I've had way too much time to think over the last few weeks. I've been mulling over things both past and present. I awoke wondering about the whole idea of destiny, of doing all the 'right' things, of doing what is expected, of the rough and the smooth, of having to make decisions or just give in and drift down the easy path.
I checked my little blog roll for new posts and came across Sigrid from Analog Me's version of the poem Where I am From by George Ella Lyon.
Sigrid invited us to write our own poem. Here it is. I invite you to write your own.
I am from the Hill's Hoist
From Dettol and Listerine
I am from the gully down the back
full of reeds and marshes and leechy things
I am from the gum tree
and the lemon tree in the back yard.
I am from the silver spruce
My mother planted to remind her of home.
I am from cabbage rolls and piroshki
and grandmother's criss-cross apple pastry.
From Nikolai, Veronika, Wilhelm and Nina
but not in that order.
I am from chants sung standing up in church
and I Know That my Redeemer Liveth.
I am from the wheat fields of central Russia
via the Ukraine
and a language half remembered.
I fought not to understand.
I am my destiny that I confront and a past that catches up to me
and lands me on this doorstep
Where I do not fit.
I am still me.
Under my bed were diaries
written from too young an age
To realize how valuable they were.
I am a tumult passed down from war and trouble
I carry it with me
From my family tree.