Where I’m From

A portrait of me by Stephanie Peterson

With the turning of the leaves in this past Fall a dear friend and woman I respect greatly Kristyn Komarnicki gave me an assignment.  Well, she gave a number of us an assignment.  It was for those of us who were gathering here in Canby Oregon to be a part of an “Oriented to Love” reunion. We were to be poets.

The charge was to create a sonnet of sorts about ourselves with her very specific prompts as our guide.  It was a smart, lovely and creative exercise to disclose part of our stories and selves, as well as hear others.  I liked it so much I wanted to share with you the results of mine, simply with the title Kristyn gave the exercise:

“Where I’m From” 

I’m from left behind stuffed animals with a story,
from a Patty Griffin CD played 1000 times
from light hitting a purple globe thistle.

I am from a 1908 plaster walled refuge christened the Bartholomew Estate at its groundbreaking, now populated with community and chattering students.

From Scotties who look deeply in your eyes and love to play,
and muddy shoes that must be removed when entering the house,
from breakfast or lunch on the back porch because the weather is good.

From work hard and love well,
from an engineer and an occupational therapist
George and Margaret,
Timmerman, Chase, Turpin, and Schue.

I am from truthful connections because that’s all we’ve got time for,
and weeping, yelling, and play with others; doing the hard work.

From know that I’ll always love you.
And do it perfect.

I am from dancing Episcopal Charismatic movements of the 70’s
to Quaker silence. 

I am from the urban sprawl dead center in Arizona,
to a farm in Kansas and an apartment in Brooklyn,
and now deep roots in the loamy soil of Oregon.

I am from vegetables roasted in the oven
and a necessary morning cappuccino.

I am from whatever is good, right and true.

From oil paint on a wooden panel spelling out allegory and narrative,
and detritus assembled with dowel pins and screws into some kind of hope.

I am from a laugh so rich that tears come to your eyes,
and deep lake of absence and grief that trees and flowers flourish along,

My home is the now and the not yet.

-Tim Timmerman