All that I am . . .

I wrote this post on my other blog, Marie's Muses , the other morning. (I write on there every day) I like to think of that page as being food for the soul, as well as for the tum tum. I was rather proud of this piece after I had done it, and I thought to myself, why not share it with my Oak Cottage readers as well. I hope that you like it.

I Am

I am from an old carved wooden box of the Oregon Trail sitting on a faded and threadbare picture carpet from Sicily atop our television, from a big box of Tide soap smelling clean and fresh, and cartons of Orange and Apricot flavoured Beep, and glass milk bottles left on the porch.

I am from war time military housing, each one a cookie cutter stamp of the next, but what we called home . . . each one made our own by all the bits and bobs we carried around with us like a turtle carries his home on his back.

I am from pine forests and clear woodland streams, rolling orchards and misty harbours full of fishing boats anchored and resting until another clear day rolls around, and rocky mountain meadows full of wild flowers and babbling brooks.

I am from a grandmothers Molasses cookies, warm from the oven, and from always being right, from Nina and Elmer and Henrietta B, and all the staid and ordinary folk that came before me.
I am from the salt of the earth and hard working hands, hearts that cared and eyes that cried tears made of salt and soul and the milk of human kindness.

I am from pioneer men and strong women who weren‘t afraid to leave all that was familiar and theirs, and venture into new lands, making new starts built on hope and dreams.

I am from a God who loves even me, with all of my shortcomings and weaknesses. He uses them to make me strong and carries me when I can no longer carry myself and sets my feet upon higher ground, lifting me up to places I never dreamed of going.

I am from the wilds of Glasgow and the loins of Boyd McNayr, from Phillippe and Anne and the cobbled streets of French Aristocrats, and baking powder biscuits, Saturday night baked beans and wieners and chips and Hockey Night in Canada.

I am from the hearts that were broken and spirits that were mended by stitches of family love, from ancient Uncles losing limbs in Boer Wars who fed me humbugs on an old lady’s porch , the patchwork that is family sewn together from scraps and stories and roots that run deep in the soil of small mountain villages looking down on clean valleys.

I am from boxes of photos that lay in my mother’s home, black and white images of stoic faces, honest people with work worn hands, big hearts, twinkling eyes, and stories whispered and legends told,ancientmemories of humble folk and sturdy stock. I am their future, their hope, their dreams . . . they live on in me and those who will come after me . . .

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