I am who I am because
of a little white house
with faded red trim,
a rusted front porch swing,
and one bedroom
in the Middle of Nowhere.

I am who I am because,
sitting on a twisted branch
overhanging the wine-colored water
of the Ocklawaha river,
I have seen beauty in its simplest form.
This water is labeled
“murky, or “brown”
by those who have lacked the experiences
of splashing in its depths,
pulling a resilient bass
from its shimmering surface,
or picnicking beside its soft,
melodic current.

I am who I am because
I have watched the trees’ shadows
do a fluttering dance across the river
and slide to the shore where I rest.
Nature’s shadowy forms
have melded with mine.

I am who I am because
I have spent countless, long days
three-wheeling through the Ocala trails.
They are marked not by GPS,
but by memory;
by my childhood
spent underneath the trees.
Wherever I go,
I carry the smell of the forest with me:
fertile dirt,
yellow wood,
and thickets of brush
untouched by humans.
I am who I am because
I have ridden nature’s roller coaster:
the potholes and dirt-hills,
the excited squeals
and dirt-caked faces.
The engine’s warm vibration,
threatening to burn my childish skin,
forcing me to wear jeans.
I have suffered through many dry, midsummer,
mid-Florida fevers.

I am who I am because
the heat didn’t bother me,
not really.
With midsummer, mid-Florida heat,
comes the promise of rain.
And with rain, comes mud puddles.
And with mud puddles
and three-wheelers,
comes the kind of smile that is so insistent,
so pure,
that it questions why I have ever frowned.

I am who I am because
of tired nights at The Camp
roasting hotdogs on the fire,
the only sound being
the constant hum of cicadas
or a guard dog’s warning bark,
so distant that it is registered
as an afterthought;
mere background noise to laughter.
The best time is winter,
with no ocean around
to sweep away the chill.
We sit closer to the fire,
nurturing the succulent taste
of chocolate and marshmallow
sliding down our throats,
making us parched.
We relish how
the heat climbs up our arms,
allowing us to settle in
to the white plastic chairs
and float away in a bubble
of family tales.

I am who I am
because I can recount, in detail,
the story of the first time my Nana and Papa met.
“He was wearing a darlin’ red sweater,”
says my Nana.
The first time she told me,
she was beside me on the front porch swing,
with complete love in her eyes
and a glass of sweet iced tea
clinking in her slender hands.

I am who I am because
of endless days spent
appreciating the isolation
of a world
untouched by cell service,
the only entertainment being
nature and family.

I am who I am because
I have seen my dreams in lightning bugs
emerging from the woods,
their luminous, surreal glow drifting toward us,
as if saying:
“I have finally found someone
to share my light with.”

I am who I am because
catching lightning bugs on a dirt road
uncorrupted by electric light
has taught me the truth behind simplicity:
it is not simple.
Not at all.

I am a believer
of life’s most simple,
profound delights:

I am a believer
of the sights, sounds,
tastes, smells,
and feelings
that can only be found
in the Middle of Nowhere.