This is my Beautiful Life

                As I read another witty essay by the late Norah Ephron, I found myself wishing I wrote like her—had the early-adult stories sown in candid sprouts for posterity. The instantaneous thought that followed—you can and you do—was freeing, and so I wrote—

                I do have a beautifully imperfect life. My ears don’t work half as well as yours—literally. I am the size of an average fifth-grader causing many unseen “cat reaches for the toaster and falls off the counter” scenes. I stay up too late because I write and create best at 2 am—and regret it almost every morning but that doesn’t keep me from rationalizing again at 1:30 am. At any given moment I am in the middle of three to five books—many I am re-reading. Frequently I am reminded of book and movie quotes as well as jeopardy trivia—even describing this quirk with a quote from You’ve Got Mail—“so much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book once, but shouldn’t it be the other way around?” I am guilty of blurting out of context comments that only have coherency in the context of my cranium. I adore alliterations, sunsets, puns, and cinnamon.

                I am in love—with Jesus, everything Autumn, used book stores, notes of encouragement, travelling, children from the Kibera slum, and making a child smile. I love creating with bright colors and photography but, like my writing—they occur in frantic bursts of inspiration rather than disciplined practice. Every so often I have a love affair with tea but I always reconcile with coffee. I have a disdain for cheese graters and washing strainers. If it’s witty I’ll love it but if its trashy and full of innuendos your grandma wouldn’t understand I probably won’t watch it. I change my pens based on my mood and go through journals like some women go through a can of hairspray. If I have socks on and there’s a wood/linoleum floor 97% of the time I will enter a room in Jerry-Macguire-esque slide. I am slightly embarrassed to be writing so much about myself—akin to an early-prepubescent boy caught flexing by his mother. But I am unapologetic.

                I am free because I am loved. I am cherished and confident because I am chosen. I am living my one beautifully imperfect life. So, future posterity—and present reader—here’s my essay, my excerpt, my life.