Once upon a time several lifetimes ago, a college freshman took a poetry class from a kind professor lady who was a friend of her daddy’s. At first, she struggled to write authentically and wrote manufactured cans of generic words. With support and encouragement from the kind professor lady, she started to open up. She started to remember her own feelings and thoughts rather than the ones she’d been trained to claim. At this young age, much of her expression was related to feeling unworthy and dreaming of a mother’s love.
Once her truth was unleashed, the professor took note of the words, the style, the raw truth of this girl’s expression flowing freely for the first time. Professor lady entered a few pieces for submission into a poetry magazine, praising and encouraging this girl.This girl took those tiny tidbits of confidence and felt some pride and ability. She collected her writing in a glossy navy blue college folder along with a few of her favorite poems from her classmates.
Soon, the girl’s mother came to visit. She excitedly told mother of the published poems and the professor’s praise. Choking down her fear, she shared her glossy navy blue collection with all its grief and torment, fear and love. She saved her private heartfelt tribute to mother for last: a poem of raw and sincere desperation for mother’s love and approval intertwined with the depth of love and admiration she’d always felt for mother.
Mother read the tribute in silence as the girl waited breathlessly praying silent pleas. After reading the tribute, she said, “That’s super cute…but tell me about this classmate of yours who wrote this poem about Daisies”.
“Daisies” was a sweet and playful poem about dancing in a field of daisies which the girl had really loved for its light and sunny nature full of hope and thoughts of joy.
Mother said, “I’m really worried about the author of that Daisies poem. She sounds like a very sad girl who’s had some hard struggles in her life”.
In confusion and added desperation, the girl picked up the tribute to her mother and bravely, beggingly said, “Really? I was actually trying to express some of that myself, in this poem.”
Mother smiled a slight sneer-grin that made light dance in her dark eyes and said, “That’s a cute poem, but tell me more about these Daisies, that poor girl…”