I Am

This is similar to the I Am From that I posted last week. Mary at Owlhaven is hosting a contest using both of these formats, if you're interested take a peek - it's open 'till February 10th. Either way, it's another writing exercise that I enjoyed taking a stab at.

I Am

I am the dark-haired baby born in the mill city of Kerouac and cobblestones, born by the Merrimack and swaddled by a soft-spoken mother and a booming-voiced father. The baby who rocked her own cradle - hard enough to move it, enough to block the nursery door.

I am the child who played kickball and pirates and ran amuck in the land of make-believe 'till the sun went down and the neighborhood returned to itself - ordinary houses and square lawns, quiet beneath the sleepy glow of streetlights. The child who spent countless hours scribbling and typing, feverishly writing and saving her stories - her treasures in piles of paper on her closet floor.

I am the teenager who played soccer and clarinet, who went to conferences and retreats, and came home to two siblings - yet always wrote about feeling alone. Who dreamed of adventures beyond home, away from the place where her father yelled (and where she never quite learned to bite her tongue.)

I am the woman who left for college - for late-nights wandering Eastern European alleys and early morning train rides, elbow-rubbing-elbow with people smelling of onion and garlic and dirt. I am the woman who never really went home, yet now loves her family and friends and faith above all else - even above the wildness of her own heart.

I am the mother who loves cool cheeks pressed against her own and the lilting of Mom from her children's lips. Who goes crazy if she misses kissing them goodnight and whose bliss is found in the smallest of moments - in the warmth of her babies breath on her chest as she sleeps, or in the sound of her son's bare feet padding across the kitchen to wrap her in a hug.

I am a student and writer and part-time office slave, who loves coffee breaks and pay checks and who procrastinates at every possible turn.

I am the person stealing moments away from my family in pursuit of my own ambitions, who loses sleep over writers-block and mommy-guilt.

I am the woman who still rocks herself to sleep and will always love the land of make believe.

I am the woman who dreams of finishing a novel, of publishing a book, and finally finding time for all the little moments I'm afraid of missing along the way. But, more so, I am the woman who hopes to be simply satisfied, wherever the journey leads.