Edwina Peterson Cross

I am not my name
Names are other people’s perceptions
My essence is my own
I am a metaphor
that I found in the mirror

“Name” is a dress I wear, a different one today than
yesterday. Hang them carefully in the closet,
Silk. Satin. Velvet. Linen. Leather. Lace.
Cambric. Cotton. Satin. Suede
I will wear one again
Tomorrow
Take down the soft and scented folds
Lift my arms and slide it over my head
Become
I am . . .

I am my Grandy’s Girl With the Golden Eyes
I am my Mother’s Pooh and Schmoo
I am my Daddy’s Button Nose, and
Sovnoka, his little owl
With eyes full of moon

I am Edwina Peterson - on blue paper, certificate of live birth, tiny blue ink foot print; daughter of Edwin Loose Peterson (37) and Zetta Benson (37); I am Cedar City, Iron County, Utah, USA; early on September Morn, Tuesday, Full of Grace. Third girl, I am named for my father, who could see only that there was a silver sliver of new moon in the desert sky and that my eyes were “so big.”

I am Little Sister to Leita and Lizette, Big Sister to Eddie, who was very soon bigger. I am Granddaughter, Daughter, Sister, Cousin, Playmate, Friend, Barefoot Dancing Child of the Wild Summer, Priestess of the Redgold Rites of Autumn, Enchantress of Snow-fire Yule Dreams; the Eternal Spring Maiden, forever born in the scent of new cut grass and blooming lilacs. I am Lily of the Valley, held like digitalis between the teeth, to jump-start a sensitive, perceptive heart. I walk the edge of the wheel, carefully balanced, with my arms held out to my sides.

I am Wina. I am Pooh. I am Pooey, Poobaugh, Pooeth and any number of other variations. I am Logan, Utah, Cache Valley, ‘neath the crest of Wasatch Mountains. I am an Edith Bowenite; child of humanitarian, experimental learning. I am Laughter. I am Play. I am Hopscotch and Jump Rope and intricate games of Make Believe. I am Going, Going . . . Gone to Narnia, to Middle Earth, with my eyes unfocused, into a swirl of words. I am Questioner, Wonderer, Dreamer. I am looking out the window thinking of rhymes when I am called on.

I am Winnie. I am a Dancer. I am DANCER. I am a Cheerleader. I am a Frenetic Roller-Coaster Search for the Marrow of Life. I am a Logan High School Grizzly, in love with a tradition of red and gold. I am a third generation Utah State University Aggie. I am a Kappa Delta. I am Fred, Win, Eddy, Sis, Winnifred, Twinkle Toes; the One in the Center Who Kicks Above Her Head; the Girl Who Writes Poetry. I am Big Eyes, Long Blonde Hair and a Short Skirt. I am Eternally Sweaty in a black leotard and pink leg warmers. I am a Joyous Performer. I am a surprising good Teacher of Dance. I am a Hot 1967 Gold Firebird. I am Counselor, Confidant, Best Friend. I am a light filled Princess to a boy lost on the dark side of the moon.

I am Winnie Cross. I am Wife. I am half of a whole. I am Lover, I am Listener, I am Support, I am Sounding Board, I am Fluid, I am Malleable, I am Mobile, I am Migratory. I am teacher,

I am TEACHER! I am Facilitator, Advocate, Surrogate Parent, Referee, Nurse, Psychologist, Lesson Planner. I am Information Source, Concept Contributor, Idea Donor, Knowledge Grantor. I am Teacher of Reading, Giver of Language, Maker of Magic. I am Graduate Student, PhD candidate, I am Teacher of Teachers, I am Mentor, I am Instructor, I am Associate Professor, I am Dance Teacher, I am Movement Specialist, I am Children’s Lit Specialist, I am Deaf Ed. and Sign Language Specialist. I am very, very Tired.

I am the oppressive word “Infertility.” I am the ugly word “Barren.” I am a Twenty-eight Day Heartbreak. I am Impossible Statistics. I am NOT a Believer.

I am Mother.

I am Joy-filled Statistics Squasher.

I am Mama, Mummy, Mommie, Mom, sometimes even Bomb to a boy with a stuffed up nose. I am a Weaver of Names . . . I run threads through my fingers, warp the loom and with careful, glistening thread, produce: Lezlie Celia. April Laurel. Taran Robert. Gifted with miracles, I produce a person to wear each one.

I am Hestia, keeping the Hearth, Demeter in Summer, full of plenty; I am Milk Provider, Diaper Changer, Back Patter, Floor Walker, Constant Cuddler, Midnight-Rocker, Lullabye Singer, Love Pourer. Soon I become Kisser of Hurts, Taker of Temperatures, Fixer of Toys, Puller Out'er of Slivers, Putter On'er of Shoes, Chauffeur, Cook, Dishwasher, House keeper, Coach, Cheerleader, Planner. On a non-stop, twenty-four hour shift, I become Teacher-in-Earnest, Full Time Concept Contributor, Information Source, Idea Donor, Knowledge Grantor, Giver of Language, Maker of Magic. The wheel turns and I become Homework Helper, Night-Waiter, Stage Parent, Counselor, Confidant, Advisor, Friend. I am Maker of Connections and Builder of Circuits, they click and hum and the love I have been pouring for years comes flowing back to me. Too soon, I am watching tail lights disappear and becoming E-mail Mother, Care Package Maker, 2 a.m. Telephone Queen, Demeter in Winter with Persephone gone.

And so. I remind myself that I am many things and I open my closet to look for names. Yes! I will wear these! I am Weaver of Words; Minstrel of a Later Day; Bard of Imagery and Imagination. I am Dancer of Dreams; Illusionist of Air Castles; Reaper of Rainbows; Pilot of Myth; Scribe of Memory; Aspirant of Inspiration; Inventor; Imaginer; Stareyed Child of the Muse. Yes, here is a dress that fits. I am a Poet. I am Edwina Peterson Cross.

I am Writer. I am Editor. I am Poet. By virtue of virtual wizardry, I am newborn Painter.

I am Artist.
I am surprised.

I am Crone. New come to my shawl, I am Gathering. I am Learning. I am Experiencing. I am Emerging. I am East, South, West, North I am Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter I am Child, Maiden, Mother, Crone.

I am Woman

I am Student, I am Searcher, I am Seeker, I am Learner, I am Minor-Goggle-Master in awe of the amount of information, knowledge and wisdom in the world.

I am a Hollow Vessel waiting for words; a Sifter of Sand, a Finder of Diamonds. I am a Dedicate of William Shakespeare, a Disciple of Joseph Campbell, an Heir of Isadora Duncan and Edna St. Vincent Millay, a Believer in J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Lloyd Alexander, Terri Windling and Patricia McKillip, a Devotee of Clarissa Pinkola Estes; an Emissary of Virginia Woolf; an unabashed fan of Dr. Seuss. I am part of hundreds of others, their myriad of names sing through my blood until my veins are flowing with ink. In a luscious forty-six year long feast, I am what I have read.

I am Otter. I am otterandivy. I am Oread. I am Dryad. I am the Aspen Tree and the winding life-green Ivy. I am Swan. I am learning to walk with the bear.

I am Julia, the Explorer; Elysia the Muse; Amelia Emily the Editor; Fernando the slightly stoned Warrior. I am, alas, also Hugh, the Oppressive Judge. I am an inch high mud colored dragon; a bitter woman who finds lilacs in the desert; an unscrupulous Master of Mirrors; a unearthly Blue Girl singing by the sea; a curly haired child tumbling into the Castalian Spring; a women who can’t stop mourning and cutting her hair; a Circle of Dryads dancing in the wood; a Warrior battling with words. There are endless empty hangers in this closet, I can be anyone I want to be.

I am Edwina. I am Wina. I am Pooh. I am Winnie. I am Mom. I am Winnie Cross. I am Mommie. I am Edwina Peterson Cross. Antique-lace, polished-cotton, soft-flannel, supple-suede, rose-petals, unbleached cambric, spun-silk, milk-satin, richest-velvet. Hang them in the closet, choose a new one tomorrow.

and I
Without “I am”
Go to dance naked Under the moon

~Edwina Peterson Cross~ (or someone)