Green Hat

About 10 years ago, during an Art-a-Whirl celebration, I bought an emerald green hat.  The annual tour of artist studios and the opportunity to browse through the available artwork tempted me out of my usual seclusion. 

A significant amount of time was spent browsing through delicate vintage clothes which had been enhanced with dye and clever embroidered artwork. A snug wool hat drew me back more than a few times. The style was something between a wide brim bucket and a cloche, or maybe a modified fedora. 

The artist had embroidered a trio of ranunculus flowers with leaves and a pansy on the right side of the boiled wool hat. Nestled in the middle of the bouquet, an old woman, looking suspiciously like an aging fairy out of Irish folklore, winked at me as if we shared some secret insight available only to the grey haired elders. 

The artist beamed with pleasure as I walked toward her with my credit card. Before she parted with her creation, she explained that she had designed and constructed the piece during a December blizzard as she waited to hear from her daughter, who was in labor with her first grandchild. True story or not, I loved the heart-filled back story and came home wearing the lovely creation. I wore it self consciously, attracting attention and comments. As time passed it ended up forgotten, under my stack of berets.

It is my habit to wear reds and black but a recently I made a conscious effort to include more of the green color spectrum in my choices. I invested in emerald earrings,  followed by emerald colored eyeshadow, glasses, green skinny jeans and work shirts. 

Sitting outside today, in the chill April sunshine, I wanted something to cut the glare on my notebook. Suddenly remembered the green hat. From the bottom drawer I pulled it out, shook it off and pulled it on my head. I adjusted the warm wool brim, perfect for protecting my aging eyes, I felt grateful for my hat with a sun blocking bonus. 

Like many of us, I currently find myself in a terrifying place, one I never imagined before this deadly virus appeared. I struggle daily with overwhelming anxiety, the kind that stops me in my tracks. But in my green wool hat, sipping a cup of hot tea, I am filled with gratitude. 

Raspberry Cake with Dark Chocolate Glaze

Grief hit me today like a ton of bricks. I didn't even leave my bedroom until 11:30. As usual I woke up at 6:30 am to let the dog out into the backyard. Staring at the ceiling I thought, "Why bother? Sophie's still dead. It's not like Sophie has to pee or poop..." I turned over and went back to sleep for five hours. It's still a bit weird to have the whole bed to myself, even though my sweet 5 pound pooch never took up much space. 

She was also a master at adjusting her position every time I turned over or shifted in my sleep. When we were camping she slept in the bottom of my sleeping bag. As I am just over 5 feet, and my favorite sleeping bag is an extra long with a zipper opening in the bottom, it was perfect for us.  She could just stick her head out the opening if she was too hot or needed a breath of fresh air. Camping will not be the same without her warming my feet. 

We didn't have cake for her burial service. Lots of snacks, including wine, but no cake. So I made a lovely raspberry cake today. I collected the mail while waiting for it to come out of the ven and opened three sympathy cards. How reassuring to feel understood by other "dog people". Too many people are eager to say,  "Get over it, it's just a dog, you gotta move on".

After the cake was cool, I sliced it in half and spread the bottom layer with a rich Scharffen Berger  chocolate glaze. It was more than delicious: it was comfort food at it's best. The combination of the fruit and the decadent layers of chocolate were more than I had hoped for when I started the project. It was still slightly warm as I divided it into seven pieces, reserving some for breakfast tomorrow. The glaze was just set, melting in my mouth like artisan chocolate does...

I've read somewhere that grief is an exhausting journey and that it is important to take especially good care of ourselves as the process unfolds. The unexpected nature of her decline and death smakes it so much more shocking. I just didn't see it coming. It's like I walked into a light post and now I'm walking around with a bruise on my head. Only it's a broken heart and not nearly as obvious as a black eye.

Wita Tanka

Wita Tanka was on our schedule yesterday, but we didn't make it there. When we attempt to visit today, the entrance from Fort Snelling State Park is flooded. There are signs and orange cones announcing that the road is closed. We can see the water moving across the asphalt surface where the rangers usually leave corn for the deer. 
While wondering where all the water came from, we switched gears and head back to the beach at Snelling Lake. There are happy Canadian Geese swimming just off the shore, probably hoping that we actually have food. And hoping that we are the kind of people that will feed them, in spite of the restrictions. We don't, but it seems that even with these geese, hope springs eternal. They are quite magnificent to see with their graceful necks and penetrating honking. There are several impressive take offs and landings as we sit on the picnic tables. Other people are around but no one closer than 50 feet. 
Today is no exception to our quarentine rules: we stay away from the playground equipment, even when it is accessible by land. It's not worth the risk of infection. I watch my granddaughter like a hawk, in case her naked hands ever touch her face. Even a devoted helicopter Nana, such as myself, is not attentive 100% of the time when we are outside of our own regularly disinfected gate.

The thought of swimming through the grey water to the slide is intriguing. Even though we know it is too cold for comfort I imagine how refreshing it would be come July to swing and jump into the water. And the refection makes a seduction image to ponder as JJ tosses stones into the steel colored water under the slightly lighter grey sky. A few airplanes fly low overhead imitating the graceful progress of the geese. There are a few ducks, but most wildlife seems to be hidden from our view. We have a playlist of favorite songs and challenge ourselves to memorize the words. It is a slow process for my 67 year of brain. JJ's 5 year old brain absorbs them like a sponge and she enjoys correcting my mistakes. I am cold, impatient and ready to leave long before my companion. She is perfectly blissful to be throwing sticks and stones into the murky water. I turn my focus for a moment to my breath.

As I relax, images of an early Spring in the Bois de Boulogne filled my consciousness, flowing and merging with the present moment. Often I dream of taking JJ to Paris and doing exactly the kinds of things we are doing this morning.  I picture her walking around the fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg with a stick, playing near the water. She pretends she is Harry Potter or Hermione casting spells to freeze the water. The trees of those French parks are no more majestic than the trees that surround us here. Jean-Baptiste Fairbault, fur trader, son of a Parisian lawyer, must have felt very much at home here. Knowing that we are sitting and watching geese on the same earth that touched the feet of those French travelers inspires me. A grey heron flies overhead. I watch it circle above our heads until it is finally hidden behind the bare trees. All will be well.