"in thine own self be true" or "truth will set you free"

Wow! I had an epiphany today, that will actually lay to rest a little bit of animosity I've harbored unknowingly. In other words, it turned out to be a bit of a therapy session in regards to my old English teacher from high school.

Second block started today, and I went to my English literature class. I have already met my english requirements but I needed another class, and I plan to take creative writing next semester too. So it continues. Side note to self: Maybe a double major or Integrated studies, just a thought.

Anyway, I was listening to my instructor after being a bit taken back by her introduction that her emphasis was poetry. What instantly came to my mind?

Instead of fondly remembering the romantics that I had studied while we lived in England; of artists who wrote as they lived in rose covered cottages and played about the magic of the lake district. Or, of course, there were the thatched roofs of Shakespere's Stratford-upon-Avon and half timbered homes that I could have looked back to inspire a nod to poetry. What about Paris and its art district. How many poets have strolled through the garden at Rodin's, or been truely awed by the melted and brillant colors at the L'Orangery, as Monet's gigantic murals gaze down upon you. They had all once penetrated my mind. Indelible strokes of artistry.

Nope, those memories did not surface. Panic hit fast and hard. My mind, instantly went back to my introduction to poetry in high school. The inductor was Mrs. M. She was my nitemare in high school. She was the upper division english teacher. I am sure my brothers were top students in her classes, but I wasn't. I was the antithesis of what she wanted and she let me know it, especially in poetry.

So with that wound surfacing today, I seriously thought of dropping the class. But then, a softer, glistening of suprise, subtly knocked my brain. My instructor made the comment that she despised those teachers from high school or of the teaching world, who told their students what the "true" meaning of a poem was to be... Instead of, allowing for ones own storming of ideas. She directly stated, that all poems are open to interpretation. That is their purpose. They are abstract. Ideas and feelings entertwined.

So I bravely raised my hand, and confirmed what I thought she had just said to us. I then confessed that I did not look upon poetry favorably and told her why. Though it was a long time ago, it had leeched into the depth of a developing teenage mind and stayed twenty years, until today. I was one of those who had been wrongly attacked in idea by a former teacher, my h.s English teacher.

In defense of those sensored in their growth, my prof called my former h.s. teacher a metaphorically, rude word and I felt exhonorated in my work and ideas! So "plehwy" to those along the way who have tried to stiffle anyone's creative thoughts. They are your talent, fight for them.

I don't know the author to the following, however,

"And the day came when the risk to remain, closed in a bud, became more painful than the risk it took to blossom."