Who I am is not found in the "should of" or "could of" that peppers my mind in the early mornings of self doubt or the late night chastisement and reckonings of a day in review, but is unwittingly defined, mostly by default, sometimes by design, by what I do and what I did. It's the product of my choices that wrench me from my bed in the morning, or off the couch in the evening, that lead to good and punished deeds, quiet covert deeds, and loud and messy deeds that create all the blended lines from which my story is told. These deeds are not grand really. They are often just a whispered prayer, a wish, a smile or tear. They are a weed plucked, a cookie made, a chicken fed, a class taught, a class taken, a phone call, email or letter that each alone or in its collective weight says I am here,I live, I breathe, I think, I care, I cry, I struggle, I fail, I succeed, I am, and it is enough.