|a high schooler...|
Linda Stoner was my freshman and sophomore English teacher who had a penchant for creative writing. Unbeknownst to me she thought I could conquer and triumph this seemingly insurmountable task or perhaps she just sensed my perpetual state of sadness; at least it seemed to me with her soothing words and gentle prompts.
I unhurriedly began supplying her slips of notebook paper that carefully conveyed skillfully handwritten poetry that wouldn’t reveal too much of my inner makings. One by one, she’d return the dispensing of my heart with words of encouragement or suggestions I could do to enhance my writings.
This morning I crawled into our closet to search for the prose tucked away in a 1976 folder displaying multihued ragdolls with blissful expressions. The file was entitled ‘Psychology’ carefully designed to be a disguise for my inscriptions. Upon opening the sleeve, I became twelve, fourteen, and sixteen once again explicitly disclosing those words.
Below are a few examples of those raw early writings and unedited... as difficult as that was:
Butterflies represent change and growth.
Growth at one’s own personal level and inner self.
A Caterpillar transforms into a butterfly
This was dedicated to my Grandpa who had died…
As I sit and watch the ocean
It appears to be calm, but it isn’t always.
I notice the sea gulls, waiting in anticipation
Of something-food, a storm, perhaps a companion.
They watch me closely,
As if in some way, I would provide for their needs.
In the west, the sun begins to set,
Losing its brightness like a burned out fire.
The tide inches in toward me.
I feel it’s closeness as it caresses the rock
Upon which I sit.
The splashes feel like cold tear drops
Against my arms and face.
The sky, which was once blue jeweled with the sun setting
Is turning a dark grey.
Clouds rumbling like the rushing waves.
It’s getting late now.
The tide’s moving again.
I feel cold and lonely as it ebbs away.
Losing the tide’s closeness
Waiting for it to reappears
Soft and calm.
I reflect upon my writing; past and present. Visibly I’m not a world renowned author who is on Oprah’s Book Club or the New York Times Best Seller list; however I AM swollen with pride and gratified with the progression of my past-time.
For this, I thank Linda Stoner, wherever she may be that she challenged and presented me an outlet for the angst of a teenage girl. When My Life as a Dog… is published this spring, I will honor her place in my life; a true beginning... Thank you Mrs. Stoner!