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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
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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
Tags: My Poetry
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!
