An Elementary Reflection

Housesitting without internet has made me use my computer in a new, old way. I was going through the various pathways that all these writings are saved in and during my consolidation or re-organization I came to a few old writings. That made me laugh. I loved reading them again. So I will post a few of those. Sans internet I have also started getting my pen and paper writings onto the QWERTY. Those should be soon. I'm going to try to post something every day. Some new, some old, some bad, some not bad. Anyway, this one makes me happy.

An Elementary Reflection


The other day I saw a sign posted that read “Lost Dinosaur” – the writing, so fresh and new to the world, detailed a lost friend. A penny reward was offered for rescue and recovery. At the time, I smiled and thought how great my life would be if my adult worries only entailed lost dinosaurs.

Fast forward a week until today – an 80 degree afternoon that I fortunately had free from the grips of employment. I take my 10 speed out for a spin around the lake. While flicking my bell as I pass a rollerblader on the left … the sound of nostalgia sets in. I am reminded of my pink childhood bike adorned with streamers and, of course, a bell.

How far is my life from adolescence… really? I refuse to accept that the only similarity is my child-like figure.

Last night, like most nights, I got to be a part of an eccentric production – bright lights, music, ball gowns and a captivated audience … a scene that originally materialized on my parent’s front porch. Maybe those hours of home video footage are more than an embarrassing glimpse of my past ... instead the endless film reel serves as a humiliating prelude to my future.

On this near perfect day, the place I choose to etch my thoughts is not a café to brew up sophisticated reflection with the help of a tall vanilla latte. Instead, I sit, where most early memories start … in the grass, under a maple, watching nature and human nature alike. Although, in youth I would probably be bossing around my friends (not unlike the kid screaming behind me today) to play the games that I wanted to play and, of course, initializing the “NOT IT” vote.

Staring at this notepad (very diary-like in size) I realize that the poster’s script is not unlike my own. His hand shows he’s unused to the circles and lines that draw our language. My chicken scratch, however, is from knowing these shapes so well that I no longer dwell on their appearance, my attention focused on their content. My sister would tell you my writing is actually due to the thumb wrap I never unlearned. None the less, the surfaces (of poster and pad) share an uncanny resemblance.

I could go on to say that the message on the flyer is simply a cry to find a lost companion and that this cry never refrains as life persists … but I’d rather keep this 80 degree day sweet, not sad.

My 8 year old brain and my 24 year old brain still thinks that marriage, family, careers, and the rest of adulthood are eons away. I wonder how long that ignorance with hold true …