Last night I stepped out of an S class carrying a profound joy that sprang from feeling the absolute rightness of where I am right now. Nothing to do with boy/girl moments or the state of my finances or the world or beyond (although I think if everyone could ride their joyful vibration, the world would shift into a better place. And, no, I'm not going to break out into a round of "Kumbaya," cuz I can't sing...you're on your own for that). This feeling had everything to do with touching and honoring the place I am right now and how lucky I am that I'm getting to know it. Letting it be in me/me in it. My thoughts were around how I play. How, in my life I've skipped and rolled, and I began wondering when the absolute pure joy of those actions stopped, or rather, when did I put a stop to them? How did she play back in the day when there was really nothing else but that?
One of my favorite pictures from back when i was shorter is of my dad and I when I was 7. We're in the courtyard of our house in LA and he's gesticulating away, probably telling a joke, arms out to the side, mouth in mid-speak. I'm beside him looking into the camera like a side-kick, like maybe I'm the one who introduced him to the audience with "Here's Dean-o. He's my daddy." I have a shiny, little bowl-like haircut and ears that stick out just like his, and though I most likely didn't get the joke he was telling, I'm really happy to be there. I was the only kid in the house. I don't remember ever wishing I had brothers and sisters. I liked my two cats. I liked to read. I liked to play with the girl next door (she had a horse and a pool), and the two brothers down the street. And I was curious and pretty quiet, though i liked to giggle. How did I play? While a fairly solo adventure, I did hatch plans that let me see the world in ways that I often got in trouble for.
Like the time I snuck out my window on the second floor to go down the street to play with the brothers, but then when I got back home I couldn't get the screen back in the window and when my mom discovered it she thought someone had tried to break into the house and she called the police. You know when you feel like things are unfolding crazy fast around you and it seems too late to do anything about it? That's what I remember. I didn't say a word about how I was the one who broke the screen. (Mom, if you're reading this, sorry.) I just went with it, watched it happen and then—thank gawd they didn't start a neighborhood watch or anything—it died down. And I think that's about the time I began to realize that fun could also be a bit scary. (Closely followed by the incident where the brothers and I set a neighbor's yard on fire. Those boys were trouble. Wait...I sense a trend here. Oh, never mind.)
But back to play. To joy. At some point, as I imagine in most everyone's life, a turning comes. An event, or a series of them, happens and pure joy isn't an always-state-of-being. And for me, it wasn't like a conscious choice, Oh, I'll visit that joy state a little less often. No. It was merely a way my life was going. There was fun and play and laughter and then some fear and rumbling and scary and then more play. All mixed up. Though I adjusted the dimmer on the lightness and didn't turn it up as much as I might have, I think the little smiling bowl-haircut-girl with the sticking-out ears just took a step back into the shadows to watch. The playing became a bit different and the serious got more important and the years rolled on.
Which is why last night, when my inner-playmate and I got reacquainted, I immediately asked her to come out more often. And I think she's going to take me up on it. I've learned how to fit a screen and use a fire extinguisher, so I think we can handle it from here: wiggle our ears at the fear.
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