As part of the Photographing with Heart and Vision workshop, we did a writing exercise based on the poem Where I’m From by George Ella Lyon.

This is not the kind of thing I normally post here, and much of it will make sense to no one else but me. But as I keep reminding myself, this blog is for me, not for you.

I am from two rooms and a kitchen in a gray concrete apartment block.
From the oak tree outside the kitchen window
and the chestnut tree behind the house
where you could climb as high as the third floor.

I am from endless summers in Kiisa –
from the bowing peonies and fragrant lilacs,
from the kitchen garden with potatoes and strawberries,
from the grass between my bare toes.

I am from oatmeal and boiled potatoes and rich rye bread,
from strawberry jam and cake batter and crumbly berry pies.

I’m from white knee socks and dark blue school uniforms,
from occupation and doublespeak.
From truths that all the adults knew, but that I as a kid couldn’t make sense of.
From queueing for milk, and no cheese today,
from hoarding soap and sewing thread.

I am from my father’s beard,
from the smooth tan and soft smell of my mother’s hands.

I’m from crossword puzzles and crocheting with Grandma,
from hand-knitted socks and scratchy woollen hats.

From distant, bemused benevolence;
from heavy expectations of greatness.
From bullying, and from accidental friends for life.

I am from books, more books,
books read aloud by my mother,
from musty, silent libraries,
from walls lined with bookshelves.

I am from uprooting and moving,
from a country that no longer exists,
from a family tree with half its roots torn off.