Oddities of creativity

Sometimes I write poetry.

Wait, no, that's not quite true.

I used to write poetry. You know, angsty stuff in high school, as one does. It wasn't good, but it was heartfelt. Teenage girls, man.

I love poetry. I realize I am a minority in this. I love it, I get it...but I don't write it. Not in a long time. I wrote a poem in grad school for a project, but I didn't really like it. I liked what I was trying to say, but not how I said it. It felt like high school stuff again.

Then I entered a writing contest and, much to my surprise, I wrote not two stories, but a story and a poem. And I liked it. It gave me the frisson I get when I read Marianne Moore or Pablo Neruda or Jeanne Murray Walker or Tennyson. I mean, it was nowhere near as good as any single one of those people, but I'd written it, so the frisson was heightened. The judges liked it, too, which was reassuring. It made it to the very last round of judging, though it didn't win. (My story did; yay!)

Suddenly, I'm writing poetry again. Sort of. Bits and pieces here and there that aren't complete, but have promise.  That sound almost like what I'm trying to convey.

Here's something that just popped up the other day. I thought it was the beginning of something, but now I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in the middle to end. If it were the beginning, it would be a depressing poem, but it's supposed to end up something of a transportive love poem, full of joy and amazement. I think. 

The realization that I love you is a
spider on the wall, terror
    and adrenaline
stopping my heart, then starting again in
    the wrong beat
too fast
full of tears.

I am interested in what you think about this. I'm not sure where it'll go, so suggestions or thoughts would be useful.

But to take a sharp left (you never saw this coming!), there are also interesting neurological implications here! Oh, yes, yummy, yummy neurology. There might not have been, were it not for my friend Debbie. She used to play the piano in her youth, but left it behind for many years. One day she thought it might be fun to start playing the piano again. She started again as a beginner, with little expectation. Suddenly she realized something interesting: she was better than she ever had been.

Parallel! I find this fascinating.

So what's something you used to love to do, but left behind? It's possible you might surprise yourself if you pick it up again.