The post that has no title. Yet.

Ain't it funny how sometimes the family we were born in to, the society of that group, is the one thing about them that you dislike the most? It's funny though, how quickly I become irritated when someone from the outside levels criticisms against or mocks people I consider my people. Hate without love, I think, is what's wrong. Unless you have the love, the hate is ugly. When you have the love, when you can understand, when you've been there, your hate means something. The hate can be tragically beautiful.  Whoa, that was deep.


       What prompts this deep thinking, you ask? 

Well, lemme tell ya.  I had a dream last night.  I went to bed feeling quite content and calm.  I woke up at 3ish in the morning, hold on...rather I was WOKEN up by a horrible dream, and by horrible I mean I was being chased and my God, I hate to be chased. HATE. BEING. CHASED. (Did ya get that?)  It startled me so that I sat up and had to take a few deep breaths to resurrect the normal flow of oxygen.  So, I tried with great effort to calm down and drift off to sweet dream land. ( HA! Yeah, like that was gonna happen.)   Sooo, of course my mind starts going, running, bouncing and generally feels like it's gonna squirt all the nonsense I have in my brain all over the room. I start thinking about childhood, earliest memory to High School type stuff.  I started thinking about family.  The kind you're born into, the kind that is brought to you, the kind you find, the kind you build and the kind that finds you.  I have been and am a part of all those types of family. Hey, aren't we all?

                                                   You still with me in all this ramble?

The thing that stuck out the most last night as I was laying there thinking all over the place;
I have quite a  vivid picture of Louisiana—from the short time I lived there—is this species of large tree with great tangles of exposed roots. I'm not sure what sort of tree that was, but I always thought it was lovely and brave. I hoped someday I could show my roots so openly and proudly as that tree.
 
Can you see my roots? The gnarly ones ones that look battered and beaten?  How about the ones that look smoothed out by a soft rain?  Oh, and the lovely ones that look fresh and new? Even the ones that are hidden under some dirt?

I hope you can.  I'm proud of them all.