When I was younger, I was never afraid to share my writing. I remember the first poem I wrote was about jello wiggling on a spoon and lasted about 5 lines. I drew a picture to match, with crayola markers, glue stickied it to the rim of the text, dug into our "artists pantry" and squeezed out a folder, placed my poem carefully into the pocket, and fastened my gift, promptly, into my backpack. This poem was then entered with no second thought into an elementary display contest. I won... me and 13 other brave little babes. That day, every time our buddy line passed by the shiny glass case I would point, shuffle kick the kid in front of me, and gloat like lightening, trying to make sure they saw my name before the short window of opportunity passed.
That afternoon, I ran out to my fathers old white dodge van (where he sat waiting for me everyday outside the school), and dragged him out of his rumpled up seat. My self esteem beamed beyond the usual embarrassment I felt within 15 feet of his car on any ordinary day. As we entered the lobby of the school, I bolted up to the glass case, as if to present myself as part of the piece. And I was. Standing there erect, right next to my work, my spirit out on the table for him to see, I'm sure my piece became complete.
This completely unabashed motherly-like glow I had for my poem lasted until it came down, and was packed away, or tucked into a keepsake box, or lost.
And so I write again. Not with the lack of reservation I had before, or a confidence in my ability to verbalize what any one else cannot, but with a trust that this will feel good.
