Can Katie come out to play?

I was just sitting outside on my patio, absently looking at the lights wrapped around the railing, when I remembered something. I sat back and squinted my eyes, blurring the colors slightly. I did this as a kid, sitting in a rocking chair in the dark, blurring the colors like that. And I remember thinking, "I want to remember this moment. I want to remember this feeling." And I do. Mostly. I remember thinking that, and I remember the moment, but I don't remember the feeling. It's gone. I betrayed myself. But I don't think that's entirely my fault. For the most part, adults can't feel what children do. There are probably 101 ways to argue why that is: we're too jaded, we're wiser, we're emotionally mature (yeah right), we see how the world works now; our eyes are opened. I call bullshit.

We all have to grow up and do adult things. Pay the mortgage, take out the trash, take the dog to the vet, etc, etc, etc, ad infinitum. But there is a part of us that never grows up. It's not meant to. It's meant to stay a child. Yes, I'm talking about your Inner Child, stop rolling your eyes at me. You can call it baloney or Voodoo magic, but it's there. It's the part of you that every once in a while wants to throw a carrot at your wife while you're making dinner, or sneak up on your boyfriend and roar like a T-Rex. That simple, carefree little feeling you get; that silly little grin on your face when you do that, that's your Inner Child. And we all send it to its room too often.

The reason is multi-faceted. It's not our fault that we must fit into modern society to survive. It's a necessary evil. You have to shove that Inner Child down because no Kate you CANNOT skip down 6th Avenue right now, this is neither the time nor the place --we must. It's not our fault. But keeping it chained in the basement, never to see the light of day, well, that's on us. The problem with not allowing the Inner Child to play, is that it's meant to play. Everything else has gone all Adult, taking on responsibilities and shit; but not that part. The Inner Child stays innocent and pure. That part will always look at the world with a sense of wonder, and have an eagerness to explore it. That part will always see the magic in Christmas, will always relish tearing away that wrapping paper to see what treasure is inside. Granted, the contents will change (I got a set of Henckel knives) but the feeling stays the same. It happened to me today. My voice hitched a bit higher and I said with awe and excitement, "Really???" as I tore away the rest of the paper. I wanted the knives, but wasn't expecting them. My Inner Child got so damn excited at the unexpected surprise. I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time. Pure joy; Excitement; Wonder. For just a moment or two, I was 11 getting a Nintendo Game Boy. The feeling lingered a while, then faded away. But man, was that awesome.

Suppressing the Inner Child all the time is what's wrong with us; all of us. The entire human species. Because the Inner Child is the creative part. It's where we experiment, where we aren't afraid to fail, because we understand failing isn't really a thing. Failing is a thing we make up in our own heads, some random expectation or boundary that doesn't even exist. There is no such thing as failure. And that's the part of us that knows that. It's the loving part, the empathetic part, the curious part. It's where our dreams live. It's where they thrive.

Do you remember your dreams as a kid, your aspirations? I don't. I no longer remember what I always wanted to do, the thing that would make me happiest in this world. And when I came to realize this, I understood what a tragedy that is. My life is not my own. I did not craft it the way Katie wanted to craft it. I did betray myself. That's not to say I should quit my job and go hiking in the Australian outback for a year - although if that's what you really want to do, then maybe you should -- but I could nurture the parts of me that I took such meticulous care of in my youth, while still fulfilling my responsibilities. I could start painting again. I could start writing again. And I don't. Not because I won't want to, but because I shoved my Inner Child so far down that I can't find her. I don't know where she is, and that's why I don't remember my dreams; it's why I have an easel in my room, holding a canvas with a pencil sketch -- an idea, a hope, a memory -- patiently standing there as a silent sentinel, waiting for Katie to come back to play. If I find her I'll let you know, buddy. Promise.

At least today I finally fulfilled that promise to myself. Sure, I remember that moment; I do every year, when the Christmas lights go up, but it is void of feeling. That is a betrayal. But today, what I felt when I opened that package (a set of knives, for fuck's sake -- how old am I??), those few seconds that everything I ever worried about melted away, and I literally felt nothing but the sheer joy of the moment -- I finally honored that pledge. And, even if for just a fraction of a second, Katie got a chance to play.