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.