"...the soul of a poet"

My 11th grade Humanities teacher, Ms. Westerberg, was right: I have "the soul of a poet." She wrote those words on a report card and sent it home with my parents, who later shared the compliment with me. From time to time, over the years, I've recalled that phrase, never quite feeling it resonate as my truth.

Until recently. 

You see, back then, as a sensitive 11th grader in Trigonometry class - and someone for whom math triggered extreme anxiety - I struggled. I just didn't get trigonometry. Nor did I really, in my heart of hearts, want to. But all of my friends were really smart and taking the class, so if I quit, I believed it would prove my theory that there was something innately wrong with me. This fear was only magnified when I worked up the courage to let my Trig teacher know I might want to drop the class. His words haunted me for years, "You'll never amount to anything without math or science." 

And I believed him.

Until recently.

I did quit that Trig class. And, a few weeks into the quarter, I joined Humanities class instead. This is where I rediscovered my love of literature, of poetry, of writing. And this is where Ms. Westerberg saw me and sent me home with a report card that read, "Elizabeth has the soul of a poet." 

Thank you, Ms. Westerberg, for seeing me. From the bottom of my poetic soul: THANK YOU.

Here is a poem I wrote yesterday as I rested on a peninsula at Silverwood Park (my favorite place to BE), surrounded by splashing carp, chipmunks, toads, great blue herons, low-flying bald eagles, and even the distant call of an owl: 

FREE

I was mistaken

for many years,

under the impression

I had to prove myself, my worth

to DO something to BE someone.

But as I let go of fast-paced routines

and rigid structures, I see:

I've been free all along.

It's my job now to remember this.

7.7.20

Liz Timm