Compass
  
 My cherished friend (a sonic artist, 
 a mother, a teacher) and I were 
 streaming north, last month, 
 toward a favorite museum to celebrate
 the creativity of all that is northern,
 Scandinavian, both in the old world 
 and here, in Minnesota.
  
 We were flying out
 of our tiny town, laughing
 because the back of winter
 seemed to be finally broken, the ice
 and injuries that had kept us
 cooped up far too long
 had migrated at last.
  
 Ahead, (though we didn’t suspect)
 we’d encounter—I kid you not—
 a gigantic solar egg—gleaming,
 golden—perched on a nest
 of iron-brown sticks, magic and witchy,
 with a ladder inviting us
 to peer inside the padlocked
  
 glass door forbidding entry.
 Here, saunic heat could hatch
 for humans lighted on cedar wood
 if they could just catch the right
 moment at sunset. But then and there, 
 in late morning’s blue thaw, 
 we watched in awe as a pair
  
 of sandhill cranes elegantly soared
 across our highway, light
 and strong, clearly aligned 
 with the Minnesota River.
 Their long necks reached, outstretched,
 toward their future, their making
 of eggs born to be broken, from the inside.
  
 They seemed to know that the fire of life 
 would soon be poking fierce, new sooty 
 beaks into this burnt-out season, would
 demand to be fed, demand to sing
 and try the air. They seemed sure
 that parental care could renew the year,
 help each unfold our inborn direction.
  
 Leslie Schultz 

Like the first two poems for this April, “Compass” recounts a true story. (I am not sure whether a theme is arising or not. If so, it is an unconscious one. )

This poem, which turned out to have a fairy tale quality, is based on an excursion to the American Swedish Institute with Bonnie Jean Flom. We love the human scale of this place, its mix of old and new, in its architecture and exhibitions.

We also like its stimulating exhibitions, and the rare dining experience of the award-winning in-house restaurant, Fika. We are both photographers, with Scandinavian roots, and, on this trip, we were keen to see the work of eco-Photo Shop artist and former farmer Erik Johansson, called “Imagine” (which is up until April 28, 2019.)

En route to seeing “Imagine,” however, we glanced into the inner courtyard of the museum and were amazed by….what? A space pod? A Christmas pear? No, an out-sized solar egg sculpture called “Reflect” by artistic duo Bigert and Bergstrom that turned out to be also a functioning sauna, visiting Minneapolis until April 28, 2019.

Then it was back inside to savor first the masterful surreal photography, then enjoy a lunch worthy of portraiture and with flavors redolent of northern forests.

(Note the pine-flavored home-made soda, the bright surprise of the egg in the center of mushrooms and rye bread, and the golden glow of the shared pear cake dessert.)

Does time with a friend get any better than this? Well, maybe.

At the end of this enchanted day, that began with cranes flying high, there was more enchantment. We crossed to Saint Paul to visit the Goldstein Gallery on the University of Minnesota campus to see the collection of ceramics by our mutual friend, Ruth Crane.

Despite the handmade porcelains that I use every day in my kitchen, this exhibition made me understand ceramics in a whole new way. It is open until May 19, 2019.

Just before leaving the campus, Bonnie Jean and I took this double selfie!

Guess what? I have booked a Solar Egg sauna later this month. I hope I am not too relaxed to drive back home!

Until tomorrow, LESLIE