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Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists.. it is real.. it is possible.. it is yours.
Ayn Rand
Tags: Quoting
The Kindle Edition of Polite Society is FREE today!
Download your copy now!
If you are visiting from outside the US, go to your home Amazon site, my link is for the US only.
Happy Reading!
With another nod of gratitude to Laura O. Foster, I present you with Portland Hill Walk No. 15. It starts at the Leach Botanical Garden, verdant beauty tucked like a secret in Southeast.
Johnson Creek, swollen, swift, and silent, with its own secrets to tell.
The Leach Botanical Garden was originally a residence, and a beautiful one, at that. Learn more about it here.
An old gem of a Studebaker named Trudi.
Mount Saint Helens and Mount Adams
Willamette National Cemetery on Mount Scott, a place of humility and gratitude.
Hello gorgeous.
Mount Hood
The Prisoner
My dear man. A great, albeit campy, television show. A rocking song.
Happy not to be bundled in a multitude of layers. Our clear day was very chilly.
My stance, according to the hubster, epitomizes my womanliness. Maybe it was the clothes, too. He’s not sure. Regardless, I love the way he sees me.
And the clouds were high enough to catch the sun, leaving canyons of darkness where the sky was open. The opposite of being earthbound, that sadness that befalls us when we raise our eyes to the obfuscation of azure. There will be no pleasure of moon and stars. But this glorious opposite, this pleasure of wanting more clouds, brilliantly billowing, climbing higher to keep the light aloft, and with it, a sense of awe. Of what remains grounded, wings clipped or unwilling, only gods ascend. Or, perhaps, dreams as we chase them, into the past or future, moments to which we cling and pin our hopes. All that we cannot resurrect, all that has yet to come, illuminated by sunlight on climbing water vapor. That sense of thanksgiving, always, for seeing the world as it is. The dust of others, ancients, the beloved, mine. The gift of renewal.
Colleen Sohn
I don’t actually know that this is a Lady Hawk, not being an ornithologist, and all, but a creature this regal needs a title other than it. She visited for her Sunday lunch, though we didn’t see her do anything but chase off a crow.
I hope you’re having a week full of wonder. We are hosting Lori and crew this evening for a Southwestern Supper extraordinare. It is 9:55, and I’ve already baked a cake, made dough for fresh tortillas, and have a pot of green chile and pinto beans bubbling on the stove. The house smells SO good!
We’ll be here for Thanksgiving, me and my favorite sous chef making dinner together. Roasted squash ravioli with brown butter sage sauce, green beans, home made bread, crispy kale, cranberry sauce (the jellied kind, because it rocks, no matter what people say), and the hubster’s favorite pecan pie. I think there will be a fire, too, two humans and two felines cuddled in close proximity.
I hope you have a marvelous holiday and know that I’m most grateful for your gentle presence in my life.
Big Hug!
…
Update: Definitely not the same bird! The memory is not what it once was. A Sharp Shinned Hawk or juvenile Cooper’s Hawk are my best guesses. A new visitor nonetheless, huzzah!
Taken in that golden hour when everything feels right. I talked to Maren earlier, the fullness of my heart still shining. I rowed in the basement, the low light of autumn dancing through the trees and in my eyes. Blaring Strange Days on the hi-fi as I stretched on the stairs, I caught the glimmer of glass shards, remnants of Tuesday’s broken bottle. One hollow bounce before shape shifting.
Birds and cats beckoned, more of that exquisite light, too, crowding the tight spaces before a bounteous explosion. I ate cereal and read, squinting. Rain is coming.
Silence reigns and is filled with all that I cannot capture. This softness, this gratitude, this love.
Hello there. It’s been a while since I’ve shared a recipe. Summer, maybe? That raspberry cake, I think. How do those food bloggers do it, recipes galore? I am a long playing record on repeat. Drop the needle in the groove and watch me spin and spin until I start all over again. I like spinning. Twirling. Dancing. Laughing. And eating, especially meals like this.
The hubster and I have made a concerted effort, as of late, to further reduce our carbon footprint. Since our house is already chilly, he rides a bicycle to work most days, and I border on fanatical when it comes to recycling, composting, buying in bulk, organic, and all that jazz, eating less meat was the next logical step. We’re mostly weekend breakfast carnivores these days. The pull of chicken apple sausage and the spatter and hiss of bacon like water at the oasis. So a multitude of veggies, grains, and beans, oh, and cheese.
For this meal, I sauteed mushrooms and thinly sliced fennel bulb to perfection. A pinch of salt, grind of pepper, and a few fresh rosemary leaves the only seasoning. Piled on French toast dotted with melted brie. Drizzled with a teeny bit of syrup. A side of flageolets with a touch of butter and salt. Dinner, brunch, breakfast, anyone? Come on over!
There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.
John Steinbeck
Tags: Quoting
My heart
out of its cave
naked
glistening
exposed:
sun and wind and rain
his penetrating gaze.
Grisly protrusions
frayed edges
gaping holes
clumsily bound:
baling wire
tape
and glue.
He does not look away
nor chide
nor shame
nor laugh.
Instead
he lies next to me
feels
my rhythm
sees
from my eyes
hears
the crawling of ants
the growing of grass
the whisper of trees
secret after secret.
A smile
before plucking
my flawed beating muscle
and returning it
with a surgeon’s precision
all knowing.
Colleen Sohn
Tags: Poetry
Hello!
Bonjour!
Guten Tag!
Buenos Dias!
Konnichiwa!
Bongiorno!
Namaste!
Ni hao!
Why the international greetings?
You can now buy the Kindle Edition of Polite Society, from right here in the U.S.A. to Canada, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Spain, Japan, Italy, India, and China.
I am nearly bereft of words to describe the sensation, save these three:
exciting, surreal, relieved.
There are still hard cover copies available, as well.
Have a stellar week!
Tags: Polite Society
Welcome to Under a Red Roof.
I’m Colleen Sohn, writer, poet, dreamer.
I like to take pictures.
I’m a bit silly, love yoga, eating, and good stories, because bad ones are a bummer.
Thanks for stopping by…
