I don't have a Bucket List, for to me such a list implies doing something for the sake of having done it. Check--did that. Check--did that one, too. But that's just me. However, there are places I would love to visit and things I would love to experience, feeling that in someway those places and events would resonate with my soul. This past weekend was one of those opportunities, something I have wanted to experience for several years-- a chance to see the sandhill cranes as they rested and refueled in Nebraska's Platte River Valley during their spring migration from Northern Mexico and Texas to their breeding grounds in Canada, Alaska, and Siberia. Thousands of them. As many as 60,000 in one area alone during March and early April.
A Few Facts
According to a brochure from one of the nature centers near Kearney, Nebraska, sandhill cranes have come to that area of Nebraska for centuries. In fact, fossils of sandhill crane wing bones dating back nine million years have been discovered in Nebraska. Sandhill cranes are considered living dinosaurs.

They come to this area because of the abundance of waste grain in corn fields which allows them to build up depleted fat reserves needed for migration. Also, the Platte River is narrow and shallow with sandbars that provide safety for them at night or as the brochure says "secluded loafing areas for rest, bathing, and courting." The cranes enjoy their R&R in the area for about three weeks.
Like all cranes, sandhill cranes mate for life, and the females typically lay two eggs per year but usually only one chick survives the first year. A group of cranes is called a sedge or a siege, according to our Google expert, granddaughter Maren who was with us on this trip.
Our Journey
Our home in Madison was near a nature preserve, Pheasant Run Conservatory, which was home to many sandhill cranes, and most non-winter mornings when I went for a walk I could hear their haunting, other-worldly call. We often saw them in the skies or gathered in corn fields or along Pheasant Creek. For some reason it was always thrilling. I could feel an inner vibration when I saw or heard them and hoped someday to see them in even larger numbers.
This was the year to do just that. Bruce's sister Sue, who lives in Omaha and is an avid photographer, invited us to make the trip with her. We packed our binoculars and boots and umbrellas in case of wet weather, and I did some internet searches about where to go and what to expect. We invited Maren to join us since she was on spring break and we headed to Nebraska.


The first time we saw masses of cranes in the air we all let out our own version of a whoop. I must admit there had been some momentary trepidation --what if we don't see any or if we only see a few? Well, from that moment on we saw cranes everywhere --on the ground and in the air. We stopped along country roads, and Sue took lots of photographs (Thanks, Sue!), and the rest of us marveled at how many there were, clustered in the fields snacking on all the leftover corn. Oh, and by the way, we certainly weren't the only ones--everywhere we went, including the nature centers we visited to learn more, we saw other crane watchers, just as dazzled by the sights as we were.

In the evening at dusk the sandhills vacate the fields and bunch together on sandbars in the Platte River, a stunning and astonishing sight we were told, and we certainly wanted to experience that. The first night we went to a state park we had seen on a map as a good viewing sight and stood on a bridge over the water, along with a hundred or so other hopeful souls. As the sun set, we saw group after group of cranes fly above us, but none landed where we were. Cameras were ready, and for the most part the expectant crowd was hushed as if in a place of worship. We were waiting for the ritual to begin.
Some, however, expressed irritation that what was supposed to happen didn't. One person reminded those of us around her that dusk was scheduled for 7:47 and the sandhills should be here by now. They were there, but just not landing there. I wondered what made her think cranes should be "on demand" similar to watching our favorite television shows whenever we want, "on demand."
Others seemed more interested in socializing, and we learned a lot about how a mother and her daughter happened to be in Nebraska, looking at grad school for the daughter. We heard about traffic and weather in the Washington DC area where they lived and how they didn't know anything about cranes (Duh!) but had heard this was something they should do as long as they were in the area. They seemed like friendly, bright people, but at the same time were not attuned to the reverence of the moment. I yearned for silence and needed to reach deep within to create my own sanctuary oblivious to the manmade distractions.
Yes, I would have loved to see the cranes swooping down to their nighttime monastery, but that was not to be. Eventually, we all left the bridge and hiked back to our cars. At least we saw them in silhouette against the night sky. A sight in itself to behold.
The Next Night
We studied the maps and inquired about other good viewing locations and off we went, grateful we had another chance. We gathered on another bridge, not quite as secluded, but where others had assembled, although fewer people and not as clustered. We began to see and hear the cranes lifting from nearby cornfields and we watched strings of them in the sky. Sue had wandered to another bridge close by and discovered a small group of cranes on a sandbar in the distance. We changed our position and were rewarded for our patience. String after string of cranes joined the first group on a sandbar. Each time there was adjustment of those who had already landed--the more the merrier they seemed to say. Nevermind that we were spying on them. They knew what to do.
The sun set and so did their haunting calls. Like a baby talking to itself in a crib, the birds quieted themselves as well. It is time to rest. It was not easy to pull myself away, even when I could no longer really see them. I had felt a sense of the liminal--moments of being in-between time. Not past. Not future or even present, but all time. Not here or there, but everywhere. This was a time outside the ordinary and part of something greater. I felt connected to the Universe, but at the same time so inconsequential in the bigger picture.
In a way this was a pilgrimage, for it was a time of engaging with life, letting life beyond my own being and the lives of those I love enter me. I felt wonder. I felt restored.
An Invitation
At what times in your life have you felt wonder. When have you felt out of time and place? I would love to know.
Photo credits: Sue Kelly
Last evening I grabbed my cane and headed out the door for a walk around the neighborhood. A simple pleasure, which I have missed, and now am grateful I can add back into my life. My intention now is to expand the circuit in order to build strength and stamina and to restore a normal walking gait and pace. Besides, this is my neighborhood now and I want to know it better. As I locked the door, I heard the chimes from Nativity Church just a couple blocks away. A blessing for "ready, set, go."
Walking as Pilgrimage
What if I treated my neighborhood walks as a kind of pilgrimage? What would that mean and how would that feel? For a pilgrim the journey is what is most important, not the destination. On a pilgrimage one is encouraged to pay greater attention to the path beneath one's feet, and as I regain easier walking ability, I realize how focused I am now on the physical act of walking. I don't have the same rhythm I once took for granted. Now I must pay greater attention to the path itself, including the changes in the sidewalk levels and what is just ahead that could trip me up. I am conscious of how fast (Actually "fast" is not in my vocabulary these days!) or how slow I am going, and I tell myself to bend at the heel and not shuffle and to work at eliminating the limp and shuffle, which have almost become habit.
Stop, Notice, Bless
I thought about a book by Joyce Rupp about her 37-day pilgrimage along the Camino De Santiago in Spain. The book is called Walk in a Relaxed Manner, which is the just right description of how I need to walk right now. I walk much slower than I have in the past and at times that is frustrating, especially when I am walking with someone else, and they either sprint ahead of me or I sense how hard it is for them to slow down, in order to stay connected with me. Walking by myself, strolling, taking on the aspect of a flaneur, the French word for stroller or saunterer, being relaxed, I only need to be conscious of my own ability and needs. I am a lone pilgrim.
Last night I intentionally stopped when I glimpsed a vignette of beauty. For example, I noticed the way some people had planted not only their front yards, but also the sections between sidewalk and street. In Ohio they call those "tree lawns." I love that name. I noticed iris beginning to bloom and peonies, too, and I wonder if the artist blue hydrangeas Bruce has planted at our house have given pleasure to other passers-by. The homes with passionate gardeners are evident, and I hope there is a time when I spot them weeding or watering or wandering in their gardens that I can compliment them for all they have created.
I also stopped in front of homes that look lonely, neglected, unkempt and forgotten and wondered about the story behind the front door. I offered a simple blessing that all may be well.
When we first moved to Shaker Heights, Ohio, I enjoyed taking early evening walks when inside lights were just being turned on, and families were transitioning from life out in the world to life back home. I wondered in which home my new, but yet unknown, new friend lived and when we would meet each other. I was lonely, but hopeful. I had similar thoughts last evening, but with more wonder than desperation, for our life here is a return. We are in our book's next chapter, instead of starting a whole new book, and while I am open to the new, I have a base here, a loving and welcoming base from which to build. Still, I sense promise as I walk past these sweet houses where young children are being tucked into bed and dishes are being cleared from the table and stories from the day are being shared. Early on this walk I spotted two teenage girls, long legs, long hair, sitting on top of a garage roof. The contrast between me, the old limping lady, and these young, fearless girls, was startling and amusing, and I offered them a blessing for a safe, but adventurous summer.
Soon I was back home, but I had walked a bit longer, a bit further than my previous neighborhood walk, and I hope to expand my territory with each walk. How happy I was to walk up the few steps to our front door, to greet the three baby robins, fluffy and prehistoric looking, awaiting Mama's return to the dead pansy basket nest with more food, and then to unlock the door and step inside to our sweet home. A pilgrimage leads one to the sacred, and that is how this felt to me. For a short time at least I was a pilgrim, seeing what is sacred, moving from mindless to mindful, soulless to soulful. I felt blessed.
A Pilgrimage Blessing
May flowers spring up where your feet touch the earth.
May the feet that walked before you bless your every step.
May the weather that's important be the weather of your heart.
May all of your intentions find their way into the heart of God.
May your prayers be like flowers strewn for other pilgrims.
May your heart find meaning in unexpected events.
May friends who are praying for you carry you along the way.
May friends who are praying for you be carried in your heart.
May the circle of life encircle you along the way.
May the broken world ride on your shoulders.
May you carry your joy and your grief and in the backpack of your soul.
May you remember all the circles of prayer throughout the world.
Macrina Wiederkehr
An Invitation
I invite you to walk as a pilgrim--wherever you walk and no matter the distance. I would love to know what you learn and feel and experience.
I like being a tourist. I know that is no longer a popular concept, and it is more acceptable to talk about being a traveler. I know there is an unflattering "camera around the neck" image of tourists, especially American tourists here and in other countries, but the truth is when I am visiting an unfamiliar place, no matter where it is, I am a tourist. I do hope I am a polite, nonoffensive, and discerning tourist, however.
I like going on field trips and have fond memories of school field trips, such as the 6th grade class trip from Mankato, Minnesota to the State Capital in St Paul, and when we lived on Long Island going into "the city" with my high school choir to see a play and visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. My family moved frequently in my growing up years, and I recall one of our first Sundays in New York going on a sightseeing boat around Manhattan and being awed by my first view of the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. When my husband and I moved to Cleveland, we loved nothing more than exploring the city and roaming the surrounding areas. Work colleagues and new acquaintances were amazed by all we did and all the places we discovered. "Have you been to Amish Country?" they would ask, and we responded with stories about our Sunday drives on country roads. We knew more about Ohio than people who lived there all their lives.
Being a Tourist in Your Own Town
When we moved to Madison about 4 years ago, we became tourists once again. Part of it is natural, for everything is new and just deciding which grocery store will be part of your loop of life requires exploration, and part of it is filling the time when you don't yet have a social network and haven't yet filled your time with activities. The first year we lived in a small and unsatisfying apartment before our farm in Ohio sold. I laughed about the 7 minutes it took to vacuum the place, but trust me, I had lots to time to discover my new city!
Most days I set a goal for myself. One day I went to a small town with a new library built in Mission style. Another day I visited a fancy cheese shop on Capital Square and then walked State Street from beginning to end, enjoying the university atmosphere. I walked the trails at the Arboretum, and I drove up and down the streets of neighborhoods imagining what it would be like to live there. I enjoyed afternoons at the UW Memorial Union sitting on the terrace overlooking the lake, writing in my journal and reading. I planned weekend events and jaunts for my husband and myself--new restaurants to try, concerts to attend, and neighboring towns to visit.
I enjoyed it all, but it didn't take long to establish a routine, to have an established loop of life in place, and while I have no problem setting out on my own, I enjoy my solitude at home even more. I ceased being a tourist. My desire to unearth, to discover, diminished. But then Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent nudged me to awaken my pilgrim self.
Lenten Tourism
One of my guides this Lent is Margaret Guenther, an Episcopalian priest, a spiritual director, and writer whose many books I have treasured. Currently, I am reading Walking Home, From Eden to Emmaus in which each chapter is a meditation on the "walking stories" in the scriptures. I decided Lent would be a good time to set out on some new walks or even old walks, but survey the sights with new eyes. One aspect of Lent is to retreat, but perhaps another part is to seek a new path; to follow a quest, even if it is just around the corner.
My first walk was down the street from where I attended the Ash Wednesday service, the Chazen Museum of Art, home to Wisconsin's second largest collection of art. I had been there before, more than once, but not since a new building had opened. I had been intending to visit the new space, but ..... On their website I encountered this quote describing an upcoming lecture, "When your outer eyes stop working, what happens to your mind's eye?" What better way to expand one's eyesight than to expose them to art? I went on an art walk.
And what did I see? Charming watercolors by a UW art faculty member, Elaine Scheer. Claes Oldenburg's Typewriter Eraser. Collage drawings of planned projects by Christo. Tiger Sitting Under the Moon, a Cantonese scroll. Lots of nudes, including many in paintings by John Wilde which I found very disturbing. A large work composed of colorful, narrow aluminum strips by a Ghanaian artist. So much more. I was most comfortable among the Thai and Indian Buddhas and least comfortable when a piece depicted violence. I laughed at myself as I stood in front of a large canvas painted only in solid black. I could have done that, I thought, but I didn't and why did the artist do it? I sat on a bench and enjoyed the view of the campus pedestrian mall leading to Lake Mendota through a brightly colored glass sculpture called Cornucopia by Tashima Etsuoko . Glorious. Another walk I will take.
I wandered the galleries and missed the company of my artist son. I remembered the last time I was there when I brought my granddaughter who sat on the floor and sketched. I thought about other museums I've visited, and all the great art I have been privileged to see, and I was grateful for all those who have used and developed the gifts God entrusted to them. I thought about walking the skyway system in downtown St Paul recently and wondered why those walls were so bleak and how they could be a blank canvas for someone's imagination. I shuddered at how much I don't understand, and I rejoiced when I my heart lifted at the beauty in front of me.
The headline on the Chazen's website says, "What will inspire you today?" Perhaps it will be a piece of art or something you read or hear on the radio. Perhaps it will be a conversation you overhear or the view out your kitchen window. Perhaps you will be inspired by going on a walk, following a path, being a tourist.