To be a child once again

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We don’t get real winter here. You know, cover everything but your eyes and nose and then hope the cold doesn’t freeze your eyelids shut. Here, we prefer to stick to grey and rain, mostly. Probably because we’re really good at it. But every once in awhile, it’s cold enough to ice-over Fisher’s Pond. And that means one thing: a winter party. Fisher’s is a five acre pond in the middle of Vashon Island. If it’s cold here (in the 20s), then the sun is out, in all its glory. And when there’s ice on the pond, there’s only one place to be. Today was Zach’s very first time on skates. He reports, “I think I’m a natural.” There is a hockey game in full swing. Some guys my age (who have dusted off their skates and are grinning ear to ear), and a few youngsters (who are either Canadian, or transplants from the Midwest, because hockey is not our blood here). The slap of the stick on the puck, echos through the air and into the Aspen trees around the pond, and I am standing on Palmer Lake in Southern Michigan, a young boy pretending he is Gordie Howe. Here’s what I know for certain, watching everyone on the pond today: They are all certified members of The Society of Childlike Grownups. It’s a pretty good club join. And it takes days, like today, to remind us to ask, “Why do we so easily forget?” As a member of this Society of Childlike Grownups, we are entitled to many things, including the permission to (among many other things). . .
sing in the shower,
have a merry heart,
read children’s book,
act silly,
skate in middle age (and pretend to be a hockey star),
take bubble baths,
hold hands and hug,
dance,
fly kites,
laugh out loud,
cry out loud,
wander around,
give up worry and guilt and shame,
say yes and no and the magic words,
talk with animals,
look at the sky,
ask lots of questions,
and, waste an entire afternoon.

I don’t know if you read this poem. . .posted previously by Melinda Patton, but it’s good one.