In a conversation with my partner Donald, I recollected a childhood much like his own: One rampant with almost unbearable yearning to be someone else and somewhere else; to be more in control of one's destiny.
I mentioned a memory I had of standing in a clearing at the town park where I grew up. It was a summer day with a potent wind. Thick grass all around me, waving like an ocean. I closed my eyes and stretched my arms out and felt, for the briefest of moments, that I had transcended the earth and was rising...rising...rising. I was flying away. Much of my childhood was spent fantasizing that I was rising above my life, transcending the existence of a lonely, shy, fumbling, fearful, uncertain kid who was picked on by bullies, belittled by my father, and never comfortable with my own family. I didn't fit in with them, my school, my peers. Nobody. I had no comfort zone other than my own mind, where I created vast empires for me to rule and magnificent powers that made me stand out from the crowd.
It wasn't odd that I gravitated toward books that encouraged that type of dreaming: Lord Of The Rings; The Chronicles Of Narnia; A Wrinkle In Time. Had I a sword and a fearless horse and a suit of chain mail and an army behind me, I would have led the charge against the enemy without hesitation. Instead of girlish preoccupation with dolls and clothes and painting my toenails, I was obsessed with finding a place in the universe that would allow me to unleash my inner warrior. While others admired Barbie, I worshiped Joan Of Arc. Underneath all my hesitation and wallflowery behavior there lurked a Valkyrie.
Adolescence brought about a tempest of emotional problems, exacerbated by drugs, alcohol, sex, thievery, violence. The desire to rise and fight the good fight died. The chemicals I ingested might have loosened my tongue and given me false courage, but facile power is a fake god. If I swaggered with seeming confidence be assured I would stumble when it was least to my advantage. The pendulum, it appeared, had swung sideways.
I gaze upon my thinning hair
White and silver hanging there
Where did I get this sagging skin?
And what about this double chin?
I never knew I'd get this old,
Back when I felt so young and bold.
It startles me occasionally
When I get a glimpse of Present Me.
I wrote that bit of doggerel today in my head after examining my face in the mirror. On lame limbs, I go about my days sans the yearnings of childhood and the screaming of my teenage years. Under my white mop of hair, my eyes are still blue and clear, and I see beauty in many things. I'm calmer and happier, in quiet ways.
Not that I wouldn't jump at the chance to lead an army to victory or slay a dragon.
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