Showing My Roots


artist unknown

artist unknown

In response to the beautiful poem, “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon, I submit my own history. Where are you from?

I am from young love.

I am from sacrifice, doggedness and the

dashed dreams of a teenage heart.

I am from secrets and mystery.

I am of silence too loud and hearts barely spoken.

From wild, rebel spirits and stubborn longing.

I am of running away and running towards.

Of moving apart and moving on. 

I am of freckles and knobby knees.

From azalea bushes, magnolias and Spanish moss.

From bayous and crawfish boils.

I am of long walks and bicycle rides.

I am from dirt roads and gravel drives.

From aluminum houses and brick retreats.

I am of swing sets and clotheslines.

I am from melodies bred in the deep.

I am of daydreams and hunger.

Of whispered prayers shouted from the soul.

I am from laughter and tears, from solitude and fears.

I am of hope and I am of despair.

Of tragedies and miracles.

I am of animal lovers and art makers.

Of healers, diviners and medicine women.

I am of believers and skeptics, of sinners and saints.

I am from the leavers and the taken,

From those who knew not what they did.

I am of wounded hearts made new.

I am from many unknowns and truths yet to be seen.

I am from all of this and so much more.

I am now of eyes peering into what will be.

Of heart and body soaking in the now.

I am of living prayers and dancing feet.


Authenticity…even if it kills me

“Like an angry apply tree, I’ll throw my apples if you get too close to me.”
–Locked Up, Ingrid Michaelson

Okay. I’m going to be honest. This blogging thing scares the hell out of me!
I’ve been deliberating about whether or not I should do this for years now. I even set up an account, but once it was ready for the first post I went running for the hills. I’m still not sure about it but lately it seems that everywhere I turn, the subject comes up.
There are a million reasons why I don’t want to do this. I think the biggest hindrance is fear. Fear of judgment, fear of rejection. You know. All the basics. I ask the question, “Who am I?”
Do I have anything to say that others would find worth reading? Who cares about what Sarah is thinking? Isn’t blogging pretty narcissistic anyway? And what if I say something that the readers don’t like? Something that leads people to doubt my sanity, question my motives, and accuse me of turning away from my faith? I could give you the endless list of agonizing questions, but I will stop there.
What I have decided for TODAY is this:
I’m done with being paralyzed by anxiety. I want no more of censoring myself so that others only get glimpses of who I truly am. In my quest for authenticity I am learning how closed off my heart is (sorry about all that apple throwing). This is unacceptable.
So, here we go. Me. My life. My fears, my joys, my darkness, my hope. Uncensored. Unapologetic. Take it or leave it.