I find it odd to explain who I am because I’m not certain I know - 

I mean, which part of me defines who I am?. 

Am I my experiences?

The things which happen in my life…

Am I my personality?

The ways I react & respond to life…

Am I my gender? 

Being a woman has certainly affected my life.

Am I my age?

If so, then I’m fifty.

But… my fingernails are only six months old.

And my hair about the same.

My skin and bones are layered… so it’s hard to say their age.

I know my DNA is very old, and my consciousness even older.  

So, am I my age?

Perhaps I’m my genetics?

Genes a solid bet. Yet, even here, 

in an arena we’ve long believed was set-in-stone, 

we’re finding that our genes are not stone.

Epigenetics shows that I can alter the expression of my genes.

I can alter the expression of my genes simply by changing my environment.

So, while genetics determines much about what I am, 

It isn’t the final word on who I am.

Maybe I’m something ethereal,  

and mysterious, 

infinite, yet singular, 

complex, yet simple..

If this is true, how could I ever tell you? And I do wish to tell you who I am…

I just don’t know.

And to further complicate this, what little I do know about me, can’t be conveyed directly. 

Anything I say is filtered through you… your experiences, personality, gender, age, genetics. 

This conundrum reminds me of a quote by Robyn Davidson. 

When she was a young woman, she trekked 2700 km across the western deserts of Australia.

Afterwards she said, 

”Real travel would be to see the world, 

for even an instant, 

with another’s eyes.”

I’d love for you to see the world with my eyes, 

and I’d love to see the world with yours.

This is the level of connection I seek in my life - but it isn’t easy, at least for me, 

because I must open myself…. 

open to you, 

open to seeing with your eyes. 

And that’s precisely what I ask of you today. 

To open yourself to me,

To connect with me….

To see the world, 

for just an instant, 

with my eyes. 

What I’m about to share isn’t fact, 

but neither is it fiction,

it’s a suspension of those.

What I speak here is only personal truths.

So please hold me gently. Very gently. 

Because that’s one of the things I am.

I’m gentle. I’m tender. I’m sensitive. 

I’m warm clay on the potter’s wheel.

I’m cattail fluff on the cool, autumn breeze. 

I hold myself gently and I hold others gently.

Which doesn’t make me weak. 

My capacity for perseverance is outstanding. 

I am steadfast when the path is dark,

And fiercely determined when healing is at hand.

I carry dreams in my heart for years,

I stay when the going gets worse than tough.

And I stand amidst storms until the eye fades away.

My daughter tells me she knows no one with more courage.

I’m intense, and focused.

Acutely cognitive, and deeply emotional.

My son tells me I’ve balanced these two traits - my sharp mind and soft heart.

I’m malleable… and responsive to the slightest impulse… 

The color of my eyes changes as my mood changes. 

I know this because people tell me. 

I can’t actually look into my own eyes.

So, in an odd way, you determine what I know about me.

,

People tell me I’m wicked strong… and very helpless.

They say I know a lot… and that I’m clueless.

I’m not sure which of these is who I am? 

But one thing I do know,  is that whoever I am right now won’t last long… 

because the thing I’m best at?

 is…transformation.

I’m constantly transforming. And I’ve always been this way.

It took decades for me to realize that other people aren’t like this, 

and to understand…

some people are frightened of me, frightened of change, growth, evolution.

And some people are drawn to me, they seek change.

Which leads me to where we started. 

How do I tell you who I am when I’m always changing?

When I’ve never looked into my own eyes?

🔯🝒🔯

I suppose, if you really want to know who I am, you’ll need to stand in a field of sunflowers.

For as long as I can remember, 

this is how it feels to be me. 

A field of sunflowers.

That field, those flowers, 

they explain me better than any words I might speak.

So if you’re ever able to stand in such a field, 

listen…

maybe you’ll hear me whisper...

I love the bright warmth of yellow.

I love to trace the sun across the sky.

I love to share my radiance with the world.

I love to stand as an individual, yet thrive collectively. 

And when the soil beneath my roots is dry, 

I love to dig deep, and find the strength to bloom.

A field of sunflowers.

That’s me,

 at my best anyway, 

at my core.

But I’ve got a good deal of other stuff, 

stuff between me and my core, 

so sometimes I’m nothing like a sunflower.

Sometimes… I’m a shelly. 

In the old gaelic language, shelly means “a ledge meadow overlooking the sea.”

A ledge meadow, 

overlooking the sea.

I often feel like that, 

like a solitary soul overlooking an eternal sea.

🔯🝒🔯

Shelly.

My parents had different reasons for my name.

My mother told me she chose my name during the 1972 Olympics, 

the same month I was born.

This is when Ken Shelley skated with JoJo Starbuck, 

in the Olympic Pairs final.

I was named after Ken Shelley, a man of physical prowess.

My father told me he chose my name while reading poems by Percy Shelley, 

his favorite poet from the 1800’s.

I was named after Percy Shelley, a man of intellectual prowess..

These two men, these two Shelleys, are my namesakes. 

A man of physical prowess. A man of intellectual prowess.

And with that naming I began my life. 

I was born in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on an island called Oahu.

I swam the salty sea before I could walk, 

and immersed myself in the tropical paradise.

This lasted until grade school when my family moved to a tiny farming town in Utah, 

a town called Wanship.

The town is named after a tall man,

a Ute who spoke Shoshone, and helped the settlers survive. 

 Chief Wanship was his name.

And the town is his namesake.

I spent my formative years in Wanship.

And I believe it defined much of who I am today.

I milked goats morning and night.

And I mean, every morning and every night - 

rain, shine, 

exhaustive heat, 

howling blizzards. 

I milked the goats.

I also clucked after the chickens, 

marveled at how fat pigs get, 

and how noisy my brother’s peacock was.

I rode my horse into the sagebrush hills and drank water from streams without care.

I fell in love with our one rogue cow named Casper….

Casper was the sweetest animal - simple, uncomplicated. 

Steady.

To this day, four decades later, 

Casper’s image is emblazoned upon my mind. 

But the image isn't an easy one to view. 

It’s the image of my father ending Casper’s life…

so my family could eat him.

🔯🝒🔯

Before I tell you more of Casper, I wonder how you’re feeling?

How does the notion of killing and eating a friendly cow named Casper feel in your body? 

Do you feel this as an act of violence?

Do you feel this as the cycle of life?

Which of these perspectives is true? Or truer?

I don’t have an answer for you… 

but what I can say is that I remember this moment perfectly

because I froze when it happened. 

That's my response to terrifying situations.

I freeze.

And on that day I froze. 

Time stopped. 

I stood still. 

And I watched.

Caspers death struck me deeply, but not in the way you may assume.

Let me explain.

When I speak about the death of a simple, steady cow named Casper,

I’m not reacting to one animal, 

I saw many animals give their lives for food.

What I’m speaking about is the realization that I witnessed tiny deaths everyday.

Imagine me, a malleable, tender little girl,

whose eyes change color with her emotions,  

being born into a home where violence was ever-present,

and tiny deaths, were a daily occurence..

As I stood frozen before Casper’s death, 

I realized the tiny deaths I experienced, everyday, living in a home of violence.

I had no way to flee, 

and not enough fight to win.

I also had no idea how to integrate these million tiny deaths, at the hands of violence. 

Violence. That’s a very big word. 

What do I mean by this word?

My definition of violence spans everything.

Violence for me includes thought, intention, speech, and action.

A thought can be a form of violence.

An intention,

A single word,

An action can be a form of violence. 

Before I continue, please hold this gently.

See with my eyes.

In order for me to be violent in any of the ways I just mentioned, 

I must disconnect from myself, 

from my core, from my field of sunflowers. 

And then, 

I must disconnect from you, so that you no longer matter. 

Disconnection, that’s a trademark of violence.

A trademark of my childhood.

In the case of Casper’s death, I didn’t disconnect, I stayed present. 

I froze, I stood. 

I watched Casper die, 

and I saw all the ways my heart was stilled, every day, 

by the two people I loved most, my parents..

Their violence wasn't illegal, but it was deadly.

🔯🝒🔯

And so now, I ask you…. 

What does this experience tell you…  about who I am?

I don’t believe this experience made me who I am, 

I believe it showed me who I already was…

a young girl acutely aware of her need for safety.

Which didn’t mean nothing ever died, 

the farm taught me the cycle of life, 

everything living, everything dying.

It meant that death served life.

I didn’t have those words at the time, 

but something within me understood this ageless concept.

I knew Casper’s death was feeding life, 

while all my tiny deaths… were not.

I don’t mean for this to sound like parent-bashing.

It isn’t.

I know my parents love me, they were simply ill-equipped. 

Just as their parents were, 

just as I have been. 

Lord knows I’ve made my share of mistakes in parenting.

I’m fortunate to have children with excellent communication skills, 

to work through the tribulations I created as their mother.

A mother who fell far short of her male namesakes.

🔯🝒🔯

I often wondered why my parents named me after two men.

And why they spelled my name wrong. 

If you know the two men I speak of, 

you know their names are spelled differently than mine. 

Those Shelley’s have an extra E at the end.

SHELLEY

My name doesn’t have that second E. 

I never asked my parents why my name is spelled differently but I think I found the answer on my own.

It happened when I opened a large, red book, 

a book which contained my father’s PhD dissertation.

He wrote this book in 1972, 

the year I was born.

And that book, that large, red book, contains my name, over and over.

My name, spelled with just one E.

SHELLY

Now, fast forward 44 years..

My father is dying of Alzheimer’s - and I help care for him. 

On some days he likes me to read his dissertation to him… because it soothes his lost mind.

So I read the large, red book, 

the one containing my father’s PhD dissertation, 

the one written while I was in my mother’s belly,

the one bearing my name, Shelly, with one E.

And as I read, I learn that this book was a collaborative effort.

My father wrote the words. 
My mother typed his written words. 

Together, my parents created the book I now read to my dying father.

It’s weird to think about.

Me and this book, incubating alongside each other, 

sharing the name, Shelly, with one E.

To this day, I find it odd that my parents honored me with a name they held in high regard, 

a name they told me was for men of great renown, 

yet spelled my name like a female character from a book.

I’d like to repeat that because it leads to an interesting question.

My parents named me after men of great renown, 

yet spelled my name like a female character from a book.

Why? 

Why not spell my name like my namesakes?

I’ll never know that answer because my father passed from Alzheimer’s,

and my mother is currently passing from the same illness.

So.

It’s too late to know their stories…

But, I will share with you mine.

My father wrote my name, over and over, while I was in my mother’s belly.

My mother typed my name, over and over, while I was in her belly.

The two of them created a large, red book which contains a female character named Shelly.

The character is from a book titled Angle of Repose.

Angle of repose is an engineering term which defines the angle at which objects no longer fall down a slope, 

they find their repose.

Here’s an example. 

You have a wheelbarrow of sand and you pour it out,

 the sand falls naturally into a pile with slopes of a certain angle,  such that the sand no longer falls. 

This is the sand’s angle of repose - it’s natural resting state.

Angle of Repose is the title of the Pulitzer Prize winning novel by Wallace Stegner.

And in that novel is a character named Shelly, spelled with one E.

The Shelly in the novel is nothing like my other two namesakes. 

instead, 

she is like me, 

or…

she is like I was 

when I first read the novel.

So, who is this Shelly?

This Shelly is in-your-face. She’s confrontive about hidden issues,

she’s easily manipulated by others (especially in romance), and she’s incredibly confused by life.

This description is me from many years ago, when I first read the novel.

So, although my parents never mentioned this Shelly,

I feel like she’s also my namesake because in an ironic twist,

this Shelly changed me.

When I read the Angle of Repose I saw myself as I never had.

I saw things in me I hadn’t been able to see, 

or maybe I hadn’t been wanting to see.

Either way, there I was. 

Shelly, described In black letters upon a white page. 

Once I saw myself clearly, I identified my problems and began to transform.

I honestly don’t know if I could have done this without discovering the name Shelly in my father’s dissertation… and then reading the novel Angle of Repose.

So, whether or not my parents thought of this female Shelly as my namesake, 

I do, 

because she changed my life, 

for the better.

There’s one other interesting thing about this large, red book.

It’s the title:

The Middle Ground: 

A study of Wallace Stegner’s use of history in fiction.

The middle ground. 

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?

I’ve been searching for the middle ground my entire life.

Me, 

malleable, changeable, responsive to every impulse…

Scientific. & Spiritual.

Emotional. & Rational..

Logical. & Mystical.

Fierce. & Kind.

After 50 years of practicing life, 

I continue to play with the art of living my middle ground.

.Which brings me back to Wanship, 

because in a bizarre way, 

Wanship had a middle ground.

🔯🝒🔯

My formative years in Wanship held immense blessings.

I grew up wild and free, 

Yes, I was often shoeless, frequently foodless, 

and without parental guidance,

but I was free. 

The farmlands and mountains became my new ocean. 

What I lacked in food, clothing, and care,

I made up for with endless miles of railroad tracks.

I spent hours cartwheeling and dancing on them,

I found pennies beside the old road and placed them on the track. 

I stood just one stride away as the engines thundered by, 

my long hair felt the whoosh of the freight cars, 

and I smiled at the flashes of light against my closed eyes,

.

Two steel tracks of freedom and adventure.

When those got boring, 

I crawled beneath the railroad bridges with my sisters..

We played in the idyllic streams,

 and got goosebumps when the trains roared just a few feet over our little heads, 

the ground shaking beneath our feet..  

After that I explored the sagebrush hills filled with arrowheads.

I rode my horse for hours, going nowhere, 

yet coming back changed.

I weeded our huge garden, and learned to irrigate the old fashioned way. 

With a hoe, 

water from a dirt ditch, 

and lots of patience.  

I watered row by row….

Carrots, potatoes, raspberries, beans, peas. 

I gazed upon the plants which were soon to be eaten by me.

Everything living, everything dying.

I studied the deer carcasses, stripped clean in freezing winter,

and watched the magical birth of goats and horses in springtime. 

Everything living, everything dying.

I lost myself in time… with nothing but time. 

Freedom is too small a word to explain my childhood in Wanship, 

the place I discovered the truth.

Everything living, everything dying.

🔯🝒🔯

I wouldn’t say my childhood was special, 

It was just life. 

And since I knew nothing different, 

I didn’t understand that I lacked the tools to integrate what had happened to me. 

So, I left. 

I left my childhood and roared into adulthood, 

Just like the Shelly from the novel, with one E.

And just like her, I became whoever I thought would be loved… 

which didn’t go so well. 

As you might imagine.

It’s no surprise that I hauled my childhood into adulthood.

And it’s no surprise that my childhood still affects my life.  

The difference between then and now, is that I see it. 

I see my wounds. And I care for them.

I navigate my trauma,

I negotiate my emotions. 

but most importantly, 

I understand that I too am living toward my own death.

That’s another trademark of mine, 

a keen sense of mortality.

I know that every breath is precious, 

which has led me on an intense healing journey 

because I want to make the most of whatever time I’ve got.

I’ve healed trauma far older than my fifty years.

I’ve healed trauma which has plagued my lineage for generations.

This doesn’t mean I’m perfect. It means I’ve done a ton of work.

One of which is allowing myself to be imperfect, 

to remove my facades,

to be seen,

and to share my messy and priceless journey.

My journey as Shelly, the ledge meadow.

Shelley with two E’s.

Shelly with one E.

as a field of sunflowers.

All of these are me. And so much more.

I’m a badass who’s walked through hell more times than I’ve got fingers, 

and I’m an angel who’s arrived in heaven more times than I’ve got heartbeats.

I’ve lived 50 years and finally found my Angle of Repose. 

I am my very own BFF. 

Best friend forever. 

I’m kind and thoughtful with myself. 

I pay attention and listen to myself.

And I know I’m worth every one of my dreams.

One of which happens to be sharing my journey.

I believe it is healing to share our journey’s, to see with another’s eyes. 

And that’s what I try to do everyday… because when I do, there’s not so much isolation, 

and not so much shame about our challenges. 

Each of us needs the freedom to try new things, some of our attempts will fail, others succeed.

Which is fine.

 There are no guarantees in life.

No guarantee that success won’t lose,

and failure can’t win.

This is the middle ground.

The sweet space where I greet life.

who I am.

I’m a powerful force to reckon with, and I’m a messy puddle on the floor.

I’m also aware.

Aware that everything is living. everything is dying.

And I'm simply one of those everything.

Living toward my own death.

With sunflowers, 

with ledge meadows overlooking the sea, 

and with eyes as deep as any ocean, 

I bid you, farewell.

OUTRO