Proud

 by Cerridwen Lee
 What am I proud of? Well, I suppose over my few but tempestuous 18 years it would be a matter of what I’m grateful for and have become proud of. The small things I guess. I’m grateful for the small cluster of woodland five minutes from my door where I can sit in peace by the little fairy pool I’m fond of, or kick the crap out of the fallen heap of leaves on the ground in sudden regression to my much younger years. I’m grateful for the scattering of vibrant twinkling stars above my head in an inky sky on a crystal clear winter’s night and for my obscure mind that creates the weird imaginings of what happens up there making me forget momentarily that I can’t remember what it feels like to have a nose.
I’m grateful for my strange family, and the sacred tradition that if we have pancakes they MUST NOT be made in regular pancake batter colour, and either are eaten in the vibrant colours of snot green, powder blue, hot pink or lemon yellow. I’m grateful for the fat ginger kittens that waddle around my small bungalow home, occasionally darting up the heavy rust orange curtains and dangle precariously at the top. I’m grateful for all the wonderful and sometimes bloody mind-boggling words in the English language that help me to weave my poetry that makes me feel better about the few arses that I unfortunately encounter on a day-to-day basis.
I suppose the list could go on forever and the more I give you of it the more bored you readers may become and even worse, the more insight you may get into my somewhat unusual life. But I am proud of all those little things. They make life worth living.