I was the best flutist in my elementary school for two and a half years–4th grade through 6th. Sadly, in the 7th grade, my reign came to an end; I was challenged, and lost, and sent packing to second chair.

At first, I thought it was because the girl who beat me was more talented–gifted–and I was deficient. But in truth, it was because I never, ever practiced–and she did.

It took me many years to understand that simple truth about those who excel and those who are left behind. Those who keep going, who keep writing, who keep practicing their instruments, who keep making foul shots or whatever it is they love doing–they’re the ones who succeed. Those who stop, don’t.

I started Bits of Poetry in 2014 to write to the poem.

Bad poem. Good poem. It didn’t matter.

I didn’t enjoy playing the flute, even though I continued playing to the 12th grade, but it wasn’t a total loss. Through it, the opening of a musical door, I learned enough to find my real love, the piano. And then, the guitar. Playing either one of them isn’t a chore, like the flute was. Playing them is a gift, and the real gift is the love of them. I knew I loved music, started an imperfect journey toward music, and found my musical soulmates.

And it’s not about playing perfectly. Far, far from it. Rather, it’s the enjoyment I get from one note, two notes, one chord, one measure. The same goes for writing. I love the written word and, eventually found my way to the poem. I love the poem. Every imperfect part of it.

If I can write towards a poem and find one good line, it feels so good. Just one line, like one solid measure of a song. Eventually, maybe two lines, and so on.

All of this is to say, in 2019 I’m re-dedicating myself to the original idea: write, write, write. It’s not about perfection, it’s about continuing on with what I love. Resist the temptation to be discouraged, but more importantly resist the temptation to be a helicopter mom to my baby poems. They will survive and grow up as long as I keep nurturing them with an open floodgate of words, honesty, observation, respect, and love.

I hope you all continue to do the same.

Here is the original poem that started this blogging journey, in all its imperfect glory!

Keeping the Mother Alive

I admit, all my mothers have died.

Oh, I had high hopes for them,

especially the one my mother gave me.

I said, (to all who would hear)

I’m going to pass this mother down for generations!

(Someone told me someone had done that.)

But the damn thing required real work.

Every day, feed it! feed it!

And, skim the scum.

There were no short cuts.

No, baby!

No shortcuts for that mama.

I gave it a go for a few weeks,

as if keeping that hungry lump of sourdough alive

proved I was an ideal mother myself,

and not the flawed one

my children were telling me about;

the one I knew as saint, whore, and more,

from the lines of my poem written

when they were still too young to read.

The woman who traded ashes for burning,

Who unraveled woman strand by strand,

rather than choking on the limits.

The one who loved tulips, and daisies, and roses,

and wanted to test her words:

the generations will not unravel.

In the end, the mothers died;

no amount of flour or warm water

could save them.

Like this poem;

I’m done feeding it.

It’s done.

Bye-bye, mama.

Mama, bye-bye.