Growing Up With Your Inner Child Alive And Well

Inner child is the keeper of our heart and source of joy. Mine became “She who must be Obeyed,” and never left home

“Where do you think we should put the third temple?” I asked my bestie Vicky as we carved a new pathway in the soft, wet sand. It was our seventh summer. One moment of glory after another as far as we were concerned.

I had read about ancient civilizations in Egypt in my Holy Bible, National Geographic magazine, at the beginning of summer. Vicky and I were certain we were reborn priestesses with special powers we had yet to unveil.

We launched out on an expedition and discovered the perfect oasis to immerse and nurture our fantasies and imagination.

A shelter belt holding two facing rows of Russian Olive trees stretched along the edge of our town. Providing a scant protection from fierce desert winds and rolling tumbleweeds. An irrigation ditch ran between the silvery-green leafed trees, supplying a steady stream of water from the Yakima river across the highway.

We were thrilled to come across a child sized, white sand beach in the middle of the shelter belt, only three blocks away from our homes. Underground pipes conjoined, creating a bubbling, foot deep pool of sparkling water.

We named our sacred spot, “The Olympic Fountains” and never revealed it to another soul. No one dared enter our realm. It was forbidden to all but the highest initiates. Us, of course.

We took turns nabbing watermelons from our family gardens to slake our afternoon thirst in the sizzling dry heat. Hours passed as we formed temples and landscaped the grounds.

Our priestesses were made of sticks bound with grass and dressed in fancy leaf robes for elaborate rituals. Time was of no consequence under the dappled light canopy of the whispering olive trees.

“I’m thirsty. Let’s crack that melon open,” I suggested. Thud and crack went the ripe melon on our sacrificial rock. Splitting open to reveal it’s bright red innards dotted with black, glossy seeds.

We began our rites, purifying our hands in the pool and chanting whatever came to mind for the Sun Goddess. After approval from above, we plunged our small but strong fingers straight into the heart of the melon. Extracting large chunks we popped into our eager mouths.

Juice dribbled down our chins as we laughed, spitting seeds at each other. Gorging until satiated. Finally rinsing sticky hands and faces to complete the deed.

We agreed, life couldn’t be any better than this.

Until that one afternoon. Summer was almost spent and school would soon replace our beloved “Olympic Fountains.” We had completed our site and were marveling at the abundance of new initiates. Vicky turned to me with questioning eyes and a frown. “Do you think we’ll have to grow up this year?”

She was from a Mormon family and schedules had started showing up in her bedroom and the kitchen. One was named Busy Bee and it had a calendar attached below. Neither of us approved this sign of structure on the way.

“Mom said I had to attend two classes every week at church this year. She told me it was time to learn about service to others.”

I was horrified and immediately protested. “We’re only seven years old! We get to be kids as long as we’re in elementary school!”

Vicky considered me an authority on family issues since there were ten kids in ours and only four in hers. She looked at me hopefully, “Will you still be my bestie, even if I can’t play with you as much?”

“Stay right here okay. Don’t move and cover your eyes. I have a plan.” She palmed her eyes as I leapt up with my usual overdose of life force. Dashing off to the dry bush and finding exactly what I was looking for. An extra large, pointy thorn.

“Okay, open your eyes. Let’s make an oath. It takes a blood sacrifice. Are you willing?”

She stared at the humongous thorn I sanitized with spit. “A small prick, right?”

We did the deed. Pricking our pinkies and mashing our blood drop together over the rippling water. Coming up with a vow in the process. “We will never grow up!”

Vicki went to after school, taming class and I continued to run wild with siblings and our neighborhood gang of post war, 50’s kids.

I learned a different form of service. I became Becky, who opened the bedroom window for my two teen sisters returning from a midnight sneak out. A job I was eager to perform.

The stories I heard were not fit for my innocent, burning ears. I couldn’t wait to grow up, cut a double digit birthday and do those things myself. But I was still a kid. Damn it.

I took my vow to inner child Becky seriously as the years passed into double digits and beyond. Some harsh lessons came my way, but Becky always threw me a lifeline and resurrected my flagging spirit through trials. She slowly became the guardian and director of my heart and life.

Becky would like to share some thoughts with adults.

Hey y’all. R and I have been talking about the sorry state of affairs in our world but that’s not on the menu today. We know you’re overdosed with bad news instead of sparkly. May we suggest a get together with your inner child?

Some of you believed you needed to ditch your inner kid to function as an adult. You know, your child who saw dust motes in a sunbeam and stopped to stare in wonder at a phenomena you never knew existed. Caught in a pleasant little trance weren’t you.

Even if you had a challenging childhood, you still felt delight spotting a rainbow in the sky after a storm. Or your doggie so happy to see you coming home from school. Your best friend saving you a special cookie and delivering it half eaten. You forgave her since you would’ve done the same.

I’m R’s joy. I’m the one who takes her on a walk through the forest every morning. Also the one adults stop to talk to along her path. They have no clue who’s in charge. That would be me. But this is what they do know and why they stop.

I can make them laugh or grin, even if they’re sad. Yesterday we met an artist who draws birds on cards and sells them in the local bookstore. This lit up R so much I didn’t have to do a thing. Sometimes I let her be in charge.

You should’ve heard her gushing away about birds. Embarrassing, even for overly enthusiastic me.

This poor woman just lost her husband. We didn’t know that until she took R’s hand and thanked her for the reminder there is still lightness of being in life. We shared a tiny tear after she drove away and consoled ourself picking ripe blackberries. Yum!

It’s a good thing R is a responsible adult and can use her brain — sometimes. I don’t want anything to do with that troublemaker in her skull. I’m sticking to heart zone.

R was sighing over paperwork the other day, her nemesis as she likes to call it. Fancy word, right? I’m a weird kid and I like strange words. Whoops, off track.

I suggested she put a big X across the page and mail it back to sender. Someone has to be in charge of that crud. Glad it’s not me. Sorry for your burdens adults, but that’s the point. Inner kid can lighten your load!

Adults are looking more frazzled than usual. This won’t do. It’s a warning your inner child is struggling on the back burner or worse, absent without your notice.

We inner kids are masters of cheap thrills. It doesn’t cost one cent to take us with you on any journey. Let us be your guides, instead of your stuffy adult and you’ll feel a change in your outlook. I guarantee that.

I helped R in so many ways, you can’t even imagine. I was the one who sent her out on the road and the one who advised her to work for herself.

I was the interpretor of her dreams and together, we forged them into reality. Your inner kid will do the same.

We’re the keepers of your magic. We won’t steer you wrong. Pinkie promise. How could we? We live in your heart!

Go ahead, pretty please. Breathe some life into your inner kid.

Let’s get into some trouble together! The good kind.

Like eating all the mulberries off the tree when we know we could be making jam. Piss on that!

Signing off: Mulberry stained fingers and deeply satisfied, bad influence at your service.