the winding road to self

the rose bush I've always loved to craft and create. To most families, the dining room is used primarily for the purpose of dinner.  For our family, our dining room served many purposes.  It was our schoolwork room, the room where my mom worked on the bills and balanced her checkbook, the room where our cats would escape for a quick nap, the room where we kept fancy things like china and dishware only used for special occasions, and of course, it was the room we sat in for our holiday meals when we had family or friends over.  It had beautiful french doors that opened up to the deck my dad built with a few nails, a hammer, and his bare hands.  I spent my summers on that deck playing tag and getting splinters, and then when the leaves would fall and the air would chill I'd spend my winters jumping off the rails into giant snow mounds refusing to come in when the sun set. I remember one particular day in the dining room, though.  It was bright.  ...

"Where are you from?" he asked. Not a single "hello," or "good morning!" or even the politely attempted preface, "can I ask you a question?"  I was en route, making my mile-long walk to work when I was interrupted by another hotel employee.  It was a little after 5am in Nashville and I was headed to Cocoa Bean, a small coffee shop in the city-like hotel resort, Opryland.  Employees had to park in satellite lots and take an elevator underground to access lockers before dispersing into various tunnels like tiny ants prepping for a hard day's work.  The tunnels led to every stairwell of the hotel and employees would quickly mutate from ants to gophers, popping up to their designated areas to report for duty.  Most days I'd walk these tunnels slowly while half-asleep, mustering apathetic smiles to everyone I'd pass and exchange conversation with no one.  I was perfectly content to spend my morning walk looking at my no-slip shoes, co...