What might I be if I’d been allowed, or allowed myself, free reign to follow childhood passions?
A pianist, a singer? A meteorologist? A camp counsellor? A writer, an explorer? A witch?
Would I be writing fabulous hit musicals, or composing more serious music?
I think back to those old days of writing songs in my head, putting the notes on paper, then playing them on the piano. Of old notebooks full of scenes – practicing my storytelling, yes, but also practicing being a heterosexual.
I think of hours alone in a canoe, knowing every twist and turn of the water, the paddle just an extension of my body. Swimming for days, in lakes and channels and the ocean and my swimming pool.
I remember believing I could control the weather with my magic ring (and who knows? Perhaps I could!), hours spent with playing cards that turned into a tarot deck soon enough, the instinctive hunting for amber on the trees in our front yard.
Many of these childhood things are still with me now. Either they’ve been there all along, or they are freshly flexing and burgeoning now, or still some place buried…but just beneath the skin. I can see the bulge, the urge to grow, to luxuriate in serious play.
Who would I be if I allowed myself that courage now?
Stay tuned. We may both find out, and hopefully soon.
(But until then, I read. Back to how I spent a huge portion of my childhood, happy and quiet and alone in my head.)