The house is, by nature, transient.
But now, in the morning as I dress, I am enthralled by all the stories I carry on me and within me.
And yet, even there, in that peaceful place, my brow furrowed with unrest.
Under the Madison Street bridge, the tree that grows sideways suddenly popped flowers that smelled like corn tortillas.
I am from this place as much as I am from anywhere, and it’s this recognition that helps me know that I can feel this way again.
Even within the church, it’s easy to feel shame for not “persevering.”
I feel stuck because I don’t feel like I have a valid voice to address either side of my racial and cultural heritage.
I don’t often think about my breath.
I didn’t expect to experience the amount of joy I felt.
7. Egochristicolaphobia — The Fear of Being Associated with the Word “Christian”