What I remember best about childhood was the freedom. The freedom of play. I remember sitting on my tree swing crafted by father. The wood underneath my very tiny boney butt and the two distinctive pieces of yellow rope intertwined together around and around to the top of the tree. That yellow rope was my dad's signature rope. It was on my swing. It was on things he fixed around the house. On our Christmas tree when tied about our blue Volkswagen. And on this swing I would sit and swing and then sit. And just be. Staring outside and up into the clouds. And closing my eyes and taking my legs to my butt and lengthening out past my feet. Over again and again. My eyes closed brought darkness but this light show created in light and movement created colors and shapes. As I moved another show created. I spent time staring in and out and swinging. The freedom of just being there. And doing nothing. But daydreaming and looking and seeing and closing my eyes to create my own freedom of what I wanted to see.
My backyard was covered in vegetables my parents had planted in boxes built by my father. My seeds in with them and the dirt off to the side to place the seeds. And what would happen next. Would it grow? My label put upon a piece of wood and waiting. And in the dirt. The dirt I played. In afternoons of mud pies made for each one of my family and friends. And eaten very quickly and started again. Dumping it out to begin again. The mud caked my fingers and painted on my face and arms and sprayed onto my clothes. The texture of it. The mud. The way to make the perfect mud pie. Grabbing just enough mud and spreading it around the tin. With a design on top. And presenting it to my parents or my friends even if they weren't sitting next to me. The freedom to play in mud and not care if I was dirty. I wanted to be. And no one told me to clean up. They let me play in mud.
And I still like to get dirty. Maybe because I have had issues with spilling. Or it reminds me of what was. And every time I see a parent scold a child for having paint left over from a school project on them or the evidence of an ice cream smeared upon their face. I cringe. Because the freedom of not caring should be given to children. They have their rest of their lives to pretend to be perfect and clean. Let's give them this. The swings and the mud and the messiness of just being free.
What I remember best of my childhood was this freedom my parents gave me. In the chaos that was my home sometimes-this place this gift they gave me-when they weren't in the abyss of figuring themselves out. Somehow I had the freedom and the responsibility of adultness as a child in the worrying and caregiving and anticipating what would be next. And as much as I sometimes wish for a different childhood, I can't ignore what my parents gave me. The freedom to be a child. Sometimes. That allows me to be light and be free still in ways I know that without that swing to be swung made for only me or the mud pie tins filled with mud never needing to be cleaned-I might not have grown and flourished. Into who I became.
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