Who am I? I am a girl, a daughter, a seeker. I am the one who stays awake to watch the sun rise, never trusting that it will do so without guiding eyes. I lift the sun each morning before I sleep.

Who am I? I am one who seeks the answers in the wind, the one who spites the fate of what I am told is impossible. I am the one who will not listen to doubt and fear.

Who am I? I reach out with my hands, and will not pull them back until they are full, until everything I had is taken away, and I am given new treasures which I have never before seen. I am a merchant of dreams.

Who am I? I am a song in the belly of a whale, the notes of digestion and contemplation. I am the lifter of what has sunk; I spend much time in the mud, because those who are on high ground have no need of being rescued. I am in the mud so much of the time because that is the best way to look up and help others. You cannot save anyone if you are afraid to sink to their depths.

Who am I? I am the one who stands lonely upon the mountain top, screaming to God that I not be left alone forever, because I was not destined for such things. I am the one who wrestles my own soul against not only my own despair, but the despair of the world. I cling to the promises of God and refuse to let Him forget them even for a moment. I am the one who will not trust what I cannot touch, and in such folly, am always trying to touch God.

Who am I? I am a speaker of truth. I search it out of every dark place where it grows, and bring it into the light. I examine every word like a pearl, crushing impostors and crating fine jewelry out of truth. I display my wares by wearing them in necklaces, bracelets, armbands and rings. I am gaudy in sincerity.

Who am I? I am a mother of hope, because I bring forth little efforts of faith through daily labor that threatens to split apart my being. I have birthed a multitude, and many of my children have died. I keep going, because I never give up on my family.

Dreams

"Now tell me your dreams,"
Said the whiskery man,
His pen poised above his clipboard
Like a viper ready to strike.

"Well," she said, taking a breath,
A gust of air like a ruptured balloon --
That was how she got her thoughts out --
"Last night I dreamed
I was in a flying machine --"

"You mean an airplane," he corrected
With a flick of his wrist.

"No, it was more like a kangaroo,"
And her hand fluttered in explaination.

"Kangaroos are not machines."
He said, wisely and dark, with a shake
Of his head, and tisked to himself.

"I know that!"
She was impatient now.
"But it was my dream;
It was a flying machine,
And also a kangaroo!"

"My dear," he said, kindly and stern,
"You may dream whatever you like,
But it has to make sense in my notes."

-------------
Who has been trying to define your dreams?
What dreams can you let out of the box?

Reading something written by a writer with a strong voice is a lot like drinking apple juice.

I like apple juice. Most people do. It is an innocent thing, a drink for children; it goes with fish sticks and cheese sandwiches and peanut butter crackers. But that isn't why I like it.

Apple juice reminds me of a something crisp and pure - apple orchards in the fall, the simple brilliance and beauty of changing leaves, all the wonder and satisfaction of fall, of the end of summer. When things are done growing up, the process is at its final cycle, and the harvest is brought in.

There is a simple satisfaction in apple juice. It never tries to be something it is not. You don't see it at elegant gatherings or fancy parties. When I was a girl, I drank apple juice out of plastic cups, the kind that come in a pack of a hundred for $1.50. The sides squished in when squeezed too hard. Apple juice was simple enough not to mind. Unlike many drinks, who's perceived taste changed when drank from such a humble container, apple juice was always the same. Apple juice never changes.

The making of apple juice is not a complicated process. You put apples into the press, and out comes the juice. It is refined, and you drink it. Most of the apples that go into the press are ones unfit to be carted up and sold as fruit. It may be damaged in some way. Apple juice doesn't mind. Apple juice is made of all kinds of apples.

Apple juice is sweet, but not too sweet.

Writing in a voice of your own is like this, too. It will never change, but be a source of contentment, your own true identity, over and over again. You can write about any topic, and find that there is always some signature thing that will allow anyone who reads it to know that it is your own creation. It is a style that encompasses everything you need to do, allowing you the freedom of using all kinds of apples, and still taste like your favorite juice.

"Poetry is a dumb Buddha who thinks a donkey is as important as a diamond."
-- Natalie Goldberg

I let the lady I work for read my poetry. I left it downstairs on the kitchen table as she was sorting through the bills. I went upstairs to clean, and took my dusting seriously. When you dust with only a cloth and water, you have to squeeze it a little as you go. It must not be too damp, or it will leave streaks on the furniture. I prefer cleaning with polish, but she doesn't like the smell. The damp cloth coated with a thin layer of dust, grime and dog hair always feels like wet paper to me.

Mrs. Kay came upstairs. She never does that while I'm cleaning. I stood twisting the damp rag in my hand and watched her earrings swing. She always wears exotic, dangling earrings; I've never yet seen her without them. She has a special jewelry holder across the top of her dresser for them. I only know this because I clean her house. I know a lot of things because of this. It's frightening, almost, to have so much personal knowledge of a stranger, to be worthy of so much trust.

I could tell when she came in that she had been crying. She kept sighing as she talked, as though words were not enough to express what she was feeling. Mrs. Kay is an artist; she feels colors, deep reds and oranges, cool blues and comforting greens, and she lets them live through the edges of her
hands, the back of her knuckles, the tips of her fingers. It appears to come alive on the canvas, but really, it is only a reflection of what she keeps inside her, to move her blood.

My writing had ambushed her. She had no doubt been expecting sweet, light, pretty poems. My poetry is dark, heavy. It holds a lot and demands even more. Like me, it refuses to be taken lightly. She commented on each poem. I didn't know where to put my arms, how to hold myself, or what to say.

Mrs. Kay gave me a hug, and I went back to my dusting as she descended the steps slowly. When I went downstairs to sweep the kitchen, I found that she had taken her magnetic poetry off the fridge and put it in the trash. I dug them out and took them home with me.