when she was small she spent her days dirty from tip to toe. She dug holes, made mud pies, splashed, sat, sank, in puddles already knee high. she threw herself relentlessly into the world of dance, adamant from age 3 that it was where her body belonged. her mind a beehive of fantasy; her nose was always in a book. when it wasn’t, the stories kept spinning through her head and she would become the characters, continue the narrative with details that carried truth only because she made them so. she learned to beat bread early on. the magic of a perfect rise caught her and held her fast. the outdoors was a given, barefoot taken for granted. elaborate stories and imaginary friends were more reality than many people in her living breathing world. her dog was her best friend and she gave him more room on her bed than she herself took up.
for this unquestionable knowledge of who it is that she is – gratitude.