When I look back to my childhood years, I have very fond memories. I know there are many people who cannot say the same, and for that reason I try to remind myself often to be thankful for what I had. Thankful that peering back into the past and reminiscing about years gone by automatically brings a wistful smile to my face. Looking back and seeing happy times, laughter, love and innocence is nothing less than a luxury. I didn't always know that, couldn't fully appreciate what I'd had until I was able to look back in retrospect. And, I'm ashamed to say, sometimes I still forget.
When I hear about childhoods that have not been like mine, childhoods where sadness was commonplace and innocence was short-lived or nonexistent, it makes me so very sad. Of all times, of all stages of life, childhood should be happy and innocent, a place of adventure and discovery and safety and peace.
By American standards, I was not raised in wealth. I shared a room with at least one sibling (sometimes three) until I was 16 or so. All during my growing up years, we never had cable TV or fancy cars, going out to eat was rare and felt very luxurious, we never went to Disneyland, money was always tight, and my dad supported his ever-growing family on an enlisted man's salary, which, let's be honest, should be much more than it is.
But wealth, real wealth, isn't measured that way. I don't look back and remember all of that. I remember things like, allowance day finding a pile of shiny new pennies carefully poured into my pillow, slowly counting and admiring each and every one. My mom patiently teaching me to fold towels, my small hands trying so very hard to mimic her fluid movements. Getting breakfast in bed on my birthday. Losing a tooth and finding two quarters and a note from the Tooth Fairy under my pillow the next morning. My mom sitting on the couch teaching me how to sound out words from a phonics book. My dad giving my siblings and I under-doggies on the swings as we squealed with delight. The mix of exhilaration and terror when Dad let go of the back of my bike as I tried to ride my first two-wheeler. Making pilgrim outfits while Mom taught us about the first Thanksgiving. Mom's hand folded around my tiny one gripping a pencil as she helped me write my name. All of us kids relaxing in various positions while Dad read aloud from the Book of Virtues before bed.
I could go on forever, and I know my siblings could too. I look back, and I know I was truly wealthy, and so very blessed. God in his goodness gave me so much, things that I am still realizing, and things that I'm sure I will never realize. My childhood was a rich one, and often I wish to be that little girl again.
I used to think of childhood me and "grownup" me as two separate individuals, two different entities. I pictured the little girl trapped inside the adult body, the two parts locked in an endless battle for control of the mind that they shared. The girl, though, she would always lose, because she was smaller and weaker. She was shackled to a body that she could not control, bound to a mind that couldn't appreciate the simple things in life or notice the magic in the ordinary.
But I don't think of it that way anymore. I think of it as my adult self, who has a small, wonder-filled voice inside that loves to point out the splendor of the sunset, that encourages the adult to roll down the windows and let the wind play with her hair, that gives "grownup" me permission to stop thinking so much and just enjoy and appreciate and stand rapt in awe.
The older I get, the more I treasure that childlike voice. That little girl knows what's important, what really matters. Money, jobs, schedules, budgets, appointments, future plans...these are what matters to adult me. And, to be fair, all of these have a degree of importance. I'm not saying that the adult priorities do not have their place. Adulthood is necessary, and with it comes responsibility and obligation.
But we must not grow up without the child. We must not leave behind the simple pleasures that were so very important once upon a time. We must not rush into the future at the expense of that tiny voice.
Because without the child, without the ability to see a cell under a microscope and take a moment to simply marvel at the intricacies of it, or see a bird weaving a nest in spring time and stand amazed at the craftsmanship, if we can't see the sunset for the traffic in front of us, or a tiny, perfect snowflake without a hint of reverence, if we can know anything at all about the human body and not be humbled and astounded at the miracle of it, then I fear we are well and truly lost.
There is, however, a bit of good news. The inner child, true to form, is stubborn, tenacious, and quite unyielding. Holding on to consciousness in a veritable death-grip, it takes a lot of time and effort to get them to go to sleep, and considerably less to rouse them. So if you fear your inner child has fallen asleep, give them a prod by turning your eyes heavenward, and I believe you'll find that they return, rested, rejuvenated, and ready for magic and play.
No comments:
Post a Comment