The Inner Child
(written in 2000 or 2001, while senior in H.S., unsure of exact date)
A little child
so innocent and free
full of joy and love
uninhibited by those fears
that plague me
so trusting and naive
in everyone and everything
self-confidently taking on life
bold and daring
risking her all
to capture a world
What happened to that child
How does one mature in life? Does each individual have a turning point, a coming of age, as happens in fiction? Or do some of us go on, unchanging? I know I'm physically an adult. I'm married, have born a child, and my metabolism isn't what it used to be. But in other ways I'm just as I was in high school. My emotions are still as close to the surface, full of "teenage" angst (minus the dating and school stresses); I can have awful, inexplainable mood swings, deep depressions, exhilarating highs, and all hard for me to communicate. If I'm upset, I still clam up. I think I'm so good at story dialogue because of all the conversations that have happened in my head but never came out of my mouth.
I'm a basket case of social anxiety. I'm also scared to death of driving, never had a license or even taken the road test. Do we ever grow out of our insecurities?
The closest I've come to living on my own was when I had disagreements with my parents and moved in with the family of a friend's friend. I helped pay rent, but wasn't really part of the household, and rarely there - more at other friend's houses, or occasionally even crashing back at my parents. That was my most independent stage. I walked, biked, bussed; kept to my own schedule; dated lots.
Am I any smarter now than five years ago? I don't think so. I still don't stand up for myself, deal with people well, or have an ounce of common sense. I'm a complete airhead. I need a sign that says Warning: Absentminded Writer. I've never finished continuing education. Never been to college, or even completed a degree online. Biggest reason I didn't keep working toward ECE degree? I panicked and got completely overwhelmed at all the interaction I'd have to do - visit preschools and daycares, do interviews, take notes, eventually do 200+ hours of internship. If I couldn't handle all that, how could I ever handle the job itself?
I don't think I can emotionally handle a career outside of creative writing. Just as I know I wouldn't be able to handle another child.
In case you've begun to wonder, no this is not a rant. Merely a... reflection on the state of my being. I can still say I want to be a writer when I grow up. 1) I don't feel grown up yet; 2) I'm not yet a published, paid, professional writer.
Then again, if growing up means losing your innocence, losing that child within yourself, then I grew up long, long ago.
Seeking that which is Lost
written March 23, 2007
I sit cross-legged on oaken floor
loosen my muscles from head to toe;
breathe in the fresh, clean air encompassing me,
eyes settling on a single pink flower
in the vine border of the cream wall before me;
outer vision blurs as I journey within.
Break down unsteady walls of insecurity.
Push through foggy layers of forgetfulness.
Swim through the ever-circling moat of procrastination.
Enter the well guarded keep of true self.
Seeking that which is lost.
In the bottomless dungeon? No...
there dwells my heart, held under lock and key.
In the gilded tower? No...
there reside my dreams, gazing at the stars.
I pass through the library,
smiling at my muse, crafting inspiration,
and finally find that which I sought
deep within the treasury, dwelling in memories.
I take her hand, this child in me,
coax her to stay by my side,
as I return to focus my eyes
on the painted wall before me.