Dear Ms. Shoffstall

We (yes, the royal we: Jackson and I, if you want to be included, just let me know) have begun to appreciate the prayers and poetry of the 60's and 70's especially that which was published by women or for women who were single mothers or young daughters with too much college ahead and too much love lost behind. Generally these are published in books with covers looking a bit like popular kitsch looks these days--some steamy looking roses or a teapot and spilled milk, maybe a drawing of a sleeping cat or tired bird midflight. And the pictures of the poets in the back look a little like Farrah Fawcett might look after a long morning with a twin two-year-olds and a longer afternoon with a makeup and lighting crew.

A woman who knows (what has been going on around here), She handed me an old rectangle of paper when she was here to visit a few months ago. I was told that a good friend clipped it out of a newspaper when she was going through divorce, then, when the smoke cleared she passed it along. So I'm third to carry this little poem with me, and I do so proudly. Neither of them knew who had written it because the editor was not kind enough to include your name (for shame!). My version has some funny line breaks and lots of capitol letters, which I am not sure about--maybe they are the workings of the 19 year old poet mind, or maybe just an editor's foibles. Either way, I get a really helpful (if not too voilently bastardized) version the point you might have been trying to make--I think, especially when this particular copy has the history it has...

I get the feeling carrying this little piece of yellowed typing paper in my wallet is like lifting some kind of emotional barbell. Maybe one day, as dear Jackson promises: it is possible that even the tiniest artists (we?!) might win a power-lifting competition. If not in a Portland-area highschool gymnasium then at least in the middle of the night: for having the strength of will to pick ourselves up off the floor again; or in the messy bedroom: for lifting our heavy heads off the pillow and greeting one more gray day; or in the MDiv practicum, surrounded by (eek!) pastors: for being brave enough to raise an eyebrow when someone punishes us for pushing back. If the poem on the page isn't the weight we lift, then it is a spotter for whatever is weighing me down... every day.

I looked for an image of you, just in case you fit the bill we so admire these days, or in case you used to, but I think you must be so beautiful it would hurt to look at you, because my attention span wasn't long enough for all the searching that seemed to require. You work for the Baha'i Faith, so there is that--its probably good for the complexion to do good work.
I did a little research (really, very little) and found this version of the poem and the author's note which belies just how wise you are even now. I would have written you, to thank you and tell you that I'm just passing it on, because it was so helpful to me and to ask permission or something like it and tell you that this poet has found your poem to be just fine, doing good work--and plenty of folks agree with me. But I would have had to join Linkedin to do that and I'm not really feeling it.

So, Ms. Shoffstall, if you find this and wish I'd take it down, just leave a comment to that effect and I will surely take it down, if not then, thanks for that too. Either way, perhaps you'll forgive me if I couldn't find a version that duly compliments your inner 19 year old.

So without further delay:

Veronica Shoffstall, 1971

AFTER A WHILE

After a while you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul and

you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and

company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises and

you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and

your eyes ahead with the grace of woman,

not the grief of a child and

you learn to build all your roads on today because

tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans and

futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns

if you get too much so

you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead

of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure

you really are strong

you really do have worth and

you learn and

you learn

with every goodbye, you learn.

(Author's note: This poem has been plagiarized, bastardized, renamed, reworded, redesigned, expanded and reduced. But it is my work, which I wrote at the age of 19 and had published in my college yearbook. Why anyone would want to claim it is beyond me, but for what it's worth, I wrote it, and if I'd known it was going to be this popular, I'd have done a better job of it. - V.S. )