Where are you from?

I wrote last week about how much I enjoy hearing people’s love
Another thing I enjoy is Where I’m From poetry that people send me.
I discovered the Where I’m From project shortly after I began blogging
back in
At the site Fragments From Floyd,
Fred First wrote a post singing the praises of Appalachian poet George Ella
Lyons and her poem Where
I’m From
The poem is a beautiful reflection
on the experiences and memories that shape us all. Fred borrowed an idea from
somewhere and offered
up a template
to help poets and non-poets alike create
similar poems specific to their own lives. Though I’m not a poet by any means,
the project
me enough to write my own poem. Ever since then, several readers have sent
me their
Where I’m From poems, and every one is a masterpiece in its own right.
I have posted them all under the where
we’re from
link in the right-hand sidebar.

I recently received another poem, and I felt it was the perfect opportunity
to draw attention to this project. I also think this is a great tool to stimulate
conversation between spouses. If you write a poem about where you’re from,
send it to me and I will include it in the collection. For now, read about
Where Sarah’s From, check out the other
, and see just how fun and cool
this can be.

Where Sarah’s From

I am from shag carpet, from My Little Ponies, Dr. Who and a scratched window

I am from the brown house by the river, far from the road.

I am from the old
birch trees, the daffodils, and kaleidoscopic pansies.

I am from anxiety and
needless fear.

I am from Christmas Eve tree-trimming parties and defensive stubbornness,
from David and Ruth-called-Kim.

I’m from "You’re a California Girl and
don’t you forget it" and "Life
isn’t working the way the instruction manual said it would."

I am from
conversion from atheism to Catholicism, via my parents.

I’m from San Rafael
and Northwestern European cross-breeding, from pasta with pesto and Black Magic
Cake and using the good silver every day.

From home-schooling and home-cooking, and weeding the garden with the sun hot
on my back.

I am from "Sam the Gazebo" and other stories my mother
invented and told to me.

I am from overcast skies, drizzle, and soul-chilling
dampness.  I’m from
heating the house with a woodstove.

I am from my mother’s playfulness and my
father’s determination.
I am from flowering in college; I am from two and a half years in Alaska
encompassing great beauty and great pain.

I am from the spreading peace and
joy of my marriage to my husband.

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