When I was a kid, I was happiest floating on simply being. Laying on my belly, looking at the world up close. Or making cabins for faeries out of twigs on the ground. Wandering through the woods looking for mayflowers and magic. Making up stories and walking around in them until they felt real.
In part, that’s what childhood is for. For some of us, it’s a calling. As an older child and into adulthood, I hid in music, playing oboe and sending out stories written in notes and magic made with my breath.
The question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” made me supremely uncomfortable.
How do you explain to your friends who were planning on being teachers or nurses or mommies that you wanted to live in a hut like Baba Yaga’s so you could take home with you wherever you wandered…to live in a cabin in the woods and write stories. To have people come visit for tea and send them away with packets of magic folded in paper to be tucked away in a pocket and found later when needed?
I’ve had flashes of this as an adult… making things people found beautiful, writing stories, creating magic with sound, having tea with friends and when they left we both felt healed. In the primary world this is why we have hobbies, and friends, and tea.
Times when my ordinary work served a greater purpose.
Sometimes late at night I see myself as a much older woman, standing in the shade looking out at a beach of white sand and a sea of impossible blue. A gentle wind is teasing my dress, inviting me to dance. In this moment I know that whatever I do in life, I will have lived a good one when it’s done, hopefully long from now.
And still. I long to live in a cabin, creating magic that people can see and feel and hear. And maybe take home a packet of paper tucked in a pocket to be found later when needed.