As the sun rises above the tree line on a crisp northeast Indiana Sunday morning, the coffee grinds and begins to brew, a glimpse of a new reality begins to take shape with all that I have known and who I have become now a thousand miles behind me. Who I am was now a question I was struggling to answer?
The comfortable confidence of my life was now in a plastic bin. Who would have ever thought, those who know me would have guessed an old wooden crate, found deep in a corner of flea market, or maybe a rusty metal tackle box with worn green paint, a gift from a Alpharetta farm sale, but a plastic bin?
As I try desperately to find the memories that make me comfortable, homemade chicken soup, the smell of pumpkin and cinnamon, the thoughts of home and fall decorations, crisp linen napkins and a beautiful table setting, or my garden and the chickens.
Will these things still define me, I would like to think so, as I sit clearly in the north attached to a wonderful family so different than my own, their roots deep in Northern tradition, I cling to my own southern roots which have largely defined who I am, both then and now. . .
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