* treasured *
Each Wednesday I post about some sort of treasure I found during the past week. It might be thrifted or found on a walk or whispered in my ear or discovered on a dark shelf in the basement. Something. Anything that makes me feel lucky and thankful. It doesn't necessarily have to make its way home with me - it just has to be noticed. The idea is for it to cost very little and feel very big. After all, this isn't about acquiring new things; it is about paying better attention to the world around me.
*****
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0iurMJ238vV_PI2QqVS9U7Ab_exNWnBdS2zQaanN8uXdHfJP2c7YTevcSdLQW7zsmWtuQtvljn6dktiOpJP4efN5dm0sLuLrXuwDqlepJ4pBR_xFeIAxMXSSxkQ9C9CgesMNk67-3lYU/s400/IMG_6618.JPG)
Earlier this week (or late last week), my friend Maddie and I were talking about ways to swim in the deeper waters of our creative processes. She mentioned a few books that she was reading, and while I was talking to her, phone wedged under my chin, nose running steadily (I'm all about honesty! I'm getting over a really bad cold), I slid to my bookshelf and plucked peomcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge off of it.
I was 21 the last time I read this. I was writing a poem a week for my writing class, and I was probably sleeping on some patch of grass somewhere with a tub of couscous and a mug of tea planted by my feet. The pages are a bit yellowed. Time has passed.
When I read through the pages that I had marked up and folded over, I was pleased with my 21 year old self. I would totally still underline the part about the hollow tree and the squirrel furniture.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUnLnMeReODsWO3zVYH9PeeyrKhF8lWtiuKWnvDRFZD8b4JlTuqOQhFjgqCgaj6uEbMrhPdy0GPyNAg_fwhEDsiXxj7h_4QQlos8L_ARtBceKGjjxIWETzKjk9wKZF2HMES5aGzCdGY0/s400/IMG_6619.JPG)
I am still me. My path makes sense. Deep breaths.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeLPdeTbp4tm1ThleW0V3y5tHr2jFYoRpd29CtEd1_-3O8TzhrhKHI9Up-mBygnvizM49Pb-OsHTf2z1NxbPLnH5Tg3mDVb6lObkps_n9ktw5TO3gl198_JuXCye_JtOhPp-vAG5GasA/s400/poemcrazy_cover_small.jpg)
Earlier this week (or late last week), my friend Maddie and I were talking about ways to swim in the deeper waters of our creative processes. She mentioned a few books that she was reading, and while I was talking to her, phone wedged under my chin, nose running steadily (I'm all about honesty! I'm getting over a really bad cold), I slid to my bookshelf and plucked peomcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge off of it.
I was 21 the last time I read this. I was writing a poem a week for my writing class, and I was probably sleeping on some patch of grass somewhere with a tub of couscous and a mug of tea planted by my feet. The pages are a bit yellowed. Time has passed.
When I read through the pages that I had marked up and folded over, I was pleased with my 21 year old self. I would totally still underline the part about the hollow tree and the squirrel furniture.
I am still me. My path makes sense. Deep breaths.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeLPdeTbp4tm1ThleW0V3y5tHr2jFYoRpd29CtEd1_-3O8TzhrhKHI9Up-mBygnvizM49Pb-OsHTf2z1NxbPLnH5Tg3mDVb6lObkps_n9ktw5TO3gl198_JuXCye_JtOhPp-vAG5GasA/s400/poemcrazy_cover_small.jpg)
xo e