Transformation Teachers Are All Around Us

The problem with looking into the future is that we imagine it from the experiences of the past.  We search our memories and then plunk them down on something that hasn’t happened yet.  Then we prepare ourselves for the future that we expect and wait anxiously for it to unfold.

Last year, we had a big storm on November 1^st.  The lake rose and its waves crashed into anything that was on the shoreline, rearranging buildings, docks and human possessions. A few trees lost branches but most of the changes were seen in human constructions.   It also snowed and took many drivers by surprise while the wind knocked down power lines leaving us in the cold and dark.  It all came as a rather nasty surprise.

So, this year, I was prepared with snow tires on the car, all the leaves raked up, canoes tarped and gardens put to bed.  And then we got unseasonably warm temperatures and clear skies.  Shaking their heads, people went out in kayaks, walked around in T-shirts and took one last bike ride.  My partner and I have been walking the trail by the lake after supper during this nice spell.  It is of course dark now but there are no mosquitoes and no tourists to contend with.  We can calmly walk along the lake with reflective vests and a flashlight and see the stars spread out over the glassy water.  We couldn’t do that in the summer because of the late sunset, bugs and people on holiday who partied on the trail.  We are very grateful to have this time with the stars.  The Big Dipper hangs over the lake and points to Polaris, the North Star.  Ursa Major, the Big Bear, the Drinking Gourd, the Fisher and countless other stories that people have told about these stars that suggest a picture to human minds.  The Milky Way above our heads reminded me of how small we are and how vast is the Universe that is our home.

I reflected as we walked along the dark, starlit trail on how we have to leave room for good things, things and events that we are co-creating as well as unexpected gifts and pleasant surprises.  Perhaps we can’t expect them, but we could remember that they could happen.  And we have to embrace them when they arrive, fill ourselves up and be grateful.

Yesterday, while walking in the forest, my partner found a piece of birch bark that looked like a writing scroll.  It was curled over on two sides.  I happened to have a pen with me and since Birch was the tree of November to the ancient Celts, I decided to turn the bark into a sign.  “This is an ark.  wearetheark.org”, I wrote.  Wearetheark.org is a group that is pointing out that natural spaces are homes to many, many species, just like Noah’s Ark.  I hung the bark on a convenient Eastern Hemlock branch.  I have no idea of who may see this sign.  But the sign seemed to emerge from the forest and I co-created with the birchbark and then who knows?  Maybe something good will come of it.

We have decided to decorate our backyard with edible bird treats as we approach the Winter Solstice.  I plan to mix peanut butter, suet and bird seed into a soft mixture and then stuff it into pine cones to be hung about the yard with red wool.  I found the suet, have the peanut butter and will buy the seed but I needed pine cones.  This morning, we stopped under a medium sized Red Pine and there were the perfect cones.  They have already opened and spilled their seeds onto the Earth.  I will co-create with them to provide food for the birds, now that their primary job is completed.

I am always fascinated by fungi.  There is something beautiful about the shapes and colours and the part they play in turning a dead tree back into soil.  They tell the story of transformation from one form of life to another.  I noticed white fungi on a fallen Hemlock, brown bracket fungi on a dead Maple still standing and black fungi on a dying Birch as I walked through the forest.

Down by the river, my partner found a tiny nest lying on the ground.  Carefully woven with grass, cedar twigs and birch bark it had been home to new life.  Some tiny, downy feathers still clung to the rim of the nest telling the story of hatchlings now fledged. Dead grass, cedar and peeling bark were all expertly woven into a safe abode that is no longer needed.  These building materials will all become soil again as well.

Standing beside the river, we noticed a dead Salmon wedged up against the rocks.  A few weeks ago, they were all making their way upstream to spawn and bring new life to the river and lake.  Once their final job is complete, they die and become part of the water again unless a bear or a raccoon pulls them out to eat.  I thought of all the tiny eggs resting in the rocky bottom of the river further upstream, waiting to hatch and begin Salmon life again.

In this time of constant change, we are finding new ways of living.  We are transforming ourselves and our communities.  Some of our nests are no longer needed as we fledge.  Some of our structures are being dismantled so that new ones can be created.  There are many beautiful moments of connection between people who used to be too busy to connect.  And despite the seeming odds, good things are happening.  How do we navigate all this change when humans are so comfortable in cocoons.  Perhaps the other than human life has much to teach us about the art of transformation.  Perhaps the lessons and teachers are everywhere around us.