Cheyenne {AKA finally, at long last, a real post}

As of late, I’m back into noticing patterns. I like this; it always makes me wonder. Recently I’ve had several interesting conversations about names—about the importance they carry to certain people and the deep need others feel to identity with the word, the label, by which they are called.

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One summer while vacationing in Cape Cod with some dear, lifelong family friends, all six of us decided to playfully pick alternative names by which to call one another during our sun-soaked beach week. I’m not sure exactly why (to be honest, I’ve always considered myself lucky that my parents chose a name I happen to actually really love), but the whimsical game seemed a good idea at the time.

My pseudonym for that Cape Cod week? Cheyenne.

The name switches brought about much discussion and plenty of laughs, and those friends and I still sometimes  jokingly call one another by Cheyenne and Jay and Corky and Xavier.

I was 12 (maybe 13?) at the time, and it strikes me that this is still a name that somehow resonates today. Sure, it’s a little bit hokey, but to me, it also has a beautiful, slightly hippie, melodic sound. It conjures images of red rocks and turquoise and cowboy boots and cacti and fiery, Wild West sunsets. Something about it just fits.

Isn’t it fascinating how there are parts of us—the core, real, very true, US parts of us—that just always forever remain?

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{Thursday night at Seattle’s Sunset Tavern}

Did you ever wish to go by another name—other than the one you’ve always been associated with?
Wishing you a wonderful weekend of whatever authentically, melodiously speaks to you.

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