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Coneflowers are a prominent symbol of native prairie plants. They are colorful and last throughout the growing season. Their abundant blooms spread easily from one year to the next. The distinct droop of their petals is easy to recognize. Coneflowers abound in sites of prairie restoration.

The coneflowers in the Monarch Waystation behind my house have been well beyond their prime for weeks. Only their signature seed cones remain atop most of the stems. But there are a few places with new blooms, maturing blooms, and seed cones all mixed up with one another. Coming upon those remnant patches, I find myself in full view of the proverb: “All the flowers of the tomorrows are in the seeds of today.”

Autumn is a difficult time of year for many people in northern climates. Days grow shorter and shorter between increasingly chilly nights. Dried up summer flowers and crops yet to be harvested rattle in the wind. The coloring of the land turns to a darker palette of browns and grays. The birdsong of warmer months has largely stilled as the fullness of summer has shed on every side. Inside that dominant story of decline and diminshment lies a paradoxical tale of anticipated growth. On the fur of passing animals and the breath of the wind, seeds are carried, scattered, and distributed here and there. Those seeds will be on pause through long weeks of stillness and cold. They can't be rushed. But with the returning promise of increasing light and warmth, those seeds will be in position for a remarkable new greening. In many dark times , it can be very hard to keep the seeds in mind. It is then that this coneflower photo reminds me of the ongoing cycle from new bloom to seed cone and back again.

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Winter Fog

The Winter Solstice officially clocked in yesterday at 12:48 am. Today then is the first full day of winter. It’s an unseasonably warm day, and my neighbors and I have awakened to dense fog. We’ve had numerous warmer-than-usual days this month, and a few days when the fog has never lifted completely. One of the most beautiful manifestations of fog in northern Illinois is called frozen fog. It’s pictured above from a recent cold foggy morning. Frozen fog layers a lovely glistening on everything.

Fog’s rarely ranked high as a weather reality. When we refer to ourselves as being in a fog, it’s not a positive state of being. Behind the wheel, we strain to see through the fog. Years ago Charles Kurault addressed oft-heard summer complaints of visitors to the Maine coast who found gray days of fog annoying. With a twinkle in his writer’s voice, Kursult reminded us that fog on that coast is essential for balsam and blueberries, two beloved homegrown Maine products. On our opposite coast, California’s towering redwoods thrive in the ever-present fog.

Kyle Boelte (The Beautiful Unseen: Variations on Fog and Forgetting) describes fog with these words, “Fog, simply put, is visible moisture near the earth’s surface…So much simply remains out of sight.” When fog rolls into the landscapes of our lives, it tosses out questions: What is now seen? And what is shrouded and invisible?” What a complicated presence fog bears! It causes us to consider, good or bad, what will we make visible and what will we hide. Will our fog be dangerous? Remember fog can contribute to a shipwreck. Will our particular fog nurture treasures like balsam, blueberries, and redwoods? Or both? We, like the fog, have conflicting, paradoxical possibilities to choose for or to deny life. Fog’s a challenging teacher.

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Every Which Way

In the summer with corn growing tall around me, I watch animals big and small disappear into its towering rows. I imagine a great game of hide and seek underway in a field's depths. By contrast, winter opens broad expanses of exposed land where corn, beans, hay, berries, grapes, and vegetable gardens recently thrived. Add a coat of fresh snow, like clean canvas stretched in every direction, and hide and seek becomes much more difficult. Wherever we or other creatures roam, we leave prints, a reminder of our passing.

On snow's temporary cold canvas, humble rabbit tracks are ever present. Finding those tracks outside my window, I have at least two responses. Most immediately, I see the going to and fro, back and forth, east and west, in linear and circular patterns, into shadows and into light, as a frenetic pulling every which way. It reminds me of a lack of priorities or clarity. Those prints visualize the wild juggling act of multi-tasking that we often applaud. Perhaps we can handle it all.

At second glance the prints call to mind greater grace and guidance seeking to focus our attention. One approach does not always work. We can be distracted with alternative notions or tasks. Spirit is infinitely creative in the invitations it offers or the avenues it uses. It appears one paradox in the prints is whether they are our prints, those of spirit, or both. Do they reveal disarray or determination?

On this cusp of new year, I listen to the tracks' fullness. I ask how we distinguish between the flailing, the endless detours, the too fast and the too much that go nowhere and the rich, varied voices and ways of Spirit calling? Held in the paradox of the tracks we find options to choose life again.

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