Whoever envisioned a jar into being and why? I am thankful for the woman who made jars. For the man who deemed shelves a worthy pursuit. For they who drew and formed drawers and other things into which collections are tucked and held. Collections are to be cleared out, rediscovered, refound, repurposed, and reloved. But not lost, never lost. Thanks, in part, to jars.

For rainbows and stars, winter and wind, of friendships and love, for Mary Oliver's morning reeds, and J. Drew Langham's bird stories, for Terry Pratchett's beloved cat memories and Marianne Moore's treasured snails -  there is a jar. Oh, if only there were a jar. 

Deborah Marcero's wonderfully delightful story about holding things that cannot be held, In a Jar, picks up where reality leaves us, in a bountiful world where sounds and smells, hopes and loves are all jar-able. What is the mind of a child as she registers the world? What would she hold if she could? - ask no more.

Like you, like I, like so many others, dearest Llewellyn was a collector.

"Llewellyn was a collector. He collected things in jars."

Llewellyn was a collector. He collected things in jars. When he held the jar and peered inside, he remembered all the wonderful things he had seen and done.

He collected small, ordinary things...

like buttercups,

feathers,

and heart-shaped stones.

"Like buttercups, feathers, and heart-shaped stones."

"The fascination of a collection lies just as much in what it reveals as in what it conceals of the secret urge that led to its creation," surmised Italian novelist Italo Calvino in his short, pungent essay on the nature of collecting.  I wonder why we collect. Could it be loneliness, companionship, or the thrill of things that meet us halfway when we show the slightest nudge of attention? Things that seem to love us back? Or is it the ordering of things?

One night, the sunset painted the sky the color of tart cherry syrup. Llewellyn ventured down to the shore with as many jars as he could carry.

A little girl named Evelyn was there too. Llewellyn scooped that cherry light into his jars. And when he was done, he gave one to Evelyn.

"A little girl named Evelyn was there too."

Llewelyn and Evelyn, their names already phonetically inclined, collected things together. 

Llewelyn and Evelyn collected things together. They collected things hard to hold, like rainbows, the sound of the ocean, and the wind just before snow falls.

They collected things you might not think would even fit in a jar. But somehow, they did.

"They collected things together."

"They collected the wonders of winter..."

The wonders of winter and spring, the thingness that makes a season, with beginning and end and interminable in-between. Winter takes form, for me, in Jackie Morris' sublimely envisioned and achieved book of dreams and sleep: "Curled close in the curves of creatures, she rests now. Warm. Safe." A woman cradled by snow bears, restful in snow. 

And then the seasons break, and we begin to move right into the next one, collecting as we go. 

"And the long days and shadows of summer."

What would you collect from summer if you could? If you had a jar? Everything fresh and alive and succulent for all the senses? Or would it be light, so high, and yellow? Or the faces of those who turn toward the sun? Somewhere I have a collection of photos of people and animals facing the sun. And then I added trees and buildings... the pattern of sun-love is universal. 

It is also time-bound. We cannot spend all our days collecting things.

Over time, their jars filled the walls of Llewellyn's house. But one day, Evelyn had sad news. Her family was moving to a new town. Too soon, it was time to say goodbye.

With Evelyn gone, Llewellyn's heart felt like an empty jar.

"Too soon, it was time to say goodbye."

"Llewellyn's heart felt like an empty jar."

What is collecting if we never share it, speak of it, or even obsess over it? It retreats into itself; it must be alive, experienced, shared, and discussed. A collection is nothing without the thriving, engaged, obsessed collector. 

Our beloved Llewelyn pulls himself together and shares his collection - his collecting self - once again.

One night, Llewellyn lay awake. Falling stars glittered against the dark sky. He wondered if Evelyn could see them too.

That gave him an idea. Llewellyn tiptoed out into the moonless night and collected the meteor shower in a jar. 

"When the box arrived and Evelyn opened the jar, the stars in the night sky fell around her."

Surrounded by the radiant moonless sky, Evelyn knows just what to do. She collected the bright night lights of her new home...

"Evelyn knew just what to do. She collected the sounds, the crowds, and the bright night lights.

I am determined to be more like Llewelyn, not in collecting, but in always bringing along an extra jar for the other person collecting.

Marcero's In a Jar is a magical book on friendship and memory and holding the unholdable, gifted to me by a friend who lives afar. It is about collecting things that lift the pale, as John Keats so wisely sought. Companion it with Emma Mitchell's thoughts on how noticing and collecting abundant natural surroundings can lift us from sorrow and remedy our spirits, Grace Paley's poetic collections of anonymous individuals who are nevertheless connected by place, and Tanizaki's In Praise of Shadows that brings us a view of beauty that is distinct and subtle, Llewelyn and Evelyn would agree.

And please let me know if you discover who invented the jar.