surprise was finding three delicate paper white narcissus —each with a tiny red fringe around a rich yellow center. This gift began to grow on my kitchen window sill in winter 2019-20. To my delight, the bulbs survived their transplant from a kitchen flower pot to the ground, made it through the winter and were strong enough to bloom the very next year. I must thank the Giver again.
Some surprises are loss— or at least look like it on the surface. A few echinacea and lavender didn’t come back. Neither did the killdeer; we’ve had them for almost a decade. I keep looking for wrens in the wren house, but haven’t spotted one yet. A couple fat robins are acting aggressively territorial about a wren-house tree—robins and wrens wouldn’t compete for food would they? Ah —so much I don’t know— and always change. Birds, plants and beloved lives come and and go— but—since truisms are true—I’ll say it. I’ve found out that what, at first, may look like inconsolable loss so often turns out to be opportunity for God to give us something new. Through it all, His love for us and His good eternal plans remain unchanged.
May you sense the Lord’s loving grace in the warmth of this spring’s sunshine on your face. g
May 25, 2021
On the home front, this morning I was delighted to see a pair of wrens have finally claimed occupancy of their house. I opened the windows wide to hear their tiny high-pitched cheeps and tweets. In the garden, the iris are magnificent— soft purples, huge rich whites and cheery yellows are opening quickly.
Last week, remembering the childhood joy of actually finding four-leaf clovers, I looked on-line for four-leaf clover seed. I discovered that a fourth leaf is a natural mutation of white clover. Since white clover can be dangerous for cattle, beef and dairy farmers have fought it for decades. Since no one around us is raising cattle today and it’s likely that children will live in this home long after I’m gone, I ordered a packet of white clover seed. I’ll sow it this week. I’d love the excitement of finding another four-leaf clover before I die. Imagining a child’s joy in finding one here in five or ten years is a happy thought.
All else continues well. All the cold-sensitive plants that we successfully wintered over in our garage are out on the deck again— basking in the sun. Our dog has taken to snoozing on the sunny warm porch rather than barking to come in again, and the columbine are still blooming away, prettier every day.
May the Lord’s face shine upon you-all— g
June 11, 2021
At home—mint filled the kitchen counter this week. It was crowding other garden plants so we pulled up bucketsful. We washed it, stripped off the leaves and spread them out on the kitchen counter to dry. Umm— the aroma of fresh mint! It fit right in with this week’s poem about ancestry. Here’s why.
I’ve treasured our mint and worked to keep it alive. In the last thirty-five years I’ve moved it to three different homes in three different states. We call it Laura’s Mint because it came from a friend named Laura. Laura was very secretive about her age; it was almost a joke. When I knew her in the 1980’s, she must have been in her nineties. Her mint was old too. It had grown in her mother’s garden. Maybe her immigrant parents brought this mint with them from Germany in the mid 19th century; maybe they got it from a nearby farm family. I’d guess the original rootstock is at least 150 years old.
Laura’s mint once grew on her father’s farm in Arlington Heights, Illinois. In the 1920’s, Laura and her sister sold the farm. Their land became part of Arlington Park Race Track. [An Oct. 1, 2021 update: The Chicago Bears recently purchased Arlington Park, the home of Laura’s mint, for a new stadium.] So, about one hundred years ago, Laura moved from her father’s farmland to Cary, Illinois and transplanted her mother’s mint in her new backyard. It grew well there for about sixty years. Then, over thirty-five years ago, in the 1980’s, I met Laura. We went to the same church and since she didn’t drive, I began picking her up for Sunday services. That led to helping Laura with her shopping, house cleaning and gardening. For working in her yard, she gave me mint and fern roots as a thank you. The ferns have not survived, but this year’s mint crop is bountiful. It dried nicely, without a dehydrator. I’ve saved enough for hot tea, iced tea and, if we can’t get fresh mint for tzatziki in January, hopefully no one but us will taste the difference.
May your days be full of gratitude for your roots and warmed by current gifts—the scent of mint, the working computer, the voice of a friend, the presence of God—and may your future be confident; rooted deep in an assurance of Jesus’ merciful lovingkindness—Always, g
July 16, 2021
On the home front? This morning the wrens were busily flying back and forth to feed their brood— it must be their second. Last night, a raccoon discovered the bird feeder. Our dog has dug up the parsley and dill from a planter on the deck and a couple of gully washers have washed deep gullies down the driveway. Mosquitoes are thriving and local corn was shoulder high by the 4th of July.
We keep on keeping on— still smiling and standing on our feet. May we all live in the grace and peace of our Heavenly Father and our Lord, Jesus Christ. g
July 29, 2021
Here at home? We’ve been blest with rain; the corn has tassled out and looks to be a good crop. Thick mulch is holding the flower garden weeds at bay—somewhat. Giant bright yellow self-seeded sunflowers are reaching high above vibrant pink echinacea as if planned by a Master gardener. And maybe they were!
My posts for have slowed down because I’m focused on finishing the umpteenth draft of a book named The Tabernacle: A Personal Journey. Glimpses of God’s glory and plan surprise me on almost every page. I’m learning so much and look forward to sharing it—
Smiles and blessings always, g
August 10, 2021
On the home front, it’s hot out, and muggy. Our local bumper crop of corn is dangerously high at many country corners, blocking a driver’s vision so they can’t see on-coming cars at turns. Chipmunks are feasting on three big tomatoes in my deck planters. The rascals began nibbling on the far side of the fruit, out sight from my kitchen window. I was so hoping for vine-ripened ones. I rescued a few—so a meagre harvest of a few half-green tomatoes are now ripening on the kitchen counter. Looking out past the deck, uncultivated fields are white with Queen Anne’s Lace. What else? The dahlias are huge and this year’s green grapes are already plumper than last year’s fully ripened deep purple ones. I can already taste the bittersweet tang of biting down on the first sun warmed grapes of the season.
With warm smiles and gratitude for friends, family and praise to God for all His goodness, g
August 20, 2021
On the home front—last week’s excitement was a storm and power outage—we had three days of listening to a noisy generator. It provided enough power for lights and refrigeration, but not enough for air conditioning.
I slept through the storms, until the generator—loud enough to wake any household— switched on around 6:40 a.m. Outside, a moderate rain was falling. The rain slowed, but the storm wasn’t over. After a brief calm, the sky began to change. I curled up beside a window and watched the heavens darken. The air took on an eerie yellowish tint. Wary of a possible tornado, I called a friend who’d planned to come over and warned, “Please don’t venture out—wait until this is over.” That was a good idea because slowly at first, and then—whoosh! —suddenly— it was storming again. High winds whipped the trees — every leaf and branch leaned south. Gusts, some up to sixty miles an hour, pushed sheets of heavy rain across the fields. Thunder rumbled and somewhere nearby lightening cracked and crackled. I checked my weather ap for tornado alerts and laughed. The National Weather Service reported our current weather as “possible showers and winds at three miles per hour.” Many local trees and power lines were downed. It took close to 2,800 men working 16 hour shifts over three days to restore power to our area. Through it all, all was well. We —and all nearby— were fortunate and grateful.
Three days after the storm, while I was washing up a few evening dishes, the generator switched off and the power returned. At first I didn’t know what happened. I stopped at the end of the counter and looked around saying aloud, “Something’s wrong. What is it?” It took a minute or two to realize that I was soaking in the gift of silence.
It was a good week here. Not everywhere. Please read my poem and pray for our nation—and please, while you’re talking to God, pray for the safety of endangered families in Afghanistan.
Blessings always, g
September 5, 2021
Here today, fields of goldenrod are turning yellow—earlier than usual. The deep purple concord grapes are sweet and ripe—later than usual. Tiny hard green berries on ornamental fruit trees are beginning to soften and blush with peachy oranges and pinks. Some morning I may wake up to find every berry gone. Small flocks of migrating birds can strip the berries from a heavily laden tree in less than an hour or two. Several years back, the fruit on the tree outside my kitchen window survived into winter. After heavy snows, I looked out the window to laughingly watch a family of wild turkeys feasting in the tree.
Despite cooler weather today, the long hot rays of our late afternoon sun still heat up the house. Soon, it will be cool enough to welcome every bit of warmth old sol can offer.
As the seasons change, may God’s grace and peace fill your hearts and order your days.
Blessings always, g
September 6, 2021
As I wait out a two week isolation from covid exposure, a bountiful harvest of grapes is waiting on the kitchen counter for me. The rest of the day I’ll be breathing in the sweet smell of juicy ripe concords and getting my fingers dusty and sticky from pulling grapes off their stems. Maybe I should wash the grapes first? All my wine making attempts have turned bitter and popped corks behind my back. Hopefully, with help, this year’s harvest will become some of the best grape jam and jelly ever.
Have a wonderful day. g
September 11, 2021
Today is the 20 year anniversary of the tragic destruction of the Twin Towers in New York City. As a girl, I used to wonder, “How could the sun still shine, the rains still fall, the birds still fly over the concentration camps in WW 2? As the Bible says, “. . . over the just and the unjust?” Lord, today, as we remember past and present tragedy, may we set our eyes on You and the freedom of Your unchanging love.
My Nature Note is long today. It flew inside yesterday noon on the wings of a tiny bird. The delicate creature was no more than three and a half or so inches long—maybe less. It was soft greenish yellow on the breast and softer gray green on top—no dark markings at all. Some birds are chunky and dumpy—like a misshapen dinosaur. Not this one. It was more graceful than a goldfinch, as balanced and perfect in itself as a swallow in flight. (I couldn’t find it in any of Ed’s bird books.)
It probably flew in through a sliding door left briefly open for our dog. Before I saw it, I heard its fluttering attempts to climb up and fly out against a plate glass window in our dining area. Turning to see the little thing sliding up and down the glass in almost frantic frustration sent my adrenalin rushing. Forgetting my age and every ache, pain and fear of falling, I climbed up on a low chest to step onto the wide window seat and tried with all my strength to loose the screen and pull it off from a side window. I felt charged to open a way for the bird’s flight out into freedom as quickly as possible.
A window-blind housing blocked the screen. I wasn’t strong or balanced enough to disengage the clamps and pull it off.
That’s when a “Lord! Help!” came. Almost immediately the soft tiny thing stopped battering itself against the window and flew toward the now closed sliding door. It landed in a huddle on the floor—in a dangerous spot, on the slide rails right behind the door that moved. Any attempt to open the door would have crushed it.
Perhaps it was stunned, for it stayed long enough for me to get a kitchen towel, cover it, and gently, oh so gently, gather it up from the floor. It felt softer than any cotton ball under the towel.
I opened the door and stood in the doorway to uncover a still, soft, fragile, little body. It lay in my palm, a sleeping beauty, on a snow white towel. I barely breathed. Was it conscious or not? Was it dead or alive? Soon it righted itself, and rested trustingly — most likely never knowing its sunshine perch was now a person, not a post or a tree. Its small yellowish claws were so fine on the towel draped over my open palm. I don’t know how long stayed with me surveying the sky and deck, ten or fifteen seconds—maybe more or less— it was one of those time-stands-still moments. Then, swiftly, gracefully it flew away—lost from sight in the green woods to the east of the house.
Is that a parable or not?
Lord, set us free from alien spaces—
May we fly through your sunshine
to safe dwelling places.
Help us remember that God holds us in the palm of His hand.
Have a good week— g
