I volunteered at James school today. Life is easy for these mini people, they live life for the moment. They are cute and sweet and want to learn. They are inquisitive and easy to talk to without judgments learned over time, with age.
Thoughts of my mother come and go. I wonder what type of child she was? She was the oldest of five and then eight when my grandfather remarried. Did my mother have more responsibilities at a younger age? My mother was born in the 1930s, it was a different era. People struggled and had hard times, at least that's what we hear. But, what was it really like?
Even back than, children would find happiness, they don't know any other way. Children play make believe, and use their imagination to find things to play with. They played stick ball in the streets, because fun isn't about what we have, its about how we perceive our world.
Children seem to find fun under any circumstances. They will be joyful until the moment a miserable adult tells them otherwise. Adults steal children's joy. We take their innocence for granted, pushing through our busy, hectic, and often stressful lives. One day those children will grow up and the cycle continues. Their childlike ways long forgotten, hidden beneath their own grown up lives.
Having our own children gives us a glimpse of who we once were. Little people who look like us and act like we once did. Little people who teach us to find happiness in the little things all over again.
My mother's inner child is hiding far away inside her mind, peaking through a sliver of dark space, wondering if she'll ever come out and play again.
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