I know that at a certain age, it’s not agreeable to push a grocery cart down the aisle with one foot on the floor and one on the cart until it goes fast enough to ride. I also know that rolling my eyes at Hugh when he invites me to an elbow-rubbing event at the Country Club reveals my immaturity (and loathe of pretense), and so does propping my feet on the dashboard while my teenage daughter drives me through the neighborhood.
I know all the rules of growing up and professional writing too, like making words march like ants across a page with authoritative purpose and rational clarity, but lately I just want the freedom to be messy, mediocre, seeking, and spontaneous. To scribble words in circles and phrases that make little sense and come to no real point, and blow bubble gum while I’m doing it, and I’m not just saying that.
The other thing is that I don’t communicate in my native tongue on this blog, which language is that of beauty, of candor, and of spiritual things. To the untrained ear, it may sound as if I do, but to those who know the pure language of the spirit, it may be discerned that my wild thoughts and emotions about the same rarely have an audience besides the specks of dust in the rise of my morning walk. And I’m okay with that, but I think if I could swirl words and stipple painted phrases of nonsense on this page, this expressive river of my soul might flow a small stream instead of a trickle.
We are all children after all my friends, gathering wool of wonder in this dreamlike galaxy, so why not play?