My children are, as I’ve always suspected, the Hope of the World. Everyone else’s are too.
The boy I started dating when I was 14 is the man I married at 18. We’re still together refuting all those naysayers.
I’m a hermit, just the friendly sort.
When asked by one of my children to explain what “circumcise” meant, I demonstrated using clay and a knife.
I make up songs to sing to my children as well as the chickens, cows and bees on our little farm. The kids make up songs too (usually hilarious). So far the creatures haven’t been heard improvising any lyrics.
I may be a peace lover, but I can still rant.
Wish I could find the series of faux love letters I wrote in seventh grade. I designed them to seem as if they were “authored” by Henry Kissinger who scribbled them while sitting on various embassy toilets, often commenting on his problems with constipation. They were never intercepted by teachers, sadly.
I don’t do fussy beauty tasks. I plucked one eyebrow one time. It hurt. No blow drying, no curlers, no nail polish, earrings every decade or so. Regular flossing, that’s it.
Subversive cooking is a sneaky pleasure of mine.
I recognize my fashion choices are questionable because my children say, “You aren’t going out in that are you?” Also because people regularly offer me hand-me-downs, which I gladly accept. That’s why some days I may be wearing a 70-year-old lady’s skirt and a teenager’s top.
Research fascinates me. I dig into a topic sideways and every which way. That gets me started on several other topics. No wonder it’s hard to get an article done on deadline.
I’ve been interviewed as a radical homemaker, but never again. The most recent article was headlined, “Extreme Housewife.”
I’m a crafts idler. I fantasize about projects far more often than I actually do them.
I used to get together with nursing home residents to write poetry. After a year of these gatherings their work was compiled into a small book. The experience itself felt like a living poem.
As a child I wrote a letter to God and buried it, figuring that’s how my grandparents got to Him.
I can find common ground with just about anyone, but cannot understand those who show no empathy.
My poems have been published, but not the ones I like. What’s up with that?
Dreams, visions, even the promptings of my body have given me guidance. I’m not always wise enough to follow this guidance.
There are random body parts around my house. Two mannequin torsos in my office, a nose my brother carved hanging in my kitchen, doll’s legs in my potted plants, a large hand on a bookcase, a head wearing a Viking helmet in my living room.
I think each moment is a form of prayer.
Since my earliest memory, I have felt personally responsible for world peace and environmental harmony. That particular burden probably explains my bad posture.
I’ve been waiting a long time, trusting what I’d been told as a child—- “You’ll understand when you’re older.” Well, damn it, I am older. I still don’t understand.