On my birthday:

“I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belong to me as good belongs to you,

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil,

this air,

Born here of parents born her from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old, in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death….”

• Walt Whitman, Song Of Myself, Leaves Of Grass.

Maria first read me this poem a few years ago, and reads it to me on every birth day. I love it. After all what is my writing and my photos and this blog if not a say singing my song to the world. On my birthday, I celebrate myself and sing myself. What on earth is creativity if no our sings, every time we make something or write something or take a photo, we sing ourselves.

Here’s to singing yourself.

Off to Vt. Back Tuesday morning.