(Almost) a Bio

I've put off writing my bio, because I never know what to say, where to draw the line.

I'm going to throw caution to the wind. Don't stand in the way. Caution can hurt.

I'm often mistaken as being "shy." I am not shy. I am introverted, yes. And though my father's genes probably have had a hand in my tendancy to simply smile and nod, it's my mother I hear when I do speak.

Let me tell you a secret: I am afraid of being my mother.

I know, what girl isn't afraid of that on some level? And in most cases, becoming my mother would be a good thing. My mother is a beautiful woman with a strong moral compass, and a deep, whole love for her family. Where I'm afraid of being too much like her would be in two specific areas: first, she has a tendancy to come down with "foot-in-mouth disease," and second, she seems to need too much to be liked and needed. The former is a strong reason why I don't jump into conversations and why I'd rather wait for others to introduce themselves to me rather than vice versa. Symptoms of the latter show themselves when I do say something I wish I hadn't -- not even something that's necessarily bad or hurtful: To the point of near obsession, I want people to like me.

I have a chronic fear of being found out.

I'm always afraid of sounding ignorant.

My mom talks a lot. Sometimes too much to notice the listener's need to get a word in edgewise. I will not fault her for it: as a member of a large family, she, no doubt, developed it as a survival technique. Still, I have, in the past, attacked her for it. I think I have wounded her in doing so, which is the exact reason why I tend not to say anything in the first place. Now, years after the incident, after she goes into a venting session, she always apologizes. I hate that she feels she needs to do that. I hate myself for making her selfconscious in that.

All of this tells you little of me.

Let me toss in a few shards of colored glass to be added to the mosaic.

I am a child, the oldest of my parents' four. I was raised Catholic in southwestern Pennsylvania. I now live 500 miles from most of my family; I miss the leaves in early October.

I am in love. I met my husband in South Carolina during college, and we have been together as a couple for over a decade. We have shared over 8 years of marriage for which we are thankful.

I am a mother of four little boys: three here on earth to fill our home with joyful (and not so joyful) noise, and one who was stillborn. My boys are happy, beautiful children. They amaze me to the point of tears, when I allow myself to enjoy them.

Somewhere beneath the stress, I am an artist. This does not mean I produce art. Rather, I yern to. I have to choke back tears if I let myself realize how deeply I yearn to paint, thickly on soft canvas. I cannot put words to how sharply I feel the pang of hunger to lose myself -- what would I give for 24 hours!-- with some charcoals and coarse drawing paper, and a willing model.

I am Catholic. I am not "recovering" as so many raised in Catholic families claim to be. I don't feel the need to. Catholic guilt is a fine motivator, and raising a family of my own has brought me to embrace the richness of my faith even more than before.

And that, my friends, is my nutshell.

If you'd like to read more, please consider buying my chapbook of poetry, Lemonade & Rumors (THRIFT Poetic Arts Press, 2006). A new book/chapbook is among my resolutions for 2012. Stay tuned.