I figure sometimes our lives are like the squirrel tracks I see here in the snow. Four footprints are grouped together, pinwheeling out from the tree. Like these tracks, occasionally we know where we are going. They lead from one tree to the next and back again, every so often venturing out into an open space to clear the snow away and find a buried nut. These prints are practical and predictable — like lives encompassing home, family and work with yearly vacation.

Sometimes our lives are like the bird tracks I see. It took me a little while to figure out it was a bird that made these round depressions. I found a series of prints that wound around, often doubling back on themselves, like an excited child not knowing which way to turn first. It wasn't until I saw a bird land and jump, hopping here and there, looking for I don't know what, that I understood. Sometimes our lives are like that — nibbling at the buffet of life, with so many choices we want to experience them all.

The deer tracks here are numerous and clear. They wind around the trees and over the hills. I see them leading off into the distance, adventurous and bold. When our lives are like these tracks, we know where we are going and do so with a purposeful step. These are the times we meet life head on with courage and determination, excited to find out what is over the next hill, around the next bend.

Each of these trails makes beautiful patterns in the snow. Unique and flowing, each path invites daydreams that envision a life of contentment, excitement or purposefulness. Suddenly, I'm drawn up short. What in the world made that depression in the snow? Shaped like a butterfly, the snow was swept gracefully aside.

The bottom corner was more deeply indented than the rest of the form, and strewn within the shape were feathers. Ah, I know. In the midst of life, a tragedy — or a blessing? The story was there to be read. With wings unfurled, a hawk had swooped in, successfully ending the life of one small sparrow, gratefully prolonging his own.

This life-giving celebration etched in the snow defines the interconnection of predator and prey, of life and death, of gratitude and offering. It is a lot like this earth literacy master's program, I thought. Each student has a story to tell, but most have been snatched out of other lives to begin a course that begs the question: "Now tell me, what kind of a job are you going to get when you graduate?"

There is Marilyn, mother of three, grandmother of seven. She has been an elementary schoolteacher for 20 years. Her life has always revolved around her home, family and work, although she did make an exciting venture into the lake country of Minnesota to build a summer cabin with her husband. They found that they loved it so much, they stayed. Now, with a husband whose health is failing, she doesn't want to feel housebound and is taking this course in order to find a way to create nature-based art therapy classes for the terminally ill.

Then there is Nicole. She's the youngest among us, abounding with energy and enthusiasm to save the Earth. She has quit school twice, only to return to get a degree in community leadership. She has had numerous jobs and no job, always searching for that perfect job that she will be able to pour her heart into. In the meantime she has acquired a vast amount of practical knowledge and know-how to create and organize community-led development programs. When she heard of the earth literacy masters, she hopped right into it, eager to learn more.

And there is Dyke. A big man, he began life as a woodsman and gardener, creating his own nursery and horticulture business. When a friend asked him if he would be willing to teach one horticulture class for their local community college, he jumped at the chance to share his love of trees in a larger way, to the next generation. That one class has expanded to five, and he is now taking earth literacy in order to make tenure. His dream sounds like Johnny Appleseed. He wants to create a program to find native-born trees that are on the endangered species list and salvage their seeds to grow and replenish the woods.

I've talked to them all — squirrel, bird, and deer — and they all ask me the same question: "What work are you doing now that you have finished your degree?" Well, I came back to facilitate this ritual time, for one! But I am paying attention too — trying to be mindful of the next indent in the snow that will tell the story of hawk and sparrow and how I can participate in the unfolding drama of the gratitude and offering of an interconnected whole.

— — —

Anne E. Ulvestad is a free-lance writer residing in Maryland. She has her masters in earth literacy, and is available for public lectures and group presentations and rituals on Spirituality and the Environment. Anne can be reached at {email anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com}anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Anne E. Ulvestad