We said goodbye to Anna Pearl yesterday.
There is a deep longing in me to be original. It claws at me when I see a painting of daffodils in the teacher lounge or a night sky full of stars. I planned to write music during my time off this week. Reading Psalm 37 and entering the early stages of a grieving process, I want to respond with originality. But this week has left me feeling like my swollen tongue after a night of mouth-breathing.
I'm an imitator. My super-power of wanting to always be appropriately dressed was borrowed from a friend's blogsite (I couldn't even bring myself to write the word "stolen.") I like Rufus Wainwright because Vince did. I like Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird" because Ilana and Peter did. It seems I can't separate much from who I am and call it my own. I even wear my hair in a ponytail occasionally because I remember Josh Ihde telling April Cunningham he liked them in the Frito Pie line in second grade.
Is there anything original--new--in me, Abba? Am I bound to be an imitator? Is that really so bad as I've made it out to be?