Hyphenated
Like my name,
Like my identity,
Like the checked box,
Qualified — but not without question.
Origins unknown, memories unformed,
A title —
cloudy with words of different worlds held together by a line.
An in-between existence — a liminal space teetering between definitions of amorphous concepts that take the shape of words, a gray area —
a labeling of history, a box to fit in.
A fake-it-till-you-make-it, do your best to fit in, make it up as you go, blend in but stand out, be yourself, be ok type of dilemma — one where it never really feels quite right,
like an itchy sweater, or pants you have to suck your belly in to wear.
An effort of authentication — an effort.
Wondering, thinking, digging, investigating, trying —
A questioning of being enough of this or enough of that, or just too much of everything else — an overwhelmingly complex position, a trail with no map.
An act of defiance —
as lotuses grow through mud and muck — I feel my inner strength begin to flourish
each petal a reminder of the delicacy in persistence.
An exercise in trust —
as the red thread connects, pieces intertwine,
everything, everyone, comes together —
a craft of chance and destiny.
A therapeutic release — doing only what you know how to do, doing what makes sense.
Creating culture, expressing the inexpressible, feeling, touching, tasting, adapting, trusting.
The journals- the processing agent.
veiled, yet vulnerable
Documented — the process.
My hand involved.
Suspended is my identity — on view and sacred,
my belonging.
There is no qualification, no box to contain,
only my process of processing, investing,
sharing my story —
A practice of floating, fluctuating, between being strong, being soft, and just being.
Always undeniably present.
