I was the child who tested my mother's patience by refusing to draw on either side of a paper with visible erasure marks, the ghosts of crooked lines and ovals that should have been circles.

I was the child who entreated my mother to transform my coloring books into color-by-number after I'd finished replicating the front and back cover illustrations.

I was the student who would re-write my notes half-way through class, when I finally deduced the organization of my teacher's lesson. Or because my handwriting wasn't neat.

And I am the writer who feels compelled to un-publish my past posts and begin with a fresh page every time that I change my mind about what this blog could/should/will be, so that when I finally know for sure, it will look as though I really knew all along.

But I'm resisting the urge, especially since my first two posts, "How to Wear a Sari" and "A lot of different Annes", (which, I confess, I have rewritten twice already) still represent the core of what I am writing for, and here's why:

Life is like a river: tranquil times often follow a trek through rapids, with the next bubbling adventure just around the bend.  In one of these calmer moments, I look at where I am now, and I'm amazed.

The part of my life that I'm often worried about, but that I think I'll be the most proud of, is creating an identity for myself and my family from the two cultures that make up my new world.  Perhaps the most striking shift in my life over the past two years is this one: