Coming to Terms...: Okay...I Didn't Have to Write This...

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Okay...I Didn't Have to Write This...

You Are 4: The Individualist

You are sensitive and intuitive, with others and yourself.

You are creative and dreamy... plus dramatic and unpredictable.

You're emotionally honest, real, and easily hurt.

Totally expressive, others always know exactly how you feel.

At Your Best: You are inspired, artistic, and introspective. You know what you're thinking, and you can communicate it well.

At Your Worst: You are melancholy, alienated, and withdrawn.

Your Fixation: Envy

Your Primary Fear: To have no identity

Your Primary Desire: To find yourself

Other Number 4's: Alanis Morisette, Johnny Depp, J.D. Salinger, Jim Morrison, and Anne Rice.

What Number Are You?

I don't know about the "envy" thing, but the rest of this is pretty spot on...

1 comment:

*debbi*April 22, 2009 at 5:47 PM
I only know you through your writings, but it seemed to jive with what I know of you.
This was fun and I passed it on to my book group. We like to do questionnaires to keep in touch in between our gatherings.
I'm a 2: A Helper
Not sure I'm as altruistic as portrayed, but hey, being classified with Mother Teresa and Mr. Rogers made my day.
P.S. I was glad to see this post.
*debbi*
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Where I'm From

I am from station wagons, from kool-aid and turf-builder.
I am from the three bedroom, one bath ticky-tacky box
with the swath of weedy lawn; from lightning bugs,
June bugs, and mosquitoes the size of small birds.

From nights near as hot as the days,
spread-eagled on sticky sheets
crickets creaking, horns honking,
trains rumbling and whistling in the distance…

I am from snow to the eaves, jewel-studded ice storms
and green-black thunderstorms with sideways rain.
I am from bright red tulips, honeysuckle berries,
and worms on the driveway after a cloudburst;
from daisies, tiny wild strawberries, “Queen Anne’s Lace”
and crashing the kite into power lines.

I am from “Look what followed me home from school”
and never having too many animals. From Taffy and Rusty
and Sunny, the yellow headed parakeet, who could say
“Happy Birthday” but only when he thought
no one was listening…

I am from the women who shuttle the carpool,
punch the clock, scrub the toilet,
then climb into the bottle, the herb
or the fantasy to quiet the noise in their heads
and the men they choose to rescue
or who choose to rescue them.

From “When you meet the right one, you’ll just know”
and “Your dad was a virgin when we were married…”
I am from the dutiful eldest daughter who paired off
home made and pro-created at the appointed time,
and the other four who didn’t.

I am from the tearful Catholic and the stoic agnostic;
the rope stretched taut between belief and unbelief,
pulled one direction, then the other…
the eternal tug of war never won.

I’m from pioneers of urban exile; before the country clubs and the soccer and the Rolls Royces.
I’m from the first McDonald’s and the last Tastee Freez.

I am from the great moldering box in the upstairs closet;
roaring twenties sepias stacked on
shiny square instamatic shots, discoloring with age.
I am from the five stair-steps, the Christmas trees, the campfires,
and the blurred mountains captured from a moving car.

I am from the unlikely union of a country boy and a city girl,
brought together by Hitler and Hirohito;
and the neighborhood of compromise
that kept them both sane…almost.

On Where We're Destined to Go...

As for life, I'm humbled,
I'm without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond,both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen
-a tree angel, perhaps,or a ghost of holiness.

Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled,
then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort -
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,sunburst love,
or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.

There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.

As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?

Mary Oliver

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Okay...I Didn't Have to Write This...

1 comment:

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