​What with summer activities and chores and the myriad details associated with the launch of my memoir Mango Rash, I confess I haven’t been doing much new writing lately. I was inspired to make an exception, though, when I received a compelling request earlier in the summer from one of my favorite Michigan authors, Anne-Marie Oomen.

​She was appealing to writers in her circle to join in an undertaking she called the Lake-love Letters Project. The idea was simple: write a love letter—no more than 400 words—to the Great Lakes or a specific lake. Not a huge investment of time and energy, but an important one, as Anne-Marie’s cover letter made clear.

It began:
​ 
I love our waters: lakes, rivers, wetlands, little sinking ponds, remote swamps. If it’s wet, I’ll probably like it.  And of course, I’m worried about all of them, as I know many of you are.  I often wonder what I can do.  I’m not a scientist, politician, lawyer, not even a very good journalist.  I often feel inadequate, a “fish out of water” when it comes to this work. This year, a question I asked myself: how might I use my small gifts a literary artist (creative writer) to do something for our beloved waters.

​She went on to relate that just as she was considering how she might make a difference, she received a letter from Liz Kirkwood, director of the regional water organization For Love of Water (FLOW). The letter explained that in July, the International Joint Commission of the Great Lakes would meet in Traverse City. Liz wanted to enliven what might otherwise be a dry discussion (subject matter notwithstanding) by involving artists who are passionate about our water.

As Anne-Marie described it in her letter,
 
She had a vision: at the final meeting with the commissioners, could we showcase our love of water in a way that would involve the arts, particularly the writers. She spoke of the arts as one heart behind all the science and legal work. I was so grateful for her rare understanding. And she offered an idea that I could run with. Could we writers and artists do something with love letters to our waters. Love letters? Yes! 

​I usually take my time responding to requests that ask me to write, edit, or critique something. I like to consider what else is on my to-do-list and how interested I am in adding to that ever-expanding list. This time I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I found a sliver of writing time, I drafted my love letter. After a few revisions, I sent it off to Anne-Marie.
 
Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Lake Michigan,
 
You’re not like the others—the ones I grew up with. In that flat and dusty land, those pretenders to the title were ­­­­mere puddles. Knowing no better, we suited up, dived in, toweled off, sat on shore with sandwiches, staring out across their dense, red-silted expanses, thinking, “Well, this is nice.”

You, too, carry burdens, I realized in that moment. And also this: I may have loved you since we first met, but I haven’t really known you. Let me know you now.
 
Love,
Nan

​Just before the commission meeting, Anne-Marie reported that nearly 100 letters submitted to the project would be presented in book form to each of the commissioners. In addition, she extracted sentences from some letters and shaped them into a ten-minute script to be read as part of the presentation to the commission. “Your words made a beautiful praise song to the lakes—thank you!” she wrote to contributors.

​So often, writing feels like a solitary, inwardly-directed pursuit. It was gratifying to take part in this project, and it made me think about other ways I might merge my passion for writing with the issues I care about. 

​How can you apply your talents to something you care about? 

This is what spring looked like at my house a few days ago. Not exactly picking-posies weather. But I do believe it's coming . . . eventually.

Until then, let's enjoy a few reminders of what spring should​ look like.

What are your favorite signs of spring?

It's a busy time of year, wouldn't you agree? You've got places to go, people to see. I've got stuff to do. So instead of burdening you with blather, I'm making my holiday gift to you a visual one. Today I'm sharing some favorite photos from our trip out West last fall. 

But before we head West, some photo-related news: Copies of my photo book, "Nature by Nan," are now available for purchase at Hit the Road Joe Coffee Cafe in Croton. The 8x8-inch hardcover book contains 20 of my photos of local flora and fauna.

Now, let's head out West!

On the last Wednesday of every month, I serve up a potpourri of advice, inspiration and other tidbits I've come across in recent weeks. This month -- this week, in fact -- finds us commemorating both Earth Day and Arbor Day. In the spirit of those two observances, here's a collection of quotes about nature and the planet on which we live.

As a bonus, I'm including at the end of this post, some of my favorite nature shots from our recent visit to the Southwest.

Love of wilderness is more than a hunger for what is always beyond reach; it is also an expression of loyalty to the earth which bore us and sustains us, the only home we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need -- if only we had the eyes to see.
-- Edward Abbey

Find your place on the planet, dig in, and take responsibility from there.
​-- Gary Snyder

The Earth was small, light blue, and so touchingly alone, our home that must be defended like a holy relic. The Earth was absolutely round. I believe I never knew what the word round meant until I saw Earth from space.
-- Alexey Leonov, Russian cosmonaut

The universe is composed of subjects to be communed with, not objects to be exploited. Everything has its own voice. Thunder and lightning and stars and planets, flowers, birds, animals, trees -- all of these have voices, and they constitute a community of existence that is profoundly related.
​-- Thomas Berry

The earth is a living thing. Mountains speak, trees sing, lakes can think, pebbles have a soul, rocks have power.
-- Henry Crow Dog

When I get sick of what men do, I have only to walk a few steps in another direction to see what spiders do.  Or what weather does. This sustains me very well indeed.
-- E.B. White, One Man's Meat

Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of the birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for spring. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature -- the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.
​-- Rachel Carson

Nature repairs her ravages -- but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair.
-- George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss

What is the use of a house if you  haven't got a tolerable planet to put it on?
-- Henry David Thoreau

Loyd: "It has to do with keeping things in balance . . . It's like the spirits have made a deal with us . . . The spirits have been good enough to let us live here and use the utilities, and we're saying: . . . We appreciate the rain, we appreciate the sun, we appreciate the deer we took . . . You've gone to a lot of trouble, and we'll try to be good guests."

Codi: "Like a note you'd send somebody after you stayed in their house?"

Loyd: "Exactly like that. 'Thanks for letting me sleep on your couch. I took some beer out of the refrigerator, and I broke a coffee cup. Sorry. I hope it wasn't your favorite one.' "
-- Barbara Kingsolver, ​Animal Dreams

And now, for a little more nature appreciation . . . 

​Sometimes the roads we travel take us back to crossroads that were pivotal in our past.  Sometimes they show us the way forward. 

​Both happened on our recent trip through the Southwest. Ray and I spent most of our time in the Tucson area, a place that has lingered, dreamlike, in a cranny of my memory for decades. Though I've made a couple of quick visits to Tucson in recent years, I hadn't spent any wandering-around time there since an unforgettable visit in my twenties. 

​It was 1976, and I was on a meandering road trip with my boyfriend. We'd driven from northern California to Los Angeles to visit his parents, then struck out across Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas before heading north to Oklahoma to see my family, venturing on to Kansas, and returning to California by way of Colorado. The stated purpose of the trip was to check out graduate schools in Arizona, Texas, and Kansas, but we planned the route to take in as many national parks, monuments and other nature-y points of interest as possible: Joshua Tree National Park, Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, Saguaro National Park, Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, Mount Lemmon, Chiricahua National Monument, Cave Creek Canyon, White Sands National Monument, Carlsbad Caverns National Park, Big Bend National Park, Oklahoma's Great Salt Plains State Park, Rocky Mountain National Park, Dinosaur National Monument. 

​We spent our days hiking through cactus forests, bizarre rock formations, lush oases, meadows and more, stopping to raise binoculars or crawl on the ground in search of unusual insects. The assortment of critters boggled my mind—from the javelina that trotted across our campsite to the jewel-like cuckoo wasps and furry velvet ants that flitted and scurried around us.

​We slept out in the open—no tent—where we could watch the moon and stars and hear the night creatures. (Lucky for us, it wasn't the height of monsoon season.) Enthralled with the writings of Carlos Castaneda, I saw our surroundings as steeped in mystical power. As I contemplated the future I was heading into, I was sure it would include frequent visits to these enchanted places—as a scientist studying the flora and fauna, but also as a spiritual seeker. 

​Somehow, life took me in other directions. Or I should say, I made decisions that took me in other directions. And though I often thought of those places and their hold on me, I never found my way back. Until last month.

​​On this latest trip, Ray and I trekked through some of the places that had made such an impression on me more than forty years ago: Saguaro National Park, the Desert Museum, and Chiricahua National Monument, in addition to visiting sites where neither of us had been before--Sabino Canyon and Bisbee, to name a couple. 

​I expected to be wowed again by the landscape, with its unique array of plants and animals, and I was. What I didn't expect was the flash flood of memories and emotions that swept through me. I remembered the connection I'd once felt to the desert and how firmly I'd believed it would be an ongoing part of my life. I thought about the decisions I'd made that took me away from that vision, the places I wound up instead, and how easy it is for years to slip by while you're thinking, "Someday, I'll . . . "

​My musings could have been an exercise in regret; instead I made a conscious decision to use those memories as a tool to explore my feelings about the paths I've traveled, where they've led me, and where I still want to go. (I'm not just talking about geography here, you understand.)

​Putting myself back in my twenty-seven-year-old mind, I asked myself what excited me about the prospects ahead. What did I value in my vision of the future? Returning to my sixty-nine-year-old mind, I asked myself how much of that excitement and those values I still possess—even though I took a different route to them—and what I might still make space for in my life.

​My conclusions: At twenty-six, I prized my freedom: freedom to explore whatever captured my interest, freedom to live where I wanted, freedom to spend my days doing something rewarding. I took it as a given that my explorations would keep me close to nature. That's the part I lost for a time, when I spent long days cooped up in an office, in a big city.

​Now I'm living a close-to-nature existence again—not in the desert, but in another place that teems with wildlife, wildflowers, and woods—and I have my freedom back. When I think about where I want to go next, it's out to discover more wondrous places, not just to see and photograph them (though you can bet I'll do that), but also to linger long enough to experience the mystery of these places and let my spirit connect with theirs. 

​​I'm a university scientist reaching the end of my career, and recently calculated that I've had 115 co-authors on research papers over a 45-year period. Clearly partnering with students and colleagues was a signature element of my research style, but my first experience collaborating was not auspicious, almost destroying a friendship and derailing my career before it really got started.

​​I filled the in-between times with a few weeks of warehouse work here and there, and a three-week stint as a substitute teacher for high school biology classes.

​Two years of this insecure work in varied underling capacities convinced me that I needed to go back to school if I was to ever rise above being someone else's assistant. I decided to pursue a Masters degree in marine biology, and enrolled in the Boston University Marine Program, based in Woods Hole.

​We talked often about science, and one day he pointed out a research opportunity we could collaborate on, probing whether hermit crabs could recognize each other as individuals. This was a hot topic at the time, inhabiting the border between animal behaviour and psychology. Many researchers were convinced that even lowly invertebrates could distinguish one individual from another, a remarkable cognitive feat if true.

​Stu and I designed an experiment to test whether hermit crabs recognized each other individually, or just recognized the general dominance state of the other crabs they encountered. We agreed that this would make an excellent thesis topic for me, and thought up a clever study in which we allowed crabs in small dishes to establish dominance orders, then switched individuals of equal dominance states.

​We reasoned that switching crabs of the same rank would heighten aggressive behaviors in the dishes if the crabs recognized each other as individuals, but there would be no increase in aggression if they only recognized their place in the hermit crab pecking order.

​I'm forever grateful to hermit crabs, and then to bees, the vehicles for teaching me that "ours" is a much richer word than "mine."

​​On average, a total eclipse is visible from any one spot on Earth about once every 375 years.  On August 21, a total solar eclipse cut a seventy-mile wide swath, coast-to-coast, stretching from Oregon to South Carolina. 

My husband, Mark, wanted to experience this event at a one-hundred-percent-totality site.  

​

Really? I thought. I''l just watch it at home in Michigan, even at an 82 percent totality. A road trip to the steamy south in August, for a more or less three-hour event and a little over two-minute viewing of totality? No way. Besides, August is my favorite summer month in Michigan.

​But Mark persisted, so I jumped on board. 

​We checked Internet maps. From our home in Newaygo, Michigan, one of the closest places for totality was Hopkinsville, Kentucky. The longest opportunity for totality occurred there: two minutes and forty seconds.    

​​The spiritual pilgrimage metaphor emerged when I began researching the eclipse online and looking for lodging. Webster defines "pilgrimage" as a special journey to a sacred site. This eclipse event had taken on epic proportions, engaging millions of people across the entire continent.  

Communities in the path of totality, large and small, were planning for a massive onslaught. Farms, parks, university campuses, libraries, city squares, rooftops, schools and neighborhoods were supplying public viewing areas or renting parking spaces. A few venues supplied safety glasses and porta-potties. Some communities generated live music and food booths, creating a festival flavor. Others organized drum and chant circles, creating an indigenous, sacred atmosphere.  

​A wide range of research would be conducted, from animal and insect responses to solving more mysteries about the sun.    

​In this time of excruciating polarities, of amplified splits in ideology and purpose, of divisiveness and hate in our nation, this magnificent natural phenomenon was unifying hearts and minds toward a common purpose. Something stirred inside me. I felt privileged that we could make this journey, that we could join with folks from across the United States and Canada. The more I read about the eclipse, the more I encouraged friends and family to experience this event, wherever they would be.  

​Locating ISO-certified glasses, safe for direct viewing of the sun, turned into a challenge. Many distributors had sold out. First I ordered glasses that I later learned were not certified safe after all. Last minute research revealed that our local Lowes store carried them, along with a great informational booklet, Get Eclipsed.  

​Pilgrimages do have rest stops. For two days, we connected with some of my cousins in southern Indiana and toured historical Vincennes. Then, the morning of the eclipse, we arose before dawn. Grabbing coffee from our Airbnb kitchen, we proceeded the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Hopkinsville. As we moved closer, traffic increased, but moved right along. Outside of Hopkinsville, we stopped for a quick breakfast at a Cracker Barrel. The busy restaurant buzzed with co-pilgrims and eclipse talk.     

​I began noticing license plates. We saw vehicles from Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Alaska, Minnesota and Ontario, Canada. We cranked the air conditioner to stave off the climbing heat index.  

​During our drive, I told my husband I would prefer to view this event in an open field. We had reserved a pre-paid parking spot on the campus of Murray State University, about which we knew little. I visualized being confined to a paved parking lot hotter than a pancake griddle. As the GPS directed us to our destination, we turned down a road flanked with soybean crops and hay fields. A few low-rise classroom and industrial buildings nestled between the fields. We swung into a parking area surrounded by a wide acreage of grassy commons dotted with trees. Ah--perfect.   

Sheltered in a small tent, a security man and a few student volunteers greeted us and took our e-tickets. "We are sold out," the security man told us.  

​Erected round the slowly-filling parking lot, on the grass and under trees, stood colorful shade umbrellas and tents. People, representing many ages and ethnicities, were assembling their lawn chairs, coolers and cold beverages. Realizing we forgot to bring a ground cover or chairs, we snatched our yoga mat and raincoats, some snacks and water, and secured a spot under a shade tree. Mark wasted no time getting horizontal for a nap. The thermometer registered ninety-four degrees, still climbing.  

I pulled on my sun hat and walked around the area, talking to people and snapping photos with my iPhone. A vigil this was, and we had arrived plenty early. I counted vehicles from at least ten different states. Some families sat around camp tables, playing games and cards. Children pranced around the grounds. I overheard two older elementary-age boys discussing how they got excused from school for the day. 

​

​All around the grounds stood cameras. High tech cameras mounted on tripods, lenses covered with dark film. Hand-made cardboard box cameras. People tried out their safety glasses, through which the sun became a dark orange circle against a black background.  ​

​​Noon. I joined Mark on our shady, makeshift ground cover. We ate a snack and gulped down water. I tested out my safety glasses. The sun was a complete, round, orange ball. I ducked back in the shade. Twelve fifteen. A tiny Pac-Man bite showed in the top right section of the sphere. Someone shouted, "It’s starting!" Over the next half hour, we kept checking. The Pac-Man effect increased and the air began cooling, even though the sun cast shadows. By twelve-forty or so, standing in the sun no longer felt intolerable. 

​By one p.m., the sun appeared as a slivered, orange crescent. One-fifteen. Like sentries on cue, several hundred people wrapped their eyes in safety glasses, bent their heads back, and stared skyward. ​

​Slowly, the orange crescent grew into a tiny chunk, almost disappearing into total black. Just seconds before the moon totally covered the sun, creating a black orb encircled by a ghostly white ring, a brilliant, diamond-like starburst of light shot out the top right section of the sphere. The moon slid into place. A magnificent ring of rays, sparkling like white flames, encircled the black orb. The corona!  

​"Ooh, look at that," I gasped. The crowd erupted with simultaneous clapping, cheers and whoops. I pulled off my safety glasses. We had two and a half minutes to look without them.   

​The light had muted to a dusky glow. "Look at the sunset all around us," Mark shouted. I turned, doing a 360. The entire horizon glowed in peach and mauve tones, outlining puffy cloud shapes. Streetlights blinked on in the distance. The air had cooled and birds stopped chirping. An eerie calm descended. Overhead, a few stars and a planet twinkled. I tilted my head back to look at the flaming white corona with my naked eyes. In that moment, all time and activity around me seemed suspended in total stillness and awe.   

​Then, slowly the diamond flashed on the left side of the black orb, and I secured my safety glasses. As the moon and sun moved away from each other, the white corona disappeared and a chunk of orange reappeared in reverse. First a sliver, then a slim crescent. Here and there, a bird chirped, like it was morning. The welcome coolness remained for a little while longer. 

​Later, heading north out of Kentucky, battling bumper-to-bumper traffic for five hours, with the sun radiating our heads through the car roof, despite air conditioning and guzzling mega cups of water, I barely had a brain to process this pilgrimage. Was the event sacred?  Did a message lie in this event and journey? 

Now, back home in Michigan, I have had time to reflect, time to ponder, and time to listen to others' stories about their experiences. I have concluded that this Total Eclipse Phenomenon could be viewed as bearing an opportunity. 

The eclipse brought people together. Whether viewed as a partial or total eclipse, people gathered in small and large groups to experience it. People set aside their differences, their divisiveness, to unify in enjoyment and appreciation of this event. It offered community building and celebration. It offered opportunity for research and deeper understanding of the natural world. Most important, it offered a magnified sense of wonder about our natural world.  It showed us the vital interconnections between all living things. Collectively, these dynamics made this event greater than sacred and needed medicine for our time as a nation.  

​With its towering forests, refreshing rivers and glittering lakes, the part of Michigan where we live might be the last place you'd expect to find patches of prairie. But find them you will, if you know where to look.

​​One fine swath, only a 15-minute drive from our house, is the Michigan Nature Association's Newaygo Prairie Nature Sanctuary. I visited the site last Saturday with a group from the River City Wild Ones native plant organization. Led by Michigan Nature Association regional stewardship organizer John Bagley, we poked around the prairie for a couple of hours, admiring such late-summer bloomers as rough blazing star (Liatris aspera), gray goldenrod (Solidago nemoralis), fern-leaf false foxglove (Aureolaria pedicularia), prairie sunflower (Helianthus petiolaris) and cylindrical blazing star (Liatris cylindracea).

​High overhead, nighthawks circled. Lovely to watch, but we also had to keep an eye on the ground to look out for prickly pear cactus (yes, cactus in Michigan!) and northern dewberry, also known as untie-your-shoe berry, for its habit of tangling around walkers' feet.

​John told us that the Michigan Nature Association purchased the 110-acre sanctuary in 1969. Prairies are considered endangered habitats in Michigan because so much open acreage was converted to farmland in the 19th and 20th centuries. But Newaygo County's hilly topography and sandy soils thwarted agriculture in some areas. Prescribed burns and removal of invasive plants, such as the noxious spotted knapweed, have helped keep the sanctuary in something close to its original state.

​"There's no place else in Michigan where you can find this quality of prairie," John said. "What makes it different is the diversity of plants—not only grasses but also forbs." (Forbs are herbaceous flowering plants that are not grasses.)

Like all MNA sanctuaries, Newaygo Prairie depends heavily on volunteer help. John is "exceptionally good at involving local people in local sanctuaries," said Patricia Pennell, a founding member of River City Wild Ones and steward of another MNA sanctuary.  Conservation and community: a winning combination, if you ask me.

​A few more words about MNA before we venture any farther on our prairie ramble. Founded sixty-five years ago, the nonprofit organization was originally a bird-study group. But as environmental issues became a pressing concern throughout the state, MNA segued into education, converting a house trailer into a nature museum and towing it around to schools. 

​​Before long, members realized they needed to do more, and the group began purchasing sensitive property to set aside as sanctuaries. Today, the organization maintains more than 170 sanctuaries throughout the state.

​Newaygo Prairie—one of MNA's oldest sanctuaries—harbors more than a hundred plant species, as well as birds, insects and other animals that depend on those plants for food and shelter. On our walk, I saw several kinds of plants I'd not seen elsewhere, and I picked up some fascinating info-bits to stash in my natural history memory bank.

For example:

• Fern-leaf false foxglove, a bushy plant with bell-like, yellow flowers that are popular with pollinators, is semi-parasitic and needs oak trees to survive.
• Porcupine grass has a nifty way of getting its seeds into the ground. The long, bristle-like awn coils and uncoils in response to changes in moisture, drilling the seed into the ground.
• The small, white flowers of sweet everlasting (Pseudognaphalium obtusifolium), smell like maple syrup when crushed. Sweeeet, indeed!

​One highlight of the morning's walk was meeting "Ranger Steve" Mueller. Steve's business card describes him as "Naturalist – Photographer – Butterfly Chaser," and while that probably doesn't cover it all, it's a fair sum-up for a guy who spearheads annual butterfly counts, writes a nature column for local newspapers, operates his own nature sanctuary, and seems to know a heck of a lot about all manner of flora and fauna. I hope to visit Steve's sanctuary near Cedar Springs sometime soon. Stay tuned for that excursion.

​Is there a little-known nature preserve or wildlife sanctuary near you? What makes it special?