GROWING: 5.15.13

 

"I don't want to grow up," he tells me.

And I understand, believe me, I do. 

"I want to stay like I am, and just play."


I thought there would be this Magical Transition, you know, when I grew up. I'd know exactly what I wanted to be and exactly who I was, and that's how I'd know I was grown up.

I even thought it happened a few times. Like, when I realized that being an actress was something a lot of other people wanted me to be, and that the need to hide in the folds of its cloak had left me some time before. I changed my major unofficially and took classes like Humanism and Mysticism, journalism and poetry. I was quiet about all that, and it felt very rebellious and grown up.

The feeling happened again when a passion stayed with me long enough to earn a degree. It was somewhat anti-climactic, in the middle of the school year, but there was this piece of paper that said I'd done it and now I could feel like an adult, truly and officially. I think I had the feeling for a full five minutes before it floated up out of reach because I still didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up.

The piece of paper...it was supposed to mark that Magical Transition, the one that I was waiting for, the one that would tell me who I was. Something was supposed to happen when I held it in my hand. Oh, I was vulnerable when I didn't feel it right away and I took to heart something that was implied to me...that I could be an artist, but only in my "spare" time.  I had to do something else to make a living. Somehow, setting my personal fulfillment aside seemed like the most grown up decision to make, at the time. Ha. 


Eleven years later, my son tells me he doesn't want to grow up and I wonder if it's because he is a constant witness to our esoteric struggles, spoken of in tense whispers. All those damned grown up responsibilities that weigh us down with stress and worry while we burn with the desire to create and wonder why we didn't just build that gypsy wagon we talked about when we used to sleep outside every night. It makes as much sense to me as it does to him and suddenly I know I don't have to keep pretending I'm grown up, or rather that being grown up means I have to be something measuring up to imaginary expectations in order to have worth.

And then I wonder..when, exactly, did I stop having fun? When did I stop playing and why did I ever believe the person who told me I had to be something other than myself and pursue paths that were not marked for me?

He always shows me what I need to see.

"Me, too," I reply.

I want to stay like I am, and just play.