I rarely do any more. And sometimes I yell at my kids for doing it. WHY?
I watched my children play in the snow today and it took me back to when I was little.
Suddenly, I had a flood of recollections. A flood of emotions. My mind went on a bizarre and frantic walk down memory lane... you know the kind where a million thoughts all run on the same train track at the same time vying for energy to emerge as a cognitive thought?
When I caught myself and pulled myself back to reality I asked myself if I was normal. Do people do this? Or am I crazy?
Typically I do not consider myself "off".... I have my moments. But then I convince myself that I am fairly normal (-ish). I think the way I view the world; my love of people and their stories is truly fantastic. That my tenacious, ferocious zeal is inspiring. That the way I process and analyze, figure out and postulate is as common as a chocolate chip cookie.
But today I asked myself, "am I maniacal, nutsy, unbalanced?"
(When you look at the world through my glasses sometimes you have to turn the machine inward. And isn't the first step recognition? ha)
Fighting a bit with myself, my psyche countered, "Couldn't I just be focused, you know.... acutely aware of details; of the good, the bad, the ugly in life and how it all intersects? Perhaps I am just a wonderful human engaged in a beautiful story."
That sounds correct. Yep. That must be it. Right?
I have pondered this all day ( and most of my life on and off) and here I sit at 8pm and I conclude that I may be, just a tad perhaps, eccentric. Not insane. Just a little, you know..... unconventional. (this may be the first time I am admitting that out loud)
That's not bad... just different.
And feels strangely refreshing.
I mean, I know that I don't really fit. I never really have. I have consoled myself with the fact that no one really does.... and if they do.... well, inside themselves they MUST doubt it.
And then I had children. Wonderful children. Perfectly individual and unique children. And I saw the world different:
See, one of my daughters fits. And the other one... doesn't. And the one who fits doesn't doubt. And the other one. She does. Doubt, I mean.
And the one who "fits" takes life at face value. And the other one. She questions. And figures out. And dreams.
And the one who fits is never called nuts. But the other ones is. And she views life from the outside looking in. And her view is clear sometimes. Others cloudy. Always personal. Always real.
I am attempting to help her navigate. Life is hard when you are a delicious middle schooler who absorbs every detail of the world. To be one who analyzes. Critiques. Changes with the scent of the wind. Grows like a spring vine. Processes like a rushing stream.
And having a raving lunatic for a mother is not easy. At all. Poor thing. (She needs your prayers for the next few years.)
So tonight we wrapped up on the chair, squished our bottoms close together, intertwined our arms and legs, laid our foreheads together, and talked about what works and what doesn't. And she told me.... sometimes... I am the opposite of helpful. The antithesis of comforting. The equivalent of a debunked compass.
And I sighed, squeezed her tight and said, "I know, baby girl, I know. All we can do is walk forward together. Navigate the best we can. Keep talking. Never give up."
She and I... we'll be crazy together. I just have to remember to let her draw her pictures in the foggy window, linger a bit as she brushes her hair, recognize the daze in her eyes as she visits her dreams, and sails the choppy waters as a captain on a journey to a land only she can see.
And maybe, just maybe she won't be 36 and wondering if she is, in fact crazy. I hope when she is 36 she will KNOW that she is crazy... and wild.... and perfectly, uniquely bizarre... and that a smile will emerge, her eyes will twinkle.... and she will grab her middle schooler's hand and walk forward with confidence.
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