” We do not see things as they are. We see things as we are.” Anais Nin
AS SOUP: I am mostly hearty kitchen-sink vegetable bean. With each tasting I re-season myself; more salt, a dash of lemon juice or vinegar, a pinch of cumin, a snip of fresh mint. On occasion, I am decadence in a bowl; my inner creamy broccoli-cheddar self will show her sly smile, or my smooth and caloric parmesan-green bean let-it-all-hang-out side may bubble up to comfort and delight herself, and you if she’s in the mood.
AS STUFFED ANIMAL: I am a little ivory lamb, tucked away in a bedside drawer to avoid the cats and their greedy, nosy mouths and claws. I always know I’m in there, though, and that alone brings deep and wide delight.
AS BOOK: I am the quirky young heroine of a magical fantasy series set in a vast woodland. The plant spirits whisper and chide in a most amusing way. I slide from one adventure into another. My dear friends, the birds and the squirrels, the deer and the dark-eyed owls, are always nearby. They guide me, and sometimes I rescue them, mother them, sister them. My hair is wild as the tangled roots of the old oaks, my clothing, hand-me-downs from the brownies and fairies and fashionable mushroom elves. I sleep among the mosses and swim in the cheerful brook.
AS WEATHER: I am mercurial New England, Geminian, not content to stay the same too long. I am generous when sunny, and sullen when I rain. I pay no mind to the silly preferences of those that dwell within my borders. Why, if someone doesn’t like one of my mutable seasons, they can wait it out, or curl up in a ball and roll south to the more predictable climes.
AS POEM: I am free verse, unconventional and untethered to form. Black ink on ivory stock, predictable fonts and rectangular pages, these things bore and stifle my words and music, so I refuse to be bound by them. I am not afraid to rhyme/when the Muse tells me it’s time./ though I’ve been known to piss her off/by refusing.
I am mostly undiscovered, a written contradiction; quicksilver, slow on the uptake, a little tentative, rock n’ roll, then shy. I doubt I’ll ever be famous, but if I am an invitation to one soul to see one thing differently, then nothing is for naught.
AS HOUSE: I am old in the bones, wide-porched with the kind of lopsided charm that challenges: restore me, update me, uncover my shiplap, make me a color I’ve never been before but retain every odd angle and don’t f— with my leaded glass. I am not your flip, but oh! how I will serve and protect a family. I’ll open my doors each morning to gently push them out to work, to school, to a day of playing in the meadow. Each evening I’ll warm and welcome with my fieldstone hearth, and guard against nightmares and the cold. I’ll proudly display the children’s heights and dates penciled on the old doorframe in the pantry, and pose patiently for pictures through the lovely, languid years.