Musings from Hickory Lane,  the web site of Brenda Zook, aka Hummin'B
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(More) Lessons from the road less traveled.

1/8/2019

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If you’re from central PA, (or even if you know someone from central PA) you’re aware that the weather has been less than lovely in recent days.weeks.months.  We’ve had rain upon rain, interspersed with days of “partly cloudy,” mostly cloud, clouds giving way to showers...you get the picture.   I think it’s the hardest “season” of the year for me – winter without snow. 
​It was during just such a week of weather, when I was fulfilling a role as travel guide for holiday visitors along a winding road heading up the mountain, that one of my “not from here” passengers commented, “It’s just so beautiful  here.”   I chuckled.    


“Now I know you’ll have to come back,”  I replied.  “If you think it’s pretty now...”
My mind was busy with a picturesque sales pitch for alternatives to the current bleak view through dirty windows...   

If you think this is pretty, you should visit the Valley in springtime, when the mountains are soft and green with promise, when pink buds swell along the redbud stems, and lambs frisk in verdant meadows.

If you think this is pretty, spend some summer days winding along the back roads where farmers with horse drawn equipment are raking hay in long fragrant swaths, and barefoot children clamor along the creek.  Every other farm has a “Produce” sign hanging on a fence post, and the tomatoes are fat and sun ripened. And you can eat sweet corn every single day.

If you think this pretty, autumn will take your breath away with its splendid maples splashing orange and yellow everywhere,  fields dotted with corn shocks, and apple trees ladened  with globes of gold.

All these scenes went spinning through my mind as we rounded the bend to a view of bare trees silhouetted against a bleak sky. 
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Words were lined up in my brain, ready to march  forth and tell them what beautiful really meant. And just as quickly, I pinched my lips together and sent the words into retreat,  because my young friends held the wiser perspective. They were right. 
​
It is beautiful here. 
Right now. 
And every  day of every year, beauty is to be found- 

if. I. am. looking. for. it. 

(It's not like God goes to  Florida for the winter...) 

True, the season of deep winter, snowless, seems to call for more sleuthing skills than just about any other time, but this is a good season to develop a new skill or strengthen a weak one. So, thanks E and K for prodding me without realizing it, for giving me reason to ponder the Thoreau quote that appeared on my daily calendar the day after the above comment:  
The question is not what you look at, but what you see." 

It’s time for-
(More) Lessons from the road less traveled. 

1. Practice  mindfulness.

PictureNew Year's Day dandelion!
 Pay attention to what’s right in front of you, literally and also metaphorically.   Mindfulness is defined in some circles as "bringing one's attention to experiences occurring in the present moment."  It’s noticing what you see. I’m surprised how hard it is for me to stay focused on this present moment when I’m taking my daily walk.  My mind is often anywhere but here.   I’m trying to change that.   The camera seems to help me.  

​

​2. Remember the long view.  

Perspective.  Here and now is important.  But it’s not all there is. Sometimes a long walk is exactly the view shift that I need to get out of the mental box I’ve been circling in all day.   It’s good to see the road stretch out ahead of me, or behind me, and think about the journey.  
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​

​3.  Accept the wonder...

that has come in the midst of losses, disappointments, changes in plans.  As much as I miss the fresh smell of spring, the warm rays of sun on my back as I garden on a summer afternoon, the autumn sound of leaf crunch underfoot, I know that unless those seasons fade, I would never see the splendor of sycamores in winter.  These trees have no outstanding features to draw the eye until the frigid winter days. Then, the  creamy mottled bark radiates beauty.   

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4.  Be aware of who is watching.

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Not in the way we usually think of it (or at least the way I usually think of it.)  Not because I don’t want to embarrass myself or because I’m worried about what “they” will think. 

But because – someone is usually watching, someone younger or more vulnerable or less settled, and they will choose what I choose; they will watch my actions and reactions and respond similarly because of my example. 

My decision gives them permission. So, don’t forget the watchers.

​And yet...

​5.  Don’t be afraid to take some risks.  

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On a hike along the Conewago Trail last week, I  saw quite a few squirrels. But this one was the bravest, dangling along the far edge of his balancing abilities, enjoying what must have been a very tasty feast  of (???) buds.  
​
Don’t let your fears keep you from the feast. 

Ask yourself, what would I do if I wasn’t afraid? 

​And  then, do  it.  

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Yep, that's the little squirrel, the brave little squirrel, enjoying a feast!




​6.  Grow here.   

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Wherever here is, put down some roots and make the best of it.

​Five years from now, you will be five years older, but will you be five years better? That doesn’t depend on your circumstances, that depends on your decisions.    

These trees, growing out of solid rock, reminded me that I’m responsible for my own growth, even if conditions are less than optimal. 

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7.  Rejoice in what is even if you are also grieving what is not.  

On Friday I set out for my usual walk, camera in hand and wondered why I’d bothered to bring it.  The entire sky was socked in with clouds. I saw no glint of sun, no blue sky; all the greens had faded to gray, trees stood stark  and leafless, outlined against the sky.  But then sunset flared up with colors so vibrant I thought the sky might be on fire. 
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​More lessons from the road less traveled. And as is generally the case, I'm writing first and foremost for me.  I need the reminders, every single one of them.  Thanks for listening to me talk to myself.  

Remember, the question is not what you look at but what you see.   (Thanks, Thoreau.) 

Tell me, what do you see?  Keep watching for God to show up...
HumminB
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This is what weekends are for -  get yourself out the door!

4/14/2018

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Go ahead, find some shoes and go out the door.   You don't have to be gone long, just go. Ten minutes out, ten minutes back if that's all you can "afford" to invest today.  But when you're out there, be all there! Be mindful of what you see and hear in your world.. Start listening with your eyes.  You never know what you might discover.  And if you won't take my word for it, here's a quote to get you motivated!  
Come forth into the light of things, let nature  be your teacher."  William Wordsworth
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Spring is coming to the Shire...we live between the already, and the not yet.
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Every day, the treetops change.
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What a surprise!! Great horned owl having a late, late breakfast!! (Shouldn't you be sleeping now?)
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Breakfast debris. Beauty in the dying...
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Standing among the great ones...good place for adjusting my perspecticals.
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Small is lovely too - colts foot looks like little drops of sunshine.
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Always remember to look up...and don't forget to say, "Thanks."
What are you waiting for?  The weekend is whispering your name..."Come.  Pause.  Listen."  Yes. You.  Out.the.door. 
HumminB
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His love is high...

11/8/2016

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The woods seemed unnaturally silent for most of my walk and I wondered why.  A few incessantly irritable little chipmunks kept announcing my presence; fuss-fuss-fuss, their ticking, clicking warning preceded my every step.  But perhaps I was not the danger against which they warned.

​Caw, caw, caw, a crow flew overhead low and close, so close I heard the precise whoosh of his wings cutting through the air; it was not a gentle, meandering flight – the wing beats were firm and businesslike; he was a bird on a mission.
  

At some point, I heard a hawk scream through the canopy, and I pondered the terror that primal scream would etch across the brain of a woodland creature – chickadee, chipmunk, vole, vireo. It wasn’t a sound I would ever long to hear.  Unlike the bluebird’s signature greeting or the whistle of a tufted titmouse, this shriek contained a predatory edge of bloodthirst.

So, maybe that was why the chipmunks were edgy. They could be forgiven their touchiness, given the panic inducing reality of hawk fear.
 

Oh, yes.  Hawk fear again. 

Recently I have had a fascination with the view I find when I point my camera “up,”
as in, straight up toward…
whatever is up there. 
(Mostly trees so far, because that is mostly what I can see.)  ​

Something moves me when I see the way the lens curvature pulls the treetops inward 
as if they would both hold the earth and frame the sky.

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For some reason, this view brings these words into my mind: 
Your love is deep.
Your love is high.
Your love is long.
Your love is wide.
 
Your love is deeper than my view of grace,
Higher than this worldly place,
Longer than this road I travel,
Wider than the gap You fill.
 
 
Who shall separate us
Who shall separate us from your love
Nothing can separate us
Nothing can separate us from your love.
​

This worship song used to be a favorite in my church, in me.  I'm not sure why we don't sing it anymore...it's still one of my vacuuming songs. (Singing my way through less favorite tasks is a long habit of mine…as is singing when I am really delighted, so you can’t always tell the difference…which might be the point.)

​These words hold deep meaning for me, and I sing them that way, with gusto (over the sound of my vacuum, should you happen to stop  by.)
 So.much. truth. packed into these simple lyrics. So many dimensions to God's love:​
His love is deep:
Some days it’s a big relief to realize God’s love is 
deep, because life offers up some serious potholes, and I end up in them all too often.  When I’m “in deep,” I have found this quote by Corrie ten Boom to be true:
 There is no pit so deep that God's love is  not deeper still. 
I cling to the reality of a love that is “deeper still,” more than enough for whatever hole I have dug or into which I have fallen.
​   


His love is wide:
​I feel like I might have always known that God’s love is
 wide…bridging the chasm that yawned open between Creator and created ones the first time the snake whispered and we listened. I think the sin nature becomes obvious to anyone who has ever raised a two-year-old, parented through the teen years, or looked into the mirror and caught a glimpse of the dark side.
​
​I need a love wide enough to span that gap, and God offers it.
​

His love is long:
I have at times caught a hint of how 
long God’s love is, preceding my first breath of life by millennia, as evidenced in the words of David:  
“For great is Your steadfast love for me.” (Psalm 86:13 ESV)
You too, David?
When you read those words,
when you wrote those words,

​did your heart swell with warmth like mine does every single time I read this extravagant phrase?
My face cannot hold back a smile as I finger this line of pearl words and hold them close to my heart.
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. 
Oh, God, this love of yours,
it is truly a long love,
it is longer than the road I travel, longer than my years,
however long that may be. 

I have come to trust that I cannot outlive that love. 





His love is high: What exactly does that mean?  I have memorized verses that declared the truth that God’s love is high:

Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens, 
​your faithfulness to the clouds. Psalm 36:5
​

For your steadfast love is higher than the heavens,
and your faithfulness reaches to the clouds.
Psalm 108:4



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However, the understanding of God's high love at a heart level is newer.

​I think that's why the lens view of “up” has captured my attention. Those trees, hovering, those branches framing my view, somehow connect me to the sense that I too am held, that my world is framed with a Love whose dimensions I am only beginning to glimpse. 

A love that is higher than “this worldly place,” this space of earth,
​a love that takes in the sweep of my little life in this little place fraught with pits and chasms and hawk fear…
​
That would be one hawk-fear-banishing,  extraordinary love.  

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Your love is high...
May you have the power to understand…how wide, how long, how high, and how deep His love is.  May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Epesians 3:18, 19 NLT
HumminB
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Tree Fever...with apologies to John Masefield

10/11/2016

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​I must go up to the trees again, to the lonely trees and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall pine and the chance to hear her sigh.

And the breeze kiss and a soft mist, and the birch leaves quaking,

And a golden hue on the meadow view with a fall day waking.
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"the lonely trees and the sky..."
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"and a golden hue on the meadow view..."
I must go up to the trees again for the call of the mountainside
Is a wild call and clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is an autumn day and the white clouds playing

And the leaf path and the chipmunk’s laugh, and the maples, swaying.
Picture
"and the leaf path..."
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"..and the maples, swaying."
I must go up to the trees again, to the lonely, wandering life,
To the fawn’s way, and the dove’s way, where the thrush plays a haunting fife.
And all I ask in the peace of pause is the whispering Presence,
And the sweet perfume, the remembered joy of the long hike’s essence.
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"to the fawn's way..."
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"...the remembered joy of the long hike's essence."
HumminB
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Grace piled high...

1/29/2015

5 Comments

 
My woodland haunt was transformed on Monday.  A silent onslaught of whiteness floated down, blanketing everything in its course with indiscriminate extravagance. Crystalline splendor piled up inches deep, waiting for sun glory.  It snowed off and on most of the day and into the night...

Morning brrought more flakes and wind swirl, but by late afternoon, I venture out.  Blue sky pulls me from gray chores as dusk approaches. 
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My path is even less traveled than usual, and I tromp less vigorously than on past treks. I know a misstep could end poorly, and this season of “bad back” days has taught me caution, if not fear.  

I watch my steps, head down, but cannot thus take in the glorious view, and so I stop again and again, turning round, not wanting to miss a sight, a glimpse of winged color, a stem of red berries splashed against dark bark. 


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I notice
that tall straight trees, 
perfect, pointing skyward, 
have already shed their snowy coats. 
The late afternoon breeze 
has scattered swirls of whiteness 
down, 
down, 
down 
to
 the
 forest
  floor. 


But oh,

 the bent ones,
  trees bowed low, 
leaning hard against tall neighbors,  
or splayed across the underbrush like fallen warriors in a battle I cannot imagine, 
these trees piled high with snow,
 piled high with grace,  
 speak to me.
Picture
Grace piled high…

On the fallen, the leaning, the faltering.

These trees, being horizontal, have more space for grace.

Grace piles up and lingers long.




Picture


Once, perhaps they too stood tall and straight, until disaster visited:
       
    A twisting wind lingered…  

    a reckless dirt mover backed too far…           

    a neighbor tree, storm thrown,                                                       grabbed wildly on its way down. 

Bending low, 

they slipped
     once,
          twice, 
               and again, 
until they cracked or crashed. 
Uprooted and displaced, they now receive grace piled high.  


Picturey



This brokenness- 



twisted limb, 
fallen trunk, 
discarded branch pile,


-creates distinct beauty,

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and provides a"place" 



for smallest forest creatures 


seeking storm refuge. 

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Leaning trees, piled high with grace, can also point Homeward.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                   HumminB
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January 11 What's to love about winter?  Sycamore trees.

1/11/2014

1 Comment

 
A few weeks ago I drove south along the Junaita River. 
Winter was in full progress, but there was no snow (yet.)  
Outside my window, the landscape stretched in unending shades of gray with barely a trace of color.  
The word bleak came to mind.  Or dull.  
Or a handful of other unfavorable adjectives regularly tagged onto winter scenes. 
Drab.  Dreary.  Depressing.  Desolate.  (What's with the letter "d"?) 


And then I started noticing the sycamores, Platanus occidentalis.

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During the leaf-filled days of spring and summer, the American sycamore, also known as the American planetree, occidental plane, and buttonwood, is rather unremarkable.  When autumn paints our central PA scenes, the sycamore is one of the first to drop its ordinary yellow brown leaves as if can't wait for barren winter days. Perhaps the sycamore tree knows that its time is coming. For winter is the time when the sycamore can shine.   

The sycamore is best known for its unusual mottled bark which sloughs off in irregular patches to reveal shades of gray, greenish white, and brown.  All year long,  sycamore bark flakes off in uneven sheets, but it is chiefly in the winter that this unique beauty is noticeable.  

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There are people like this in my world, yours too I suppose, 
people who aren't particularly memorable or noticeable 
when life is green and growing. 


When there's an ostentatious show of flashy performance 
like autumn leaf wonder, 
they are…underwhelming.  
But when life turns bleak and cold, 
when the colorful exhibition is gone, 
and day simply follows day, 
there they stand.   

With understated beauty, 
their presence adds depth and dignity to ordinary days.  
They are quietly "there" making a difference simple by being there.  
Look for them, 
these quiet sentinels of beauty, 
on your bleak/dull/drab/depressing days.  
Watch for the sycamores.  
Be one.  


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January 10 What's to love about winter?  winter woods walking

1/10/2014

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I had another idea in mind for today's post, but then we woke up to a fresh coating of snow.   I knew I needed to get out of the house for a walk, but one thing led to another; the day was slipping by fast, and I was still inside.  I kept talking to myself, kept myself moving, on track to get out the door before it was too late.  I jumped in the van to drive to the woods because I knew there wasn't time to walk TO the woods and IN the woods.  In two minutes I had parked along the road less traveled, and I was breathing deep of cold crisp mountain air, and thinking, oh, if you've never walked in the winter woods at dusk, you just haven't lived. 
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The blue gray beauty is mysterious and beckoning.  The hush seeps into my soul as I walk the snow covered mountain road.  I'm alone at the moment, but there have been other travelers here, deer tracks etch a path parallel to mine, squirrels have been leaping everywhere, and rabbits have been zigzagging here half the day, according to my reading of the road.  

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I hesitate as the trail forks up the mountain.  The sun is long gone; the blueness of the woods has deepened to dusky gray, but I can't resist the urge to walk just a bit further.  I'm waiting for something, hoping, longing, yearning for that certain wonder of the winter woods.  
I walk and pause, walk and pause.   Even if my wish is fulfilled I cannot take a picture for you, for I am waiting for a sound, an echo of beauty heard only in deep winter. 


I might be holding my breath when I hear it; the sound floats down the mountain on my left, carried on a breeze whisper, echoing between the bare trees and my heart, the evocative call of the great horned owl.  The sound is so haunting I wonder if it's real, and then the answer drifts through the shadows.  I wait.  One calls…pause… the other answers.  At first the pauses are about ten steps long, and I walk quickly, "quietly," toward the voices, scanning the deeply shadowed woods, hoping for a glimpse.  Today's snow is powder soft, and my steps are somewhat muffled, although I still think I sound like a very large two-footed something or other fumbling through unknown terrain. I doubt I'll be able to sneak up on anything.  The calls continue, back and forth back and forth; the pause between notes shortens until the voices sometimes overlap in a duet.  (Since I couldn't take a picture, I found this link for you: http://www.learner.org/jnorth/sounds/Owl_GreatHorned_Duet.mp3)

I keep walking toward them, and then the ghost of a winged shadow glides between the branches, up the mountain.  When I hear the call again, the low voice is far away, and I know it is time for me to turn toward home. 

I'm not afraid on the mountain at night; I haven't watched enough bad movies to make me shiver walking among trees in near darkness. The only dangers I might stumble upon would be self imposed…

getting lost ("Just walk downhill;" this one bit of advice has forever relieved my fear of losing my way on our mountains)

or spraining an ankle (which my mom did when she was about my age…but she seemed much older.  To me.  Then.)

 or falling (which I do before I reach the van, smooth ice beneath fresh snowfall, and splat, I'm dusting snow off of my camera lens and other places)  


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Behind me, the owls are still calling; overhead the moon shines, ringed with light, promising…more snow. 


The night woods are still and peaceful and lovely.  



 I breath the cold air deep and hold my breath in the hush of the white snow everywhere.
 



The shining moon floats in a bowl of deep blue sky, surrounded by tree branch silhouettes, and I feel, feel the beauty of it. 




What's to love about winter?  Winter woods walking. 

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    Author

    I'm finding my way beyond the maze of the "middle" years
    (if I'm gonna be 100 and something someday...) 
    ​living life as a country woman who is a
     writer, gardener, wife, mom,  nature observer,  teacher,and most of all a much loved child of God.  

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