what’s in a name?

a “who am I” in disguise.

I almost signed my name on a comment today. I do it regularly. You might ask why I am so adamantly opposed to letting my name spill forth upon the page. You might not. Perhaps you assume that it is due to privacy and all that jazz. I suppose that would, in part, be true.

My name is hardly common. If I did say my name, even without stating a location, I would be easier to find than your average Jane Doe. I don’t really care for my own privacy in that way. Heck, being stalked might add a little variety to my life (yes I AM kidding), but I do want to protect the privacy of my kids and my family. Privacy of another form might come into play, though.

The nature of the blogbeast is such that one can sway easily between spouting silliness and revealing some of the deepest concerns of the heart – sometimes even those that would not easily be shared with the people who cohabitate. Anonymity makes confession that much easier. The curtain of the confessional, the pseudonym given to the advice columnist, the slightly drunken revelations to the tender of the bar – all of these attest to that fact.

So, while I might not mention my name herein, I do reveal at least a portion of the truth about me, who and what I am. And yet, intentionally at times and others quite by accident, there are large voids left in the picture – A Rembrandt self-portrait missing more than just an ear.

My dear cyber-friend Mary recently answered a “who am I” challenge. Forgive me for forgetting where she originally found the challenge and for not looking up the actual post. My lucidity at the moment is tenuous at best and I fear a search for those facts might send me right back into my muddle-headed stupor. I had averred at the time that I thought I might accept that challenge. Then, as is so often the case, I procrastinated. Considering the length of these introductory words, you might note that I am still procrastinating to a great degree.

Ah tangents! This makes me wonder if I should take the procrastination as a sign that I should perhaps refrain from turning this into a post about who I am. Maybe I should continue to hide behind my veil of secrecy and leave my enigmatic image the only one you will see. Or maybe not.

I am who I am. A mother first some might say. I am not sure that has been true lately.

The past in me, the part which communes with nature (and can be felt if you listen to the Rich Mullins song “The Color Green” - lyrics below), is a very major part of who I am on the inside, even though the closest I come to communing with nature these days is to accidentally catch a glimpse of the sunset while picking up doggy landmines.

The desire to play with words and have intelligent or trivial conversations with people I care about through the written word – this is a major part of me. This is also a part that is at least moderately satisfied through the internet since my dear husband is not a lover of the written word.

The small child within, holding her arms out to a world and wanting to find comfort, is a slice of my psyche. It is a sliver I fight against since I know that the void I am seeking to fill can truly only be filled by God. And yet, He created me with this longing to touch and be touched on a deeper level.

The woman who consciously closes the door to strong emotion to keep from feeling broken-hearted over the loss of deep passion once upon a time, the woman who chooses to feel content with stability and familiarity, she is part of me as well.

The crazy kid who wants to splatter-paint walls and run off to other states and countries on the spur of the moment, she is also me, but I don’t let her come out and play anymore – too many people are depending on me to be the grown-up.

The part of me who reached out long ago to a God who had been reaching out to me for much longer is perhaps the very definition of me. And yet, to many, that would bring about a very narrow image. No creature of God is simple. If you doubt that, try to name and number every variety of insect you have ever seen; stop and notice the differences in two trees of the same name; examine the lines on the knuckles of every person you meet this week. Such detail goes deeper than the skin.

Who am I? I am a graceful tree, a roly-poly bug, a three-toed sloth, and (according to one silly internet quiz) an angry spork-flinging plaid wildebeest. I am the part of me inside of you.



*those lyrics

The Color Green by Rich Mullins

And the moon is a sliver of silver
Like a shaving that fell on the floor of a Carpenter's shop
And every house must have it's builder
And I awoke in the house of God
Where the windows are mornings and evenings
Stretched from the sun
Across the sky north to south
And on my way to early meeting
I heard the rocks crying out
I heard the rocks crying out

Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green that fills these fields with praise

And the wrens have returned and they're nesting
In the hollow of that oak where his heart once had been
And he lifts up his arms in a blessing for being born again
And the streams are all swollen with winter
Winter unfrozen and free to run away now
And I'm amazed when I remember
Who it was that built this house
And with the rocks I cry out

Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green

Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green that fills these fields with praise