have you ever done one of these? I was introduced to the “I am from” form at a conference this week.

Honestly, as an adoptee, an immigrant, an exile from my own history I don’t do well with the perennial “where are you from?” questions that go with the accent. Talk to me of roots and I see an uprooted tree, waving helplessly to the gardener, pleading for replanting.

Not that I am unhappy with the soil that sustains me. I am in a good place. No regrets (as someone important once told me).

I am from nobody and nowhere.
I am from a city never seen,
a father never met,
born in regret.

I am from a fairy tale,
a babe in the woods plucked up
with wild mushrooms
in a basket, carried home.

I am from the church porch,
darkening trees dripping rain;
cries rise like prayers,
fall back with the solid air.

I am from the solid air where
the Spirit crowd-surfs all the saints,
lifted by the ancient chants
that makes the high candles dance.

I am from the father invisible,
born of a knitted womb.
I am from the dust to which I will return,
or else I am from nowhere, and from no one.