A messy-haired, crooked-spined country girl who cant quite give up the redneck streak that swipes its earthy finger across her very soul. A hop-scotch collage who is the product of many influences and teachers. Someone who ain’t just whistling Dixie. If there’s one thing my Boy taught me, it is honesty. It is one of my few virtues.
I was raised in the country. The things that get me are the things born out of the musty, damp earth. The creatures that call to each other from a swaying limb. The ideas and visions that stir within a carefree heart.
It’s what I know.
I love worn-in cowboy boots. Velvety summer nights. The gruesome face my dog makes when I sing along with the radio. The crisp smell of fresh-cut grass. Coffee. Trees. Raggedy old flannel shirts. Running with the wind in my face. Trucks. Guns. Pigs. Change. Hope. Passion. People whose vision is greater than the peripheral. Hearts of strength in bodies of weakness.
I firmly believe that the best things in life come in small packages. Like my Mama’s peppernut cookies. And faith.
If I had more of it, it would solve so many problems. I have lips of stone, sometimes. I don’t feel too deeply. It’s just not me. But still, my Father’s voice whispers to me over and over each day, “Speak, child. Take a risk. Speak now.”
That is my journey.