i am from

I am from the rolling, foliaged hills.  I am from rows of corn, standing tall and packed together.  I am from empty pastureland, from brome grass, black-eyed Susans, and phlox, from where bumblebees forage for pollen.  I am from cicadas sawing their rhythm into the gathering dusk.

I am from Childcraft books and the big purple dictionary, from orange, deep green, and light green carpet, from painted blocks that smell like wood and dirty fingers.

I am from the farm.  I am from the green lawn with a homemade tree swing and butt-pinchin’ time.  I am from the black-soiled garden where potatoes are dropped into holes beside the cold, narrow spade.  I am from the long lanes and the hoghouses and the warm, dust-coated barn where the kittens live.  I am from pick-ups smelling of sour grain.

I am from loud-talking Germans and plates of Spaetzle and Knoepfle, from the clicking closet and from damp kisses, and squishy, infrequent hugs.  I am from hard, grey cookies, and I am from lusciously chocolaty buckeyes, English toffee, and boob cookies.

I am from lots of laughter, from notebook paper filled with preteen handwriting.  I am from puzzles, crochet, cross stitch, and the Lucky Clover 4-H club.

I am from the church on Virginia, from veiled, calm-smiled women and black-coated, sober men.  I am from church potlucks and crowds that smell like leftover potluck food.  I am from the back pew, where I make tallies of the number of times the minister clears his throat.  And I am from the second pew where I listen for a word from Jesus.

I am from blue crinkled eyes and the biggest callused hands in the world.  I am from nonsense songs in the countryside and “Will you scratch my back?”  I am from “Little Black Sambo” and “The Cookie Monster.”

I am from job charts, shiny hands, rounded fingernails, and Grandmother’s Apple Dessert.  I am from the chair in front of the purple robe, from curling irons, French braids, and breakfasts on time.  I am from a surprisingly soft hug.

I am from the quiet places alone, from sobbing corners, and from conversations with imaginary friends.

I am from a God who sent me Jesus.  I am from a self-prescribed cure, and I am from a pool of grace.  I am from “I am screwed up” and from jubilant heights of freedom.

I am from dust.  I am from eternity.

I don’t know where this meme originated, but ever since reading Mary’s collection of stories on Owlhaven, I have wanted to write my own “I am From” story.  Ann from A Holy Experience reposted a beautiful rendition called “From” on her blog this morning, and I decided hers was too inspiring to wait any longer.

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  1. I love ‘the dust-coated barn where kittens lived’

    This was great!

    Mary

  2. Wow, you took me back. Thanks. 🙂

    I am from a company of astounding women and a man like a kind mountain.

  3. Absolutely beautiful.

    • Myra
    • August 1st, 2008

    🙂 Heart-warming! I love what you wrote.

    I remember the clicking closet.

    • Michelle
    • August 7th, 2008

    If I may, I would like to use this as an example for my seniors in school this year. I think I will modify the “I Am From” idea for their reflective composition. Thanks, Carrie!

    • clbeyer
    • August 7th, 2008

    Michelle,
    What an honor that would be to have this used as a classroom example. It is a great writing exercise.

    p.s. I would just love to look in on one of your classes some day. I bet you are a just a winner of a teacher.

  1. August 12th, 2008

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