a rose by any other name

This week I called an old friend. She picked up the phone and yelled "SCOUT!" into my ear. I smiled, remembering the summer months when I was Scout and life consisted of food creations, fishing/kayaking adventures, pranks, hammocking, rock art, and aspen trees.

“I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.” Anne of Green Gables

Say what you want about names and words being futile devices. I think they matter. Anything I've ever been called as taught me a little more about who I am.

Like how my aunt always called me Mer Bear and how no one else says it like she does. It reminds me of days of swimming parties, sleepovers, and ice cream.

Or how I was Merdizz (and others) for years of ball drills, pony tails, soccer tournaments, and Queen sing-a-longs on roadrips. Being Merdizz was the first time I really, really learned about both deep suffering and real bliss.

Mert and Mub and Mer and MD showed me how to laugh and take a step into an adult world.

My time as Hermana helped me find perspective and purpose in life and mostly taught me how to love.

Perhaps this is evidence of split personality disorder. It's a disease I'm willing to have.