I saw a list once. A list of things to do before I die.
I take pride in trying new things. Taking new risks. Fun and adventures and facing my fears.
I have done many of these things. And many left to do before I die.
But one thing stood out. One thing I thought I might never do. One thing I knew I COULD do but didn’t think I WOULD do. One thing that really shouldn’t be that hard.
Write a piece of original poetry and read it aloud to an audience.
I remember the first time I spoke in front of my church – the faces of the congregation looking up at me. I remember the first time I gave a speech at school – several hundred of my peers listening in. I remember the first time I competed in an oratorical competition – judges critiquing my word and style. I remember the first time I led a lesson in Spanish – children grinning from ear to ear. I remember the first time I facilitated a training session – staff members taking notes and raising hands.
I remember the first time I wrote a poem.
An ode to the stars and night sky. A message to me of dreams and hopes and wishes.
I don’t remember feeling butterflies in my stomach. Or nervousness in my heart. Or anxiousness or doubt or shaking hands or rapid breath. Not in any of those moments of speaking. Not in any of those moments of standing before audiences and sharing myself.
Only once. Not when I was speaking. But when I wrote. When I wrote a piece of poetry about my hopes and dreams and fears. When I let my insides come out and flow into ink – permanent and impressing. Indentations in paper that burn into my skin and heaving chest.
My poems were printed once. In a hand-bound book just for me. My poems were submitted once. In a district competition I didn’t win. My poems were published once. In a scholarly collection I thought no one would see. My poems were shared once. On a blog I pretended was my own personal diary.
My poems were me.
I pride myself on doing new things. On taking new risks. On facing my fears.
Wings fluttered in my abdomen. Anxiety seized my heart. Nervousness shook my hands and clenched my fists and sped my breathing.
My poems were spoken once. To an audience I did not see, but they saw me.
I take pride in trying new things. Taking new risks. Fun and adventures and facing my fears.
I have done many of these things. And many left to do before I die.
But one thing stood out. One thing I thought I might never do. One thing I knew I COULD do but didn’t think I WOULD do. One thing that really shouldn’t be that hard.
Write a piece of original poetry and read it aloud to an audience.
I remember the first time I spoke in front of my church – the faces of the congregation looking up at me. I remember the first time I gave a speech at school – several hundred of my peers listening in. I remember the first time I competed in an oratorical competition – judges critiquing my word and style. I remember the first time I led a lesson in Spanish – children grinning from ear to ear. I remember the first time I facilitated a training session – staff members taking notes and raising hands.
I remember the first time I wrote a poem.
An ode to the stars and night sky. A message to me of dreams and hopes and wishes.
I don’t remember feeling butterflies in my stomach. Or nervousness in my heart. Or anxiousness or doubt or shaking hands or rapid breath. Not in any of those moments of speaking. Not in any of those moments of standing before audiences and sharing myself.
Only once. Not when I was speaking. But when I wrote. When I wrote a piece of poetry about my hopes and dreams and fears. When I let my insides come out and flow into ink – permanent and impressing. Indentations in paper that burn into my skin and heaving chest.
My poems were printed once. In a hand-bound book just for me. My poems were submitted once. In a district competition I didn’t win. My poems were published once. In a scholarly collection I thought no one would see. My poems were shared once. On a blog I pretended was my own personal diary.
My poems were me.
I pride myself on doing new things. On taking new risks. On facing my fears.
Wings fluttered in my abdomen. Anxiety seized my heart. Nervousness shook my hands and clenched my fists and sped my breathing.
My poems were spoken once. To an audience I did not see, but they saw me.
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