I’ve been thinking about childhood today. It is a late, late Sunday poem tonight. I worked late tonight, and then HP and I did the ritual Let’s Talk About Every Single Thought We Each Thought Today thing, and so here I am. Whatever. I’ll be tired tomorrow. Tired but artistically satisfied. The two seem to go hand and hand.
Anyhow, I’m reading Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane, and it is so utterly transporting that I accidentally let several students go way, way over their phone time when they called home tonight. Whoops. I’m of the mindset that being utterly engrossed in reading is part of my job. Modeling. Word. I’m in danger of staying up all night to finish this book. God, how inconvenient is grown-up life?
Anyhow, the novel is told from the perspective of an extremely precocious seven year-old boy, who believes his world so completely, that it made me try to remember that kind of belief. I also did my Lighthouse reading tonight, and there is a bit in it where Mrs. Ramsay envies her children for their impentatrable universe, and earlier today my D1 informed me that the D’s were getting up early tomorrow morning because at D2’s “pretty house” her car was broken down and they had to go fix it so she could get to school on time. Apparently in D2’s imaginary world she drives herself to school. Earlier this weekend I was informed that she also studies biology. Am I in the TARDIS?
So, a childhood poem. I may have already written a very similar poem this year. That’s okay.
The Garden at Edge of the Mind
Yours was White Wild Cat World, and we were impossibly albino mountain lions with fierce and terrifying green and yellow eyes. My world was Walla Walla Land, named for a town I once heard and just for the fun of saying it. Both worlds were the same. Danger behind the rocks. Safe red berries mashed with leaves and creek water for supper. Speaking creatures. Compassionate and busy speaking creatures. Magical dens. Monsters attacking, real and big. But then, even then, we knew not to swallow the soup. It was the only real thing in make believe lands. How far we roamed as cats in the woods, but were ever out of eye-line or earshot? Or where we just well taught, as far as animal encounters and snowplows go? Would we allow our children to roam as far as we once did? Let’s hope. I’d like to see your now, friend, given all the other worlds we once tromped. And I’d like to find you here, still playing in the garden at the edge of our minds.
Goodness. I’d like to unearth more childhood memories. It is good work, and magic. I think I may have had a gorgeous childhood. Goodnight, and happy Sunday, poem friends.