I should really be getting my lunch ready for tomorrow, and getting to bed. Instead, I’m going to crank out this quick post. I may come back to this idea later on.
When I was younger, and would go away from home for a while — say, on a Girl Scout camping trip, or a slumber party, or whatnot — Mom would always say to me, “Just remember who you are and where you come from.”
I always assumed she meant to conduct myself as an upstanding Mormon girl, and that’s how I took it at the time. However, I found out later in life that Memaw used to say the same thing to Mom when she was younger, and that made the meaning even deeper for me. Especially when I got to be older and grew away from the church.
So, who am I? And where did I come from?
(Besides the obvious answer that I’m Diana and I came from my Mommy’s belly.)
I think that might be why I’m so into genealogy lately. To find out where I come from. I come from a long line of poor farmers, from what I can tell. Even Memaw farmed as a youngster, migrating with her family to follow the crops. Memaw’s mother, Granny, farmed until the end; she had the most fantastic leathery skin from being out in the Florida sun all her life.
The “who I am” part is something that seems to change regularly. Wife, daughter, friend, Sky Bank employee, amateur genealogist, web designer, drum corps enthusiast, photography hobbyist. I’m not sure how I identify myself anymore. It’s like I read in one of my Star Trek books (yes, I get my philosophy from lofty sources): The purpose of the game of life is to figure out what piece you are.
Maybe I’m too tired to be contemplating such things. But it’s interesting food for thought.
Remember who you are, and where you come from.