The deepest thing we can learn about nature is not how it works, but that it is the poetry of survival.

John Fowles

Happy Birthday, Buddy! I love you more than ever.



Photos from a doubly grand Saturday. We rode our bikes downtown to pick up a new helmet (pink!) and light (old school headlamp!) for me, so I may ride in both safety and style. It’s my thing. I am love, love, loving being able to bike again. Pittsburgh, unless you live in a very specific part of town, is not an easy or desirable place to ride. Too many narrow streets with crazy-madcap hills, lunatic parked cars and equally maniacal drivers does not make for a positive experience. No siree. So we never replaced our Portland bikes. But now, boy howdy, whoop-ti-do, we are at it again, on wide boulevards, gentle hills, and our own bike lanes, and it is grand, just grand.

We followed our biking adventure with a hot afternoon hike in the Nature Conservancy Aiken Canyon. Long-time supporters, it is always a treat to visit the preserves, feeling our contributions help make it possible. We enjoyed spying the usual floral suspects, even eating some of the red skunk bush berries, which were oily and tart. We also wondered who spied upon us, as there was bobcat, wolf, and fox scat, quite a lot of it on the ground, and bird after bird singing their lively tunes. It was a heady windy day, and I decided, most affirmatively, that heaven is the scent of pine and cedar, whipping along in the air, on my hands, cone thrust under my nostrils with me lustily exclaiming, “That smell!” The best (next to the hubster’s cheek). Definitely.

Now it is storming, sheets of rain rippling in the wind to fill the streets, windows open to better hear the cracks of thunder. Another great day!



My grief is a hollow

Sometimes inside.

Sometimes out.

A feeling that rises.

A spot on the chair, waiting for me to sit.

Other times, it darts, wild attack from around the corner.

Hell from on high. M e r c i l e s s.

Me sobbing — hideous, maudlin.

It has tender moments, too.

The gentle prodding of memories during sleep.

Soft purrs. Voices. Scents. A taste on the tongue.

It’s true what Daddy says.

The dead N E V E R leave us.

Colleen Sohn



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After sunset on the Fourth of July, we walked up to Palmer Park to watch the fireworks. There were a handful of us atop the hill, wind whipping and explosions in every color and every direction and nearly every distance (Yikes, that was close!). The best part, and yeah, broken record alert, wasn’t the fireworks, but the park, Pikes Peak, and Cheyenne Mountain laid bare and beautiful before us. This city!!

In other news, we almost have a complete kitchen. Holla! The hubster just needs to make a hole in the ceiling and roof for the hood, which is mounted and looking grand but disconnected and utterly useless, taunting us. Anyway, easy-peasy, right? HA! Not. Because he has to go into the attic, where it is a million degrees in summa-time to get the job done. So, it might be a while, as we wait for a reasonable early morning temperature so he doesn’t die from heat exhaustion, because I kinda like having him around. Yup.

The bathroom has a few more weeks because drama. Enough said. But it will be done. Oh, yes!! My office is a hot mess, the hubster’s office is yet another, and the basement? Yup. A hot mess. That said, I think we are nearly done with the shifting of boxes and junk from room to room to room accommodate all the work. So, to wrap this enchilada whole, the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter and brighter! See you at the other end…




Not being tense but ready.
Not thinking but not dreaming.
Not being set but flexible.
Liberation from the uneasy sense of confinement.
It is being wholly and quietly alive, aware and alert, ready for whatever may come.

Bruce Lee




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