Our Playground

The tiny girl carefully balanced atop the plastic ladder and paused, searching, pleading.  Mom the little cherub's voice softly called.  I'm right here the Mother reassured, standing by.  And the realization of being watched caused the girl to smile, beaming.  She delighted in knowing she was seen.

And I, too, had been seen, as a tiny cherub, as an alluring woman.

When I was a small child I climbed into my Grandfather's lap, cupping his face in my hands and declared You're not paying enough attention to me.  Dumbfounded, he stared, speechless.
And so it goes, the line of men standing in their memories behind me, their confused, disbelieving minds over the Resa that is me.  And the craziness they learned not to understand.  But wished they could.

What a delicate balance relationships seem to be.  The decisions we question, the Shoulds we allow to overwhelm the contradicting newness that consumes us.  The pain we draw strength from as our hearts let go of the selfishness we desperately long to cling to.  The compromise, the sacrifice, the forgiveness that wills us to forgetfulness.  And always, the recollections of the paths we passed which alongside the age of time grow far less vivid.  Yet their fading image lingers.

The young girl peddaling on her tricycle, reveling in her solitude, halts when her Mother asks her to give her little sister a ride too.  No! The peddling cherub pronounces.  And races away from both of them.  This is her time, it is not to be shared.  And the baby sister, crying, shuffles over to her Mother to be comforted over her sisters unwillingness to share this moment.

And I secretly rejoiced at the stubborn child's declaration of freeing independence.

Yet, if I were that Mother, what would be the right thing to do?  Surely, a young child embracing all that is in her, all the creativity welling inside of her, needs the freedom to be alone, to express her emotions, to delight in her selfness.  And equally so, she needs to learn the art of sharing, of compromise, of a love that includes. And how is one to know which time is which?

Where exists the balance?  Is such a proposition a possibility?

I reflected over my own childhood, one that unlike those who dain strong recollections I instead have colorless, vague memories, remembering little and questioning whether that which I do remember has merely been retold to me.  I was very loved.  Both my parents were present.  I was encouraged and delighted in.  I had the freedom to speak my mind, to creatively express myself and all the mess that trailed behind. 

And in such love, existed the imperceptible compromise I never knew.

Love sacrifices.  Love lets go of its selfish dreams and instead gives up all for the betterment of others, of one worth loving more than oneself.  Love releases.  Love understands all that cannot be not because it wouldn't be radiant but because while it flourished others may wither.  They mightn't, they could surprise.  Changes could open new doors and new chapters but the fear of inducing pain on the ones you want to protect outweighs your hunger for adventure, for possibility, for the feeling in your gut that flips in knots.

And as I watched the little screamers playing unawares I saw that his heart, while seemingly torn betwixt two, actually lied with a pair of untouchables.

And that was a good thing, that was a beautiful thing.  That is what I would want.

And my selfishness, trying to break its way out of the buried room inside of me, failed in its vain attempts.
I already saw the wonder that I'd fallen for. And somehow loved even more in accepting it must never be, not for him, not for me, but for them. 

Always, only, for them.