It's not until we're comfortable with ourselves that we can accept our flaws and mistakes.
Even then, trying not to be perfect is hard. I was reminded of my imperfections in early May of this year (although I am my own worse critic and meditate daily on how not to criticize myself) when I wrote my version of the poem Where I’m From by George Ella Lyon, Kentucky Poet Laureate 2015-16. You can listen to George Ella speak her original poem here.
I discovered the Where I’m From Instagram series, through film producer and writer acquaintance, Alyson Shelton, who began the project to try to understand herself and to build a community around our shared differences and similarities. You can find Alyson’s series on YouTube, including my version #27 and most recently George Ella’s #46, along with dozens of writers.
Sometimes, it’s when we look back and listen to other people’s stories that we accept and embrace our imperfections. We are all flawed and more similar than we are different.
Here is my version of Where I’m From, looking back. I’ll post the present-day version of Where I’m From in Sunday Vibes next week.
WHERE I’M FROM
I am from buttercream yellow kitchen walls,
From a General Electric avocado green stove and The Good Housekeeping Cookbook.
I am from the tiger lilies pushing up against the chain-linked fence.
(Orange, erect, between patches of urine-soaked lawn from the dogs.)
I am from the Rose of Sharon
The neighbor’s elm
Whose limbs stole across our yard blanketing pollen
Like snow
Every spring.
I am from Easter baskets and hand-me-downs,
Mary Margaret and Patrick Dixon.
I’m from the “Get that dog outta heres”
And “Be home before the streetlights are on,”
From Sit still! and Hurry up!
I’m from Three Rivers and The Terrible Towel,
Chipped ham from Bob’s Grocery two doors down and tuna noodle casseroles.
From the belt my father wielded like power
From my mother immunizing the sick and poor.
I’m from Bless me Father for I have sinned, Hail Mary Full of Grace, Jesus on the cross in every room, and candles lit for the deceased and fallen.
I’m from pride and hope—vats of scrambled eggs for dinner, Fish on Fridays.
From the woman who birthed and raised six boys and six girls, mostly alone, with no regrets.