Remember that time when there was a global pandemic and you’d been living in utter isolation for five months, and then one ordinary Sunday you spotted a strange bird on the feeder (a bird, that it turns out has only been documented in your state 7 times in history)? And then a stranger shared your social media post (where you were asking your naturalist friends to help out with field ID) on a rare bird sighting forum and then the birders started messaging you by the dozens and asking permission to show up in droves to stand in your driveway, staring up at your bird feeders?

Yeah, me too.

What a bizarre week we have had. This introvert bird-nerd is both elated and exhausted.

The bird, for those who are curious, is an immature Mexican Violetear (Colibri thalassinus) hummingbird. And it’s a very long way from home, indeed.

And that innocent little bird derailed our lives for 2 1/2 days and spiraled us into an unexpected journey of opening our yard and driveway to (masked, social-distanced) strangers, making new (masked, social-distanced) friends, and putting down–if only for a couple of days–our normal, quiet, solitary life.

Since our adventure began, I think I have sent out over 200 emails, replying to inquiries from birders asking politely, even apologetically, if they might mask up and come to my driveway in hopes of a peek. I emailed out the rules (considering covid, and considering our need for at least some semblance of privacy), and they began to arrive that very afternoon. They were appreciative, polite, enthusiastic, and sometimes brought to the edge of tears when they caught a glimpse of this once-in-a-lifetime bird.

Some brought gifts, left thank you notes, and offered donations to our hummingbird feed fund. Most were simply grateful.

I put down my projects and plans for the weekend, and simply welcomed strangers and replied to wave after wave of emails. The whole thing was bizarre, exciting, and exhausting.

We were amused that only the day before our traveling superstar arrived, I had spent 11 hours painting my house trim for the first time in 8 years (resulting, according to one of my kids in our house looking “less abandoned”), and we joked that it was a good thing I had, since so many unexpected guests arrived the very next day, all of them photographing this bird with my trim as the backdrop.

A friend messaged me saying, “I heard your hummingbird mentioned on Minnesota public radio!” An email came through from someone saying, “I got a rare bird alert about your hummingbird and would love permission to visit, but I think I might already know you. I think we bought your off-grid solar house 14 years ago.” They had.

What a small world it really is.

So much magic and serendipity and kindhearted people, it restored my faith in the planet and, to a point, humanity.

After two bustling days, our new feathered friend had gone, and eventually, the hopeful birders all went home, too. Some were lucky enough to have gotten a look, others (good sports though they were) struck out, despite some driving as far as 10 hours in hopes of catching a glimpse.

But as one birder put it (when I apologized that our traveler had already left), “It’s not a zoo!” Fair point.

What a weekend! What a bird. And now, what a long and quiet rest is in order.

Spring is unfolding especially slowly this year. We’re still warming the house with the wood stove each morning, and as recently as last weekend there has been a blanket of icy snow on the ground. It makes us appreciate each warm or sunny day that much more, I suspect.

And there’s still warmth enough for tromps through the marsh and foraging expeditions in the pastures; prairie burns and garden prep.

However cold, spring awakens us. Stirs us back to life with the promise of warmer days to come.

Last week (despite threat of snow) the kids and I loaded up and headed for Milwaukee. My sister lives there and leads a coalition to address children’s mental health needs (The Milwaukee Coalition for Children’s Mental Health). Lupine and I planned to join her for the day to help teach a workshop about herbs and herbal self-care.

It was an energetic day filled with parents and grandparents, community organizers, and some truly fabulous kids. We talked about home herbalism, urban foraging, making remedies, and our general adoration of plants. Together we infused oils, made a balm, and blended an herbal tea from my new book, Herbal Adventures.

We made seed bombs with native wild bee balm (Monarda fistulosa) seeds that I gathered last fall, and engaged in some serious earthworm appreciation (complete with screaming!). What fun!

Settling in back home yesterday, Lupine and I realized it was May Day, and couldn’t resist spreading a little magic around the neighborhood, as befits the day. Every year we stealthily deliver May Baskets (amidst raucous giggles!) to several of our neighbors. How could we resit?

This small, annual celebration is one of my greatest delights.

Because the truth is, it’s this easy to bring joy, love, and magic to those around us. To lift someone up. And to celebrate the earth and the turning of the year.

A few wildflowers, a sprig of catnip, and a sprinkling of the fairy dust that each of us carries.

Oh, spring. How I love you.

I posted a video on Instagram earlier this week that caused a bit of a buzz! Shot by Sage, it showed me throwing a pot of just boiled water into the air, the liquid flashing into a cloud upon making contact with the cold air.

Indeed, it was magic.

So when a friend posted his own video of this cold weather experiment, his version backlit by the sun, I knew we had to give it another go.

At sunrise.

On the coldest day I can remember in 46 Wisconsin years.

So this morning I encourage my sweet family to bundle up and head out into the the -30 F/-34 C morning as the sun crested the hills, for the sake of some winter fun and some photos.

Here are the results:

A necessary postscript, because, safety: You can burn yourself terribly while doing this if it’s not properly executed. Because really. You are literally pitching hot water into the wind.

The water does not cool instantly, and if thrown poorly can easily rain down scalding water onto your head. If you try this at home, be safe and start slow. Notice how in the photos of my kids (versus my husband) they are throwing small quantities carefully away from themselves, not overhead. And mind the wind!

Also, this was simply hot tap water. (Possibly not even hot by the time we hiked to the marsh.) It worked brilliantly because, well, -30 F. If you’re using hotter water be careful for goodness sake.

Also, cold this intense can cause frost bite within minutes. We made two brief trips outside to capture the shots above.

A HUGE shout out to Pete, Sage, and Lupine for indulging me with this foray into the cold, and to our friends and Driftless-neighbors Mary G. and Joseph F. for the sunrise inspiration.

What’s the weather like in your neck of the woods?

Stay cozy, dear ones!

Love,
Rachel

It’s not always easy- to leave the comforts of fireside and head out into autumn: wind, drizzle, and all. To feel the weather on our skin without the buffer of walls, roof, and wood stove.

But Lupine and I have begun to make a habit of it: heading outside for nature medicine and movement therapy. (I think some just call it “going for a hike”.)

I’ve needed it lately, my heart heavy with the happenings of the day.

So we head to the top of the goat prairie above our house, cleared only last winter of invading honeysuckle and junipers. It might be our favorite perch, with a view of the valley for miles around.

The farm dog (Grandpa) followed. Though he’s old, he can navigate this hill with more grace than I, and we let him lead the way.

As we headed up the hill, a barred owl in the forest beyond the creek had much to say, and we listened with rapt attention. We felt the thrum in our chests as a flock of sparrows – moving as though with one mind – danced and wove beyond our reach. They’re thinking of autumn, too.

Barely audible, the creek whispered her song to rock and tree. And maybe to us as well.

And I exhaled.

Near the top, I found a cluster of a plant whose identity has eluded me all summer long.

Despite multiple attempts, I failed at keying it out in books or online. I only took photographs however; never picking a sprig to get to know her subtleties.

Finally, last night (the flowers long since faded) I paused again to wonder at this plant. Who are you? I crushed a leaf between my fingers and inhaled her scent. Normally my first instinct when getting to know a new plant, I had missed this simple, often vital step, and missed the trait that would hint to who this plant might be.

With this fragrance still on my fingers, I found her name after just a moment’s search. Narrow leaf mountain mint – Pycnanthemum tenuifolium. It grows in abundance in our prairie and pasture and the scent is reminiscent of bee balm and oregano. Full of the medicinal components that make thyme such a potent ally during times of cough and cold, we decided to taste for our selves.

The kettle boiled, and I filled our cups.

As night fell on the hillside above us, we sat by the fire (the first of the year), our mugs full of fragrant tea of Mountain Mint. Brewed from the sprig that I brought home, it tasted of summer’s end, of monarda, and of thyme.

It tasted of healing, of autumn, and of home.

Back home beside the fire again, this wild tea in my cup, I am changed.

My fingers smell of mountain mint, bee balm, and wormwood; my shoulders have softened; the furrow between my eyes has gone. There’s medicine waiting out there – outside – beneath the cloudy sky.

And each time I hike this ridge I leave a heaviness behind, and bring home magic in its place.