Dark and sinister man, have at thee!

Who knew that once you "grow up," finding things to be passionate about becomes a daily chore?

"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me."

And there is good in maturing (don't get me started on healthcare plans and dependency and boys who can shave and personal responsibility and ... ok, moving on). But it breaks my heart to think how many people have lost that childlike sense of wonder and excitement that wakes kids up in the morning. It's that spark of interest in them that keeps them looking around, asking questions, reaching for things, and stopping in their tracks.

I watched "Hook" last night - again. I'd forgotten how poignant the storyline was - so many subtle lines jumped at me this time around.
Maggie's encouraging "Run home, Jack!"
Tink's "You know that place between sleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. That's where I'll be waiting."
Grandma Wendy's "Hello, Boy."
Hook's deep revelations over the meaninglessness of a life that lasts forever.

But I think the part that got me most was Peter's re-transformation (I hesitate to call it regression - it's an old form with new dimensions). Watching him remember how to let go of worry, of rules, of reality, and start to imagine again was inspiring.

It also made me think: If I could live my life with a sense of childlike wonder and excitement, what a cool mom I might one day be! (I told my boyfriend I want to adopt a handful of boys and call them my Lost Boys. He cringed a little.)

The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind.

There once was a girl. She cut her own hair and wore what she pleased (and declined to wear what she didn't please). She wasn't very good with numbers or distance, or money or time. But she could weave worlds with her words. This girl worked very hard to have a few nice things: a well-lighted home, a stocked pantry, and of course, books. But what she dearly wished was to pay her bills with words, to feast on them every night, and to wake up to a fresh torrent of words every day. One day, the girl decided that was it! She'd had enough. She said, "That's it! I've had enough. I will live by my words. It may not be easy, and sometimes it may not be fun, but it is what I am and what I do, so I will be it and do it with every particle of myself." That day, the girl stepped one foot off the path - the path that was so heavily trod by so many many feet before her that it was smooth and broad and far too easy to follow - and she felt the grass between her toes. The sunshine seemed warmer and thicker, the air beside the path was less dusty, and her nose was no longer filled with the scents of sweat and tears and pain. That day the girl always remembered as the "Grass Between My Toes" day. That day was the end of something old and routine and tired and the beginning of something fresh and frightening and right.