Here’s something fun.  It’s a writing exercise that was done in one of the writing groups I used to attend. Fun to think about and maybe challenge yourself to do.  We read the following poem that was written by George Ella Lyon.  It’s called ‘Where I’m From’ .  Once we were finished, we were asked to think of our own lives and where we were from.

 Where I’m From  By George Ella Lyon

I am from clothespins,

from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.

I am from the dirt under the back porch.

(Black, glistening

it tasted like beets.)

I am from the forsythia bush,

the Dutch elm

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I am from fudge and eyeglasses,

from Imogene and Alafair.

I’m from the know- it-alls

and the pass- it-ons,

from perk up and pipe down.

I’m from He restoreth my soul

with cottonball lamb

and ten verses I can say myself.

I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,

fried corn and strong coffee.

From the finger my grandfather lost

to the auger

the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box

spilling old pictures.

a sift of lost faces

to drift beneath my dreams.

I am from those moments —

snapped before I budded —

leaf- fall from the family tree.

 The idea for the writing exercise is this, to tell where you, yourself, are from using your own words.  Here were my words.

Where I am From  by The Writing Moose

I am from a screw top bottle of wine shared while everyone else guzzled beer.  That’s how the story passes down’ from them that started me.  I am a quick oops.

I am a mix from the catholic side and from the Methodists.

I am from red clay and Hee-Haw overalls.

A skipping Roo with bells sewn in the slip of frilly dresses to help keep track.  Jingle, sing, jingle, sing. Skip, giggle.

I am Kraft Macaroni and cheese; and sometimes hot dogs.

I am a sharp snap of New York Italian, and a drunken Irish Jig.

A mad mixture of pioneering spirit and Western migration.

I am a rebellious movement toward palm trees, complete with ripe sunglasses and early morning haze that tastes of sunshine salt.

I am an orange grove, holding hands with grandma; looking up at her while she throws stones at threatening crows.

I am the applause at the end of a community theater musical.

I am from big sister, protective, proud.

I am a float on my back in a mountain lake, body aching from long hikes.

I am a private Idaho sunset, a crashing wave, a gypsy’s journal.

I am one in a chorus of 5, with equal breath, different tones, and decent harmony.