All that we behold is full of blessings.
William Wordsworth
…
Thinking of you, Wendy!
Tags: Friendship, Oregon, Portland
In seventh grade, I liked you, and we hung out at the Harvest Festival. You took a jab at me, “Muscle weighs more than fat, you know.” But then you offered me your coat when I was cold, that shiny red satin with Arvada emblazoned on the back and your name stitched on the front. My heart soared, and our friendship was sealed.
Later and always, we would talk The Rolling Stones, dreaming of going to concerts, singing all the lyrics we could remember, and you doing your best Mick Jagger. The Stones are playing as I type this, “Take me to the station and put me on a train…” And my heart aches to think you won’t be passing this way again.
Another time, I sat in the front of Mark Carpenter’s old and lovely Mustang, discussing baseball and the fuel efficiency of speed limits while you fooled around in the back with a friend. She would break your heart a little and in that break mine. You deserved better.
Then, best of all, in college we ran into each other on the street in downtown Denver, sunshine and not a cloud in the sky. The timing was right, and we spent the hours before sunset strolling the streets, laughing, talking, reminiscing, and dreaming before disappearing from each other’s lives.
I am grateful for that day and the other remembered bits, too, your sweet smile, that way you shuffled your feet, your fine penmanship, that rock star autograph, and your mad math skills. The worst bit? That I never told you, but hope you knew somewhere in your heart, all the same. The Salt of the Earth you were. May you find Satisfaction and Shelter in the sweet hereafter.
Happy Tuesday Peeps.
I finished the cowl! Good for hiding, goofing, and warming. I am uber (no, I did not mean Buber?!) pleased at the results, my first successful knitting project, huzzah! Here’s what I did if you’d like to replicate:
Cast on 32 sts (or another multiple of 8 ) on number 11 (8mm) needles, then knit and purl until it’s the length you like. Cast off and sew the ends together. Take goofy photos. Be happy. Repeat, if desired.
I hope this is obvious, but just in case, repeat each set of directions until the end of the row.
Row 1: P1, K7
Row 2 and 8: K1, P5, K1, P1
Row 3 and 7: K2, P1, K3, P1, K1
Rows 4 and 6: P2, K1, P1, K1, P3
Row 5: K4, P1, K3
The photos remind me, I am nearly ready for the big bathroom reveal! About time, huh? Thanks to one set of crapper-doodle plumbers (and a good one to fix them all), this is the project that goes on and on till the break of dawn. But we are nearly there, for reals! I will be putting up art this weekend and then turning the den of the porcelain throne into a major paparazzi center. Stay tuned…
Oh, and I thought I would share a photo of my favorite bicycle commuter. Surprise! I am waiting for you cutie pie. Now gimme a kiss!
Wait, wait! One more thing, click here for the awesome Jimmy Fallon singing, a la Doors, the theme song to Reading Rainbow. The man is awesome…
Tags: Jimmy Fallon, Knitting
The Worry Jar
Fretting, on the verge of worry, she walks slowly to the library, really a glorified office, but possessing more books than anything, she feels justified in the label. There, on the highest shelf, it waits. The Worry Jar. A beautiful apothecary glass, it holds, quite literally, a lifetime of worries, or at least the significant, remembered ones, worthy of writing in her finest hand on a slip of paper.
The whole endeavor was her mother’s idea, a method to quell the anxious heart of an overly nervous child. “We’ll write whatever is worrying you down, put it in the jar, and that will be the end of it, okay?” Though it didn’t exactly work as promised, the hope it offered soothed her like a balm, which, like so much in life, was enough. As a result, the jar had never once been emptied, and moved, along with its owner, contents lovingly swaddled in a towel and carefully packed in a box, nearly a dozen times, even crossing several international borders.
They were positively crammed in, and she remembers now, after writing her last worry (what was it?) and masterfully packing it into the jar, that there was not a millimeter more space. What to do? She carefully takes the jar from its high perch, holds it before her eyes and peers in, wondering what harm there could be in letting just one go. A simple one, from the bottom, and childhood? Yes, she thinks, she could definitely step on a crack and not break her mother’s back. How silly she had been!
She carefully sets the jar down and begins to unscrew the lid. As she does, something unexpected happens, for it begins to vibrate, gently, at first, but then with something nearer to violence. She tightens her grip and brings the jar back to eye level, realizing the worries are moving, spinning, gyrating, like bees? Yes, bees!
Though she doesn’t understand the alchemy, she most certainly understands the desire for freedom, so she hurriedly sets the jar on the desk and turns the lid. She closes her eyes, and the bees swarm, humming and fanning her like a queen before disappearing into the ether.
In the quiet of their absence, she opens her eyes, heart aflutter, and glances about the room. Had it really happened? The jar lay on its side, empty, save a glossy slick of honey and a single slip of paper, written in her mother’s hand, that reads: Don’t worry, sweetheart. I love you.
…
Art & Letters is a collaboration:
Story written by Colleen Sohn
Artistically interpreted by Maren Jensen
Tags: Art & Letters
If I blur the lines,
I lose the parameters:
success or failure
truth or fiction.
Would that inability to see clearly make a kinder, gentler me?
Would I approach life with more care and curiosity,
not knowing what is before me?
In a sense, it is already true.
I see the road ahead and know its curves by heart, but what of
the eagle soaring, a friend coming to call, a poem out of the blue:
God’s hand, plain and true.
Blur the lines.
Know not what you see
Until it unfolds
In its own time.
Colleen Sohn
Tags: My Poetry
