my chili, myself.

        

this week at work, i found myself starved. the salad and tangerine i had for lunch just wasn't cutting it. i peeked in our freezer and saw a familiar tupperware. my suspicions were confirmed as i opened it and found it half-way full of homemade chili. the layer of ice was scraped off, it was popped in the microwave, only to reveal in its warmed-up glory, a tiny piece of tamale dunked inside the puddle of stinking goodness.
mine.
any further doubt faded as i led the first spoonful towards my mouth, and caught sight of none other than a tiny black dog hair. flicked it out, enjoyed the rest of the bowl.

i knew it was mine because i recognized the casing. the outside, the shell.
inside was a traditional recipe, but sweeter.
digging deeper, the family uniqueness. a twist on the original.
at last, a fleck of imperfection, a personal statement.

identity is a dynamic, ever-changing thing. i taught about it in my class of undergraduates last year in relation to a stroke patient.

in a matter of seconds, the Person They Used To Be is dramatically altered. they awake to a new reality. they make adjustments. parts of their identity are intact, others will never be restored.

how do they identify themselves? how do their family members, friends, neighbors, or even complete strangers identify them? how does this abrupt shift in identity affect every aspect of their lives?

but. aren't we all changing daily?

what makes me, "me"? 

my skin and bones and blood? or is it more than that? 

the preschool version of this: a wiggling hand in a lifeless glove. 

and what is that wiggling hand? what potential does it have? it is changeable. this i know.

who am i?
over the years, one by one, pieces of my identity are stripped away. or perhaps, 'stripped' is too violent a word choice for the barely noticeable. until what is left of me...is left bare and chilled. unfamiliar. newness. possibilities.
and how do i reinvent this "me"? what layers do i choose? and which ones matter most?
---

these days i feel a little like a kite. once beautiful but torn from an ill-timed gust of wind and the presence of a grand oak. my bright fabric faded from years in the sun and slightly muddied from a nosedive or ten.
at the very tip of my long string is a man, holding me tight in his hand, the weight of him anchoring me to the earth. his face upturned to patiently watch as i flail and float.