Continuing to Grow with the Map of Gut Feeling and the Compass of Wisdom.
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I remember every memory from when I was young. The way the leaves fell from the trees in their splendid, golden way down on the pile I jumped into. I remember the goldfish bobbing and floating on top of my tomato soup, the way it spread warmth throughout my tiny toes.
It was a simpler time, admittedly. When you ask anyone about their memories as a five-year-old, a ten-year-old, a bazillion-year-old, and they’ll tell you what it was. Being young, we are often blind to the loss of innocence that happens during growing up.
My mother often tells me she misses the me from when I was younger. As the oldest of four, I was the hipster of our family — crazy, new, and exciting to my parents. My favorite movie involved lots of horses and lots of singing. My favorite movie now involves lots of singing, but with a touch of kissing and messing around.
They all love who I am now, but I still long for those days too. Those days when I could be anything I wanted to be, whether that be a fairy princess or a little brat.
Yeah, bumbling around with a red balloon at the zoo isn’t exactly my style anymore. I want to be the lioness, not the cub. I want to hear my own roar sounding with the inner conviction that I am grown, I am in my glory. Yet, the fickle tar pit of the past seems to be hurled in my direction by my parents and friends.
“Remember how you used to love animals so much?” they say. “And now you get stressed out by a dog barking.” Yes. I do get stressed out by a little Yorkie yapping away at some ungodly hour of the night. Look, I’m not crazy. The space between my past self and myself now is called change, growth, development, power. It’s okay, I have to tell myself. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
My lungs are a little bigger now. I can run for four miles, I can hold my breath underwater for over a minute, and I can breathe in the storm cloud scent of rain. I breathe in the love, exhale the crap. I use my mind, my heart, and my energy to carry me. Little blue rain boots and cat costumes used to carry me far too. But those were simpler times, in a simpler frame of mind.
Yet my glory is here. It is now. My past is something faded, a picture with a touch of sepia set in. I have to accept that it’s okay to look back at it once in awhile. I’ll keep progressing, keep going forward with the map of gut feeling and the compass of wisdom.
People keep telling me it’s all one, ginormous, big project to complete. It’s true, and yet I so often forget what it really means. But one day, one glorious day, I’ll dig up my soul and find that long buried treasured glory.
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Grace Snarr is a freelance writer who lives with her family in San Antonio, Texas. She likes bright sunshine, bright people, and a bright life.
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