Last night I had a dream that took me back to one of the many fond and joyous memories I shared with my father and great aunt throughout my childhood. As life before dad won custody over me may have been tragic and traumatic, traumas and tragedies that I resolved (depictions of glimpses of those traumas documented in my self-help book “Journey of an Unraveled Road”). It made me reflect on how grateful and loved I was from our small and humble family. As throughout my life, those in my family had; talents I’ve been doubtful about throughout my entire life. Has always been nurtured by those that I have lost throughout the way. It makes me realize that those I miss the most will always stay with me despite their physical absence.
The nostalgia in my dream made me think about an instance where my father (the literary brain) of our family unit reminded me of one Christmas where my family discovered a gift, the gift of writing. My father was incredible at and through his self-sacrifices of having me face my fear of rejection (a fear that my father had in his life). Nurtured that gift with the aid of my family and a junior high music teacher who read my poetry and felt they had the potential of being songs. Being one of the few great teachers I had, she volunteered her time to teach me how to play the piano and carry notes through singing. After so many years of not playing the piano, I lost the ability. But one thing that I never lost was the gift of writing poetry.
I reflected on the fond memories with my family these past days. Along with the darker times of my life, that in my adolescence. I have turned emotions into poetry, something I have been doing these past few days. But the difference that I noticed about my poetry now versus then was it had a victimized undertone. And for a good reason, in adolescence, we only carry a small glimmer of experience that is often clouded by our personal bias. And while cleaning my father’s room, the muse being him. Even after death, I began having hymns pouring out of me for the last twenty-four hours. Why do I feel compelled to share this with you guys? Because in the next few posts, I will be sharing with you some of these evolved pieces of poetry.
Frieda The Writer 