we are all swimming in stories about ourselves. every moment is a story. but it’s only the stories we pay attention to that make us who we are. i, for instance, remember splitting my forehead open on a pogo stick, and running around the woods as a kid, and paying for college by myself, and meeting my husband for the first time in a bar in saint paul. i am, for better or worse, that particular Mary Jo in my own mind, adventurous, outdoorsy, independent, happily married. i could very well be the mary jo who was such a drama queen as a child that my siblings called me sarah, short for sarah bernhardt. or i could be the mary jo who got too serious with her first boyfriend and snuck around with him more than was healthy at that age. that would make me a boy crazy drama queen, i guess, if those were the stories about myself i paid attention to. last october, i took a walk in south minneapolis. the leaves were falling into piles everywhere. there was nothing formative or special about any of them in particular. the ones above just happened to be what i bent to pick up that day. and here they are, after half a year in a flower press, part of my story.

pressed leaves

minneapolis, minnesota