I’m weird, I believe in God, I love oddness in nature.
I’m a curious nerd, a social scientist, a tiny bit exhibitionist – an artist, walker, candid photographer – a spouse, sensualist, church goer – a community builder.
I’m a teacher, workshop leader, public speaker – a traveler and couch potato blogger.
I’m a patient advocate, an aunt, a daughter and sister, a friend and step-launcher, a funky dancer, self-doubter, a keeper of field journals and a tree climber, though the branches nearly break.
I read too many books at a time.
I’m wrong as often as I’m right.
I don’t always put my dreams to paper. I drag things out of the woods.
Jellyfish don’t get me down. Cigarette butts do. I enjoy tacky reality shows. No, I relish them until it feels like I’ve eaten an entire box of doughnuts. I most love unstructured days amidst a structured life.
I don’t always recycle, I cuss at the wrong times, eat popcorn for dinner, and I expect my vocation to unfold easily.
I resist boxes, being made into one thing – I don’t want to be one of those religious writers, one of those nature writers, one of those essayists.
If the writing life doesn’t pan out, I’ll open a lingerie shop called The Vicar’s Wife. If business is good, I’ll add an oxygen bar.
No, seriously, I will do what Garrison Keillor suggests and open a poem repair shop.
Or, I will become a non-alcoholic La Croix mixologist, and the bubbles and bitters will carry me through each uncertain day.
Sometimes writing feels like pulling on a wool sweater that I accidently put through the wash. Sometimes it’s a bee chasing me, and I can’t swat it away. On the lucky days, it feels like a fresh box of crayons.
Left to my own devices, writing can feel like a Philip Glass soundtrack. Prayer and humor and making thank-you cards shuffle my playlist. Sister Sledge and Stevie Wonder are part of my spiritual discipline. They keep it real.
The odd and the weird keep it real. Lord, let me be forever funky. May irony be a companion I never fail to friend.