Some time after my mother had passed away, I was reviewing her e-mails and noticed she had submitted a poem for publishing. The publisher had responded and indicated her poem was not selected for publishing. This response went on to encourage her to continue her writing efforts and to submit a poem in the future. Probably a form letter.
In any case, her determination to create, no, to become one with creation, was evident. Ironic, yes, that the last book in her trilogy was published about the same time she received this e-mail.
That creative journey, becoming one with creation, was her motivation. This is what inspired her and had her at awe at times. What often comes of this journey is a discovery of hope, resilience, and a new appreciation for the journey.
Growing up I too had submitted to my mom, a publisher of sorts, my cartoons, my ironic thoughts, my writings. She was undoubtedly biased. I thankfully received back a file that she had kept since I was a child. Like the poet Billy Collins, "...I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even." I think it was.
She did tell me that she appreciated a poem I had written while I was attending Southern Utah University. I had an hour between classes and I sat in the Adams Shakespearean Theatre.
The Adams in the Fall
boarded up
and closed for the season.
wintry winds as villains
steal the soul of the place.
leaves at center stage;
victims of the autumnal drama
taking their final bow.
the cold electric sun shines.
its tired projection is not fully felt.
disbelief is suspended
as this arc of drama repeats;
there will be a warmer spring
and a heroic sweep
of center stage.