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Wednesday, September 7, 2011

The difficulty of defining yourself

I have been asked time and time again to describe myself to various people. My answer is generally an "I don't know!" or a "None of your damn business" depending on the one posing the question. So, of course, when I was pointed to this from a friend whose writing talent I admire, I had to see what would happen.


I am from Spanish moss hanging from ancient Live Oak trees, from old school Mac computers and the small corner store.
I am from the once-upon-a-movie set, rooms filled with ghosts, and a bit of good ol' Southern charm thrown in with thick, Confederate Jasmine scented summer nights.  
I am from the cat tails, azaela bushes, and the sound of rain dancing across the lake, the elephant ears, gardenias and old orange groves.
I am from red velvet cake on Christmas Eve and a heart far too willing to care, from Wiseman and Parker and Bruggeman. 
I am from the martyr and survivor.
From be yourself and be more like them.
I am from beautifully decorated, stuffy pews. The do-what-we-say and don't think for yourself.
I'm from Winter Park and the Mayflower, frozen strawberries on a hot summer night and pecan pies as Fall rolls in.
From the outspoken baby telling her aunt to not sing, the spaghetti in her curls, and the tying of a June bug to your finger on a summer evening. 
I am from lonely box in the closet, the other realm where things disappear, and the once-upon-a-times that recall them from so long ago.

I am from pieces, gathered out of lives never meant to touch. I am from experiences, ghosts never meant to be created.

I am, simply, myself.

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