Have you noticed how long your shadow is these days, even at noon? As the Earth's Northern Hemisphere tilts methodically away from the sun, we slide toward the heart of winter. This "tilt" affects the angle of the sunlight reaching the earth and is responsible for seasonal change.
December 21st, the official start of winter, marks this season's maximum "away" tilt. In Wisconsin, we'll take in around 6 hours and 22 minutes less daylight than the longest day in June. I don't know about you, but for me, that's way too short a day. But not to fret- from here, the amount of daily sunlight we receive grows as we edge toward spring.
Noting the Winter Solstice as both the night of deepest darkness and the return of light is more than an act of faith. For me, celebrating the celestial cycle honors ancestral longings- and abilities- to figure out the workings of the world around us, and our drive to continue doing so.
The usual pace of holiday celebrations dictates high energy - shopping, eating, drinking, and entertaining, This is the antithesis of nature's truest winter energy, which fosters stillness and introspection. It's worthwhile to observe winter rhythm by drawing inward and reflecting, even if briefly. Give your solo self the necessary and rejuvenating gift of peace and quiet- walk in the woods, curl up by a fireplace, or snuggle in with a good book. Just sitting and doing nothing for awhile is A-ok.
The above painting, Solstice (Earth Tilt), (30"x 24" acrylic on canvas) is one of my Series 2 pieces. Unlike the more abstract expressionist work in Series 1 and Series 3, these pieces are harder-edged and a balancing nod to the "other side" of Mid-20th Century Art, as well as my Nordic roots.
Though not apparent, Series 2 paintings are also "free" in the sense that they are done in the moment, without a preconceived idea, theme, or detailed drawing, usually with no tape or masking. The act of painting propels me toward an unseen destination. I started work on this piece with an open mind, red & gray paint, a canvas, and began by painting a few scattered shapes. They led me to Solstice (Earth Tilt).
You can see more of my Series 2 work here and here.
Happy Solstice & Joyous Holidays to you!
Chronesthesia is mental time travel. I'm not talking science fiction or magical thinking. It's the idea that mental time travel, both forward and backward- allows us to be aware of our place in linear time. Chronesthesia, theorizes psychologist Dr. Endel Tulving, gives humans the exclusive ability to recollect past events and plan for the future. He claims, "The kind of culture that Homo sapiens have created over the past 40,000 years or so can be produced only by individuals whose intelligence includes conscious awareness of the future in which they and their progeny will continue to live and survive."
Things happen while I'm painting that tickle my inquisitive brain. I find these things irresistible - the centering I feel in front of a canvas, the transcendent moment when surface and paint and motion begin to meld into something that pushes me farther than I thought I wanted to go, the unconventional documentation of real experience in nature, and, the notion of "escaping" time. I look up, three hours have passed, and it felt like three minutes. Not exactly what Tulving was talking about, but it got me thinking...
Does the state we humans now find ourselves in prove Tulving is mistaken? How do we really use our intelligence, and how do we evaluate human versus animal intelligence? Without a long lens, it's too soon to know. My own mental time travels are just optimistic projections. But new research is demonstrating that dogs and other animals possess the same type of intelligence Tulving called "uniquely human." Perhaps we need to think more about learning from other animals rather than about how superior we are to them.
What I do know is that the days have become excruciatingly short. Trees are laid bare to the bones, and the harvest is complete. Like other animals, it's time for us to gather together. Not necessarily to migrate or hibernate, but to create an attentive "now" - to be active and grateful, to celebrate family and friends and food, and the abundant Earth that sustains us. Happy Thanksgiving!
The paintings on this page are a selection from my recent Seeing Time sequence. You can see more here.
A couple of miles into my morning wander and I'd been jolted from solitude several times to practice what used to be considered common courtesy - “Hello.” Hikers are a generally a friendly lot, so "hello" can morph into an actual conversation- what's blooming, the sorry state of public lands under current political leaders, or an extra moment to scratch a furry companion behind the ear. I've chatted with folks whose ancestors used to live on the lands I was walking, hunters out scouting game trails, and kids whose curiosity was infectious. I've never left these encounters without a genuine good feeling.
So when did it become okay to pass by another human without a greeting, essentially pretending they're not there? I'm not talking about bustling streets where greeting every passerby is impossible. I've noticed people starting to take on big city behavior out in the woods. I don't like it and here is my rule- you don't get to pass by me on the trail without a greeting. Don't even get me going on people wearing earbuds or talking on their phone. You're still going to get my attention, like it or not. (And by the way, you're missing an incredible symphony of soul-soothing wild sounds and interactions.)
Paying attention to others in small ways, like saying "hello," matters. It's an affirmation. It signals respect. It takes time, and sometimes, courage. Paying attention requires a willingness to be open and to learn something new. It is non-judgmental. Paying attention to ourselves, our surroundings, and each other, is a foundation of healthy being, and indeed, a healthy society.
So please don't think walking by your fellow humans without a greeting is normal. For most of us, in many circumstances, it's not. It's a symptom of “dis-ease," disconnection, and distraction.
Civility, courtesy, grace, even “good-breeding,” call it what you will. Please pay attention to others along your path. Kindly acknowledge them. A simple “hello”
For more of the paintings I've been working on, click here.
The Sun. No wonder our ancestors revered it. Earth's weather, seasons, climate, and ocean currents are all driven by solar power. This yellow dwarf star, a near perfect sphere of blazing hot gases, holds our solar system together.
On August 21st, the moon passed in front of the sun bringing daytime "night"- a total eclipse- to those in the path of totality. We made the 7-hour journey to Missouri and were not disappointed. The experience inspired the above painting, "Totality (Eclipse)," 43" x 63" on canvas. I could go on about truly mind-altering moments, but one of my favorite writers, Annie Dillard, says it best in her 1982 read-worthy essay, "Total Eclipse."
On Friday, September 22nd, the plane of the Earth's equator passes through the center of the Sun's orb, marking the time when day and night are closest to equal all around the world. The word "equinox " comes from the Latin "equi" meaning "equal," and "nox" meaning "night." And so begins the slippery slope to winter in the Northern Hemisphere. The below painting, "Toward Equinox," 30"x 40" on canvas, was influenced by these languishing days of summer when light gets long and green gives way to red and yellow.
Hey Sun. Thank you!
Did you know that blue is an anomaly in nature? While banding a bluebird many years ago, I learned that most critters we think of as "blue" only appear blue. It's optical tomfoolery- birds' blue feathers, insects' blue wings, even blue eyes only seem blue. They contain no blue pigment. Their blue is purely a function of specialized frameworks and the scattering of light. If you pulverize a blue feather, it will no longer appear blue because its tiny reflective structures have been damaged. It will look gray or brownish. Contrast that with beets- they remain red when crushed because their color comes from pigment.
Nature produces only a wee handful of blue pigments. A few minerals, such as lapis lazuli, azurite, and cobalt, can be ground to create blue pigment. True blue dyes can be conjured from a minute number of plants like woad (Isatis tinctoria) and true indigo (Indigofera tinctoria). Historically, painters know blue as the rarest and most expensive of colors. Most of the blue dyes and pigments we use today are synthesized.
Now let's talk indigo. While ordinary blue occupies the range of 450-495 nanometers on the visible spectrum, indigo blue's eye-catching allure dwells between 440 and 450 nanometers. It varies in color from deep blue to blue-violet and has been significant in human culture for at least 5,000 years. The mantle of the Virgin Mary, Egyptian mummy linens, and the Hindu God Krishna's clothing, have often been depicted as indigo blue. In several Eastern religions, indigo is the color of the 6th chakra, the "third-eye." It is said to be the color of wisdom, intuitive knowledge, and transformation. Indigo is considered a bridge between heaven and earth.
Indigo conveys integrity. It makes us feel calm, yet vibrantly strong. If you're affected by a prevalence of negativism and fear-mongering, it may be time to roll out the indigo. Or maybe scarlet, turquoise, and chartreuse. Whatever colors suit you. Choosing to be surrounded by color, grace, and dynamism in discordant times is empowering. It invigorates our senses and emboldens our creativity. It makes the muses frisky. And that's where real magic happens.
After an unusually stormy spring and early summer, the downpours continue into July. And gardens grow with spirited abandon. Multicolored foliage and flowers explode into masses of edible goodness and beauty. The weeds, as always, outpace every effort to keep them in check. It's a bountiful and intoxicating time of year. Mercifully, the mosquitoes, a little behind schedule, are just beginning to figure that out.
"How the Garden Grows" is a recently completed 36"x 48" painting, acrylic on canvas. How are things growing where you live?
While walking on woods' edge under an ever-changing cloudscape, skirting prairie blooming with purple spiderwort (Tradescantia sp.) and false white indigo (Baptisia lactea), an iridescent shot of blue swept across my field of vision. It was quickly followed by a sweet, familiar song not 10 feet away... I see you perched, tiny slice of sky set free.... How can you be so delicate and magnificent all at once? The sight and song of the Indigo bunting (Passerina cyanea) seemed an auspicious welcome to summer.
The Indigo bunting, member of the cardinal family, is a seasonal visitor to Wisconsin. When migrating to and from Central America, primarily at night, this blue-feathered jewel uses the stars to navigate. Here in its northern home, it inhabits the ecotone between woods and prairie. You can listen to its song here.
A large, 48"x 67" minimalist painting I recently finished reminds me of this song of summer as performed by our avian friends under rolling white clouds. It's called Birdsong through Partly Cloudy Skies. Can you "see" it?
Over his lifetime, we walked between 10,000-15,000 miles, just the two of us, in wild places, unfettered by leashes or rules. That's a lot of miles. On these wanders, he taught me that living in the moment is all that matters and doing that is as simple as enlivening and following our senses. He helped raise our boys, made us laugh, and filled spaces in our lives we didn't know existed. He loved us every single day without a thought. The feeling was mutual. I miss him.
Our son, Alex Bauch, wrote an apt tribute. With his permission-
Some millennia before the end of the last Ice Age, humans forged an unlikely partnership with a species strikingly similar to modern wolves. This interspecies alliance was the first of its kind, the very first domestication. As the bonds between early dogs and humans grew stronger, we sculpted their genome to reflect our vision of a perfect companion. It is plausible to speculate that dogs modified the evolution of our species in return, and it is beyond question that they continue to shape us as individuals.
I don’t have words to describe how privileged I am to have participated in one of nature’s most venerated traditions for 14 terrific years with this dog. A simple tribute seems fitting, and there really is no better praise for man’s best friend. Good boy, Merl.
According to acoustic ecologist Gordon Hempton, quiet is not the absence of sound but the absence of noise. He defines quiet as presence. So what is noise? Because noise is usually a signal of danger, distress, energy inefficiency, or incivility, our primal selves are highly reactive to it. Noise is constant in most human population centers. We cannot flee in terror from every honking horn, rumbling lawnmower, or ear-splitting siren without risk of exhaustion. Noise, then, is the sound we learn to tune out at no small cost to our emotional health.
When we go into the quiet of nature, which is not silent, a deep ability to hear returns. Our listening horizon broadens exquisitely. We hear nearer and farther. Myriad layers of sound flow together, then become distinct - squirrels foraging in leaf litter, wind in gentle concert with leaves and grasses, rain pattering in a swell of tones. Insects hum and chirp from plant to plant. Birds communicate tree to tree in shrill warning and melodic chatter. Frogs call from one pond to the next. A pack of coyotes yip and whine across the miles. We tune in and we hear.
As an artist, I'm often asked, "Do you prefer music or quiet to inspire you while you're working?" Thinking about Hempton's definition of quiet, I imagine they are not exclusive. But I'll let you guess which I prefer.
Here come the trees. The energy is palpable. Sky will be interrupted, even blocked, by masses of green that will last until fall. Every time I walk outside, birds sing it, insects hum it, flowers dance it. Last weekend, our senior dog was somewhat terrorized by the near deafening trill and croaking of neighborhood frogs. I actually had to cover my ears when passing through a particularly loud spot. From mighty oak to graceful maple, something exciting is going on and everybody knows it. Sap is rising. Buds are getting ready to break. Some have already burst.
Do you know what's even more astonishing? Tree sap is not pushed up from below by root pressure as was once believed. It is pulled from above. Let me say that again-- it is pulled from above. The process is still being researched and it appears to require little to no energy input from the tree to lift sap as high as 100 meters. It's all about physics and the power of the sun. Wondrous. Can you feel it? Get out there and hug a tree.
Thinking optimistically, this long string of gray, rainy days will end. Meanwhile, the permeating and powerful scent of rain is hard to miss. This time of year it is a promise of things to come. Spring is here, even if it's coursing mostly underground and our bodies are still desperately craving a boost of vitamin D.
So what about the scent of rain? A little background - in the 1960's, Dr. Isabel Joy Bear and Dr. Richard Thomas of Australia's national science agency named the unique smell that accompanies rain after discovering what forms it. Their paper, The Nature of Argillaceous Odour, was the first to define petrichor as the earthy scent that occurs when rain falls on dry earth. It comes from the Greek "petra," meaning stone, and “ichor,” meaning the ethereal blood of the gods.
So how is petrichor created? To greatly simplify, during extended dry periods, plants and soil bacteria release various compounds. When rain drops collide with the earth, the compounds combine and aerosolize to become the unique scent we now call petrichor. Petrichor is most pungent after a dry spell, in the moments when rain first begins to fall.
Human noses are highly sensitive to the scent of rain. Researchers believe recognizing petrichor on the breeze is important to animal survival because it allows us to anticipate and locate coming precipitation. Some people find the scent disagreeable. I like it. How about you?
Leaving the cold, gray North for proximity to the equator in late winter is a shock to the system. What a gift to be able to work at the artist residence here. The tropics are abundant and ephemeral and hot. The light is clear and dazzling. Mix abundant, ephemeral, hot, clear, and dazzling to get forms and colors that sing. It's an inspiring place to paint.
Orange with Seedpod (left)- Curved into a protective globe, its seeds, wispy like tissue paper, flew when I lifted it to the wind. The orange gives a frame of reference for size. Seedpod (right)- I found this astonishing tangle near my doorstep in anticipation of International Women's Day- an apropos form. If you can identify either of the plants these seedpods came from, please let me know. The red one came from a tree that looks like it's from the Cojoba family. It would take me lifetimes to identify the profusion of plants in the tropics. Nature never ceases to amaze.
How remarkable- to leave love-shaped tracks with every step. Happy Valentine's Day!
"Keep close to nature's heart..." -John Muir
I've been assessing the concept of resistance and what we might learn about it from nature and Dr. Who.
Think water. Think stone. Water can abruptly rip the side from a mountain or, given time, erode even the hardest stone. Its freeze/thaw cycle can turn concrete or stone to rubble. Stone may divert or slow water, but, unless tediously tended, water always wins. Stone can resist all it wants, but in the end, well, think Grand Canyon.
According to psychoanalyst Carl Jung, "What you resist not only persists, but will grow in size." In other words, spending all our time fighting against the things we don't want is crazy. Okay, maybe "crazy" is a bit hyperbolic. But making time to focus on and plan for what we do want is critical, because resistance, alone, moves nothing. It obstructs, deters, or impedes. The need to maintain a permanent state of resistance keeps us captive, occupied, and distracted. Momentum and flow, on the other hand, are strengths or forces gained by gathering motion that drive toward critical mass- where real change occurs.
Does that mean resistance is not a necessary part of the process? It feels imperative in this moment.
How we think about our actions, whether to resist, or create momentum and flow- to become water- is consequential.
Water always wins. Who will be the water? We get to choose by our actions. Water for greed or water for good? Something to ponder...
"Water is patient, Adelaide. Water just waits. It wears down the clifftops, the mountains,the whole world. Water always wins." -Dr. Who, Waters of Mars trailer, from BBC One.
Cuba has long been a popular place for travelers from other parts of the world. Since 2015, Americans haven't needed a specific license to legally visit Cuba, but the travel purpose must fall under a category licensed by the U.S. government. For our family trip, that meant "Educational/People-to-People." But until last month, most Americans were only able to conveniently visit with a group on a charter tour. As of December 2016, direct commercial flights to Cuba became available from the U.S., making travel for U.S. citizens much easier and more economical. Our family jumped at the opportunity in early January. We decided to skip Havana and instead flew into much smaller Cienfuegos airport to get to know Trinidad, and its surrounding area.
We wanted to get to know Cuban people during our visit. We opted for staying in casas particulares with Cuban families - a common practice. Over our visit we stayed with 2 generous and considerate families. We ate breakfast and sometimes dinner in our casa. Conversation was lively, informative, and included politics. Our first family lived outside of the town center, up the hill, in a real neighborhood in the city of Trinidad in Sancti Spíritus province. Our second family lived in a little fishing village near the coast.
Founded in 1514, Trinidad, one of the best-preserved colonial cities in the Caribbean, was our base. It's a UNESCO World Heritage site. During our stay, we explored nearly every street in town. The farther we got from the center, the more interesting it became.
While Cuba is famous for its classic cars, I found the light and the street sounds most compelling. Music pulses from every crevice. Bread and fruit sellers in clopping horse carts make their way down cobblestone streets at dawn. Each object, motion, and being becomes art in light that I can only describe as possessed by El Duende. Federico García Lorca once described the fiery spark behind what makes art that stirs the soul - “The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, ”The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.’ Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation….”
In Cuba, El Duende is inescapable.
Within an hour or so from Trinidad, dozens of waterfalls, verdant mountains, and shade grown coffee plantations await exploration. We spent a day aboard an old Russian military transport vehicle visiting Topes de Collantes National Park and a shade-grown coffee plantation. The topography and mountaintop ocean views were stunning.
While you can get by in Cuba with just a little Spanish, if you'd like to get off the beaten track, you'll have lots more fun and interaction if you speak Spanish. Don't worry about asking Cubans to slow down- they speak fast, fast, fast - and they laugh about it. Our Spanish improved tremendously with practice. Interestingly, just a few years ago, Russian was taught to Cuban schoolchildren. These days, most schools are teaching English.
As our kids (now adults) scatter to do their own thing, we've been grateful to have this time together. While waiting in the airport on the way home, we talked about all the Latin American countries we've traveled and how, in each, the people we met were noticeably kinder and more generous than we're used to in the U.S. The Cuban people top our "kind and generous" list. And while they certainly hope to improve their circumstances after decades of struggle and hardship, they appreciate what they have gained in healthcare and education. They are fervent in their desire to keep the positive outcomes of La Revolución while opening to new ideas that imply greater freedoms. Thoughts of self-improvement on the backs of others or by exploiting the environment seem to be nonexistent. Greed just isn't a thing. At least not among those we met. Imagine that. ¡Gracias, Cuba!
Text and photos ©2017 Michelle Louis
It's the season of freezing. Whether the landscape is covered in a pristine blanket of soft white, gray slushy slop, or just exposed frozen ground, plants and animals living in areas where cold is the seasonal norm adapt to survive. Animals have a broad set of adaptive mechanisms. They insulate, hibernate, store food, synthesize anti-freeze in their circulatory systems, and gather together for warmth. They store fat to burn during leanest times. They die, expecting their eggs or larvae to carry on the following spring. They prey on those weakened by winter's harshness. As for my own ability to adapt, a long hike in new-fallen snow is glorious-- especially knowing a cozy chair in front of a blazing fire and mug of hot tea await. Is that cheating? Wishing you a healthy, inspired, and fearless New Year!
Winter is the king of showmen,
Turning tree stumps into snowmen
And houses into birthday cakes
And spreading sugar over lakes.
Smooth and clean and frosty white,
The world looks good enough to bite.
That’s the season to be young,
Catching snowflakes on your tongue.
Snow is snowy when it’s snowing,
I’m sorry it’s slushy when it’s going.
Interconnectivity and interdependence guide life through time. Who lives where, who eats what, who mates with whom are all exercises in interconnectivity and interdependence. How is interdependence experienced? How does digital interconnectivity affect our relationship to the natural world? How does the American narrative of independence rather than interdependence affect our relationship to the world community and each other? How can we advance conscientious interconnectivity and respectful interdependence between ourselves and all living things? As the darkness of winter closes in, and along with it an urge to curl up and turn inward, this season, being attentive, united, creative, and agile is imperative.
"We need acts of restoration, not only for polluted waters and degraded lands,
but also for our relationship to the world. We need to restore honor to the way we live,
so that when we walk through the world we don’t have to avert our eyes with shame,
so that we can hold our heads up high and receive the respectful acknowledgment
of the rest of the earth’s beings." -Robin Wall Kimmerer, whose book,
Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge,
and the Teachings of Plants, I highly recommend.
In summer, the combination of sky blue with the luminous greens of a healthy forest is a calm alliance. Fall brings drama. Chlorophyll stops converting light to sugars as green disappears, revealing more cautionary yellows, oranges, and reds. Leaves boldly glitter, then flutter to the ground. Winds shift. Winter can no longer be denied. Falling Leaves (below) reflects my perception of this season.
Recreational development is a job not of building roads into the lovely country, but of building receptivity into the still unlovely human mind. -Aldo Leopold
Learn more about the chemistry of fall colors here.
I'm honored to be one of 100 artists selected from across the country to participate in an exhibition celebrating the National Parks 100th Anniversary. I walk in nature on public lands more than 1,200 miles/year as part of my art practice- most of it on the the several Ice Age National Scenic Trail Segments located near my home. This cultivates a living palette of form, movement, and color ready for my brush. The jury-selected painting, "Morning Rain/Ice Age National Scenic Trail," was inspired by an early morning walk in the rain on the Table Bluff Segment of the IAT. It emerged from paint and moment to suggest a remembered experience that I worked to reinforce.
The exhibition, National Parks, Personal Narratives, October 21-November 27, takes place at the Phipps Center for the Arts in Hudson, WI, just east of the Twin Cities.
How many pounds of nuts and seeds do you think a squirrel caches? While the definitive answer is fuzzy (pardon the pun), gray and fox squirrels, the most commonly seen squirrels in our area, probably cache between 50-100 pounds each per year. That's a lot of nuts! They do this by "scatter hoarding" - burying individual nuts all over their territory. Red squirrels are "larder hoarders," burying or covering small collections of nuts in shallow depressions. Some believe squirrels remember where they cache their food, while others believe they sniff out their stores. In fact, they do both, unwittingly providing an important eco-service- uneaten nuts and seeds sprout and grow into future generations of valuable food and habitat for squirrels and others.
September Earth Offerings- hickory nut hulls discarded by busy squirrels re-arranged into patterns. Maybe you'll spot one, or create one, while hiking on the Ice Age Trail.
7:30 am in late September, Cross Plains State Park Segment, Ice Age Trail- The prairie path is narrow and difficult to discern through early fall tangle of native forbs & grasses. Sky-scraping Big Bluestem and Silphium sparkle overhead. I feel small here. A hundred steps into a five-mile hike, I'm soaked- hair hanging in ropes, toes squishing in boots. Baptism by dew. Five miles to go...
Science investigates, visualizes, and arranges via formal taxonomies and methodologies. I work to document less quantitative facets of the natural world as interpreted by human eye, mind, and hand.
Facing a big, blank canvas I don't usually begin with a clear picture in my mind or sketchbook of a future painting. Walking in nature as part of my daily art practice cultivates a rich palette of movement, color, and form ready for my brush... I start painting. What it becomes emerges from the work and the paint and the moment. As the work progresses, the canvas suggests a place or experience that I clearly recognize and reinforce.
"My paintings are titled after they are finished. I paint from remembered landscapes
that I carry with me - and remembered feelings of them, which of course become transformed.
I could certainly never mirror nature. I would more like to paint what it leaves with me."
Halfway Prairie Wildlife Area is located across from the Indian Lake County Park segment of the Ice Age National Trail. For many decades, the abandoned structures were home to grazing cows. When driving by, I imagine its farming days and the calloused hands of early settlers placing foundation stones gathered from newly-opened prairie soil. Today this deserted farmstead is a recent addition to our public lands and a worthwhile visit. The old stone buildings were somewhat thoughtlessly cleared of the trees that wove in and around, supporting the cracked and leaning ruins. I suspect they will not last long. Already, several sections have collapsed- a reminder that all things return to the earth. It's a beautiful and haunting landscape when the sun is low in the sky.
Paul Klee once said, "Art does not reproduce what we see; rather, it makes us see." My interest lies in seeing and revealing simultaneous moment and eon, thought and action, order and entropy. I draw inspiration from nature, but also from artists such as Lee Krasner, Franz Kline, Joan Mitchell, and Grace Hartigan. I love Abstract Expressionism because it's big and physical. The materials speak- drip, dribble, scribble, scratch, slosh, dab, slash. On either side- creating it or viewing it- one must step outside of self to a place of fearlessness.
Queen Anne's Lace is so common a roadside flower in Wisconsin few people know it's a non-native, invasive species. Native to Europe, I was once told that its name refers to Queen Anne of England, an expert lacemaker who was said to have pricked her finger, leaving a small stain in the middle of her work. If you look carefully, you'll find many Daucus carota flowers have a small purplish spot at their center that looks more like a little insect than a bloodstain. The spot may serve to attract pollinators.
Also known as 'wild carrot," its roots are edible and sweet in the first season and smell just like carrot. If you are not greeted by a carrot-y smell, don't even think about trying this wild edible. Another plant, Conium maculatum, or poison hemlock, looks similar and is deadly. Probably best to just leave both plants alone and enjoy their beauty!
Did you know many baby birds learn to fly from the ground up? After a brave leap from the nest, they spend a few days hopping around onto low tree branches, into shrubs, toward an encouraging parent who entices baby to fly with a tasty bug or berry. It's a dance, more than an airshow. The parents feed and encourage the young for several days until their fledglings are ready to be independent. So if you see a baby bird hopping around, leave it be. If the youngster is so tiny it can't hop, return it to its nest if possible. It's a myth that your scent will cause its parent to reject it.
The above painting was inspired by late-fledging robins I observed at the Table Bluff Segment of the Ice Age National Scenic Trail- Flying Lessons, 42" x 42" on canvas.
Artist and naturalist Michelle Louis has a vigorous curiosity about the natural world. She walks with intention in nature at least 1,200 miles yearly, much of it on the Ice Age National Scenic Trail. She makes art documenting her experience along the way and in her studio.