Queequeg wanted a coffin built and it only saved Ishmael. Neither can save me from Survey of American literature right now. What else would compel me to write things for you to read?
Isn’t it supposed to be Only Children who don’t share well? I’m an older sister, but I don’t always do a nice job. You can take my things and eat my food, and even if you don’t ask, it won’t bother me. Things are only things, but when I translate them into identity, I become protective. Borrow my dress and I doubt I’ll notice, but when someone is too-like me on the external, I’m threatened. My sense of self is strong, but does this aversion to similarity mean that I tear as easily as fabric? Am I too woven into what I wear, what I do? I pride myself in keeping my heart off of my sleeve, but I’m realizing that some days, instead of ON my sleeve, it IS my sleeve.
These are things I don’t want. I play my cards close to the vest. I’ll give you the tip of the iceberg, but until I know what we are, you don’t get the rest of it. Why risk a meltdown of something that I can just leave submerged? A warm reception is fine, but what’s your intent? My heart isn’t ice. It’s flesh, moving blood, sometimes to my face when I realize how caught up I get in not just the external, but the SELF. Of course I matter, but in the breadth and depth of life, I’m not the ultimate.
So, should I share myself more easily? Should I lend or even give who I am for someone else to become? Maybe when I know Him best, I’ll be more willing. After all, He’s for all, for each. Love doesn’t just form to our unique properties – it created them in the first place, and it makes us comfortable in them, and with them, and maybe, someday, with sharing them. I can be because I am, and I am because He Is. 

Granted, I wasn’t raised in the South, so my palette for Sweet Tea may not be quite as refined. But I’ve had the real deal, and I have to admit, this hits pretty close to the mark. And I mean…32 oz for a dollar?! I may be lovin it.