I remember the day she brought it into the room. We were sitting in a circle, and Maia was seated to my right. We started at my left, which means she went last. When it was Maia's turn she looked down. Hesitated. Shrugged her small shoulders in her way, letting us know we shouldn't expect much.
And then she began. Reading her scrawl off a small, white page, she recited a poem she called, "Perfect." As I listened, my energy moved from that critical teacher place between my eyebrows, to the tips of the hairs on my arms. She had me.