Hope this is something like what Susan Lowe did in her pattern. Mine has an ancestry focus.

I am from the long line of Winchester and Wood women, from double chins and strong hands holding children. I am from pioneers who went to Utah in the 1880's and my birth family who came to Australia in 1955, I am from Britain not England, from 1066 and all that and from the mists of Ireland and the highlands of Scotland.

I am from the peace and quiet of the urban seaside suburb. Not from the house with the seaview but the scruffier, lower, poorer end of town where the common folk live, where you walk if you want to or drive if you have to. I can smell and hear the sea on a stormy night but don't have the spray on my windows or corroding my rooftop. I can see a scene so pretty that it is commonplace, a sunset to the west, a sunrise to the east. I wave to neighbours as they pass on their walk to the sea.

I am from the weedy end of the garden. I thrive as the geranium thrives, run riot as a trailing ivy. I can withstand the storms of life as the eucalypt does, putting out fresh shoots after fire destroys the other trees in the bush. I am British by birth, Australian by choice and have the strength of the bullbdog and the leap of faith of the kangaroo.

I am from the strength of my father who survived a prisoner-of-war camp and the endurance of my mother who worked in a factory making war weapons all day and cried herself to sleep at night worrying about my father. I am from the dirt of the south of England, seed to wheat, acorn to oak, sleeping plant to great blossoming in Spring. I am enduring, strong, and rooted in the soil but when the wind blows I shiver like the aspen and shake like the willow. Send the lightning to destroy me but I will endure.

I am from the dialect of the peasant, from the sound of hammer on anvil, from the whine of the machine and the swish of the broom and the thud of the pick. I behold death in my parlour and the undertrodden at my table. I am generous with the little I have but never fear hunger. What we have we share.

From the tales of Celtic holy men and the shout of the free thinker, from the chant of the wode and the yell of the pikemen come the accents of my speech. I am Boadicea and Hilda. I am from the times of old, from the years of tradition, from singing an old song and singing it well.

I'm from the green and pleasant land, from the fighting force, from the gamble with death and the rising to life. I am from the bottom of the barrel and what is left when the rotten apple is thrown away and the old snuggle down to drink cider in the winter.

From the sunlit story of Marjorie and Patrick, from the darker side of Elizabeth and Harold, from the "eyes averted" stories of Durkin family secrets. Who is Louis anyway?

I am from the inside out, wrinkles, grey hairs, wisdom and kindliness. I am from the cluttered cupboards of my mind, from the treasure and the trash, from the laughter and the tears. I sprung not from the ocean like Venus but out of the ground like the trolls, or out of the heather like a lepricaun. I descend from a long lost Swedish g g grandfather and the "litte dark woman" my mother remembers as a child.

Who am I?