if you didn’t know your name, what would you call yourself?
if you didn’t know your age, how old would you believe yourself to be?
if you didn’t know where you came from, what limitations could you release?
if you didn’t know what others expected of you, what would you permit yourself to do?
if you didn’t know where you resided, where would you want to live?
if you could start over, where would you begin?
i’d begin with a new name. i’ve been renamed twice in this lifetime, once for myself and once by another, although my legal name remains unchanged. naming something defines the thing, contains it, boxes it in. i’d give myself a name that defies structure, a name that soars underwater and swims through the air, a name that is silent and cannot be spoken. i’d choose to be timeless and age backwards in a diagonal slant and answer the question, “how old are you?” with imaginary numbers. i’d remember that i come from stardust and release attachment to darkness since i am made of light. i’d give myself permission to shine brighter, even when my luminescence makes others squint. i’d live in a treehouse and bathe in a waterfall and pluck fruit from an orchard and never cook. i’d make friends with ghosts that look and sound like owls hunting in the night and i’d converse with caterpillars who crawl on leaves that blow from treetops to land on the ground and decompose into dirt. i’d celebrate thunderstorms and clap for the lightning. i’d vibrate with thunder and sing outloud. i’d pause in awe of rainbows and wildflowers and cry grateful tears that i am alive to witness beauty beyond what i was able to see before.