...in wonderland

I caught myself writing about the ways I don't measure up; trying to make a good story out of it. I forgot about imperfection. In less than a week I forgot that I don't need to be perfect. I already cut my marionette strings, but the body never forgets. It is time for my fine line walking to become a bit smudged. I think too much, too many metaphors.

I watched Alice in Wonderland on Saturday night. It must have been at least 15 years since I had seen it last. I remembered watching it for the very first time. I was 4 and living on a farm with my mom and dad, as well as: Elliot, our goat; 16 cows;2 cats, Samson and Delilah; Hickory and Cassidy, our golden retriever and german shepard, repsectively. Oh yeah, there were 11 puppies mothered by Hickory and fathered by Cassidy. I learned about Alice and her cat Dinah the day that it became spring. It was the morning I woke up and all the trees had leaves on them. Just like that, overnight, it was spring. Alice's flowers were singing about a golden afternoon while I was weaving through the gold-flecked cornfields on my own afternoon. The caterpillar was questioning Alice on a mushroom while my mom and I would be picking mushrooms down the street. Not only did I remember the Cheshire cat, but I whispered goodnight to him every quarter. It is not just about the great memories during this time in my life. I had great feelings. The Mad Hatter reminded me of the joy that surfaced in my early years. I found my own definition of nostalgia. I find it in the way my eyes close and my head shakes softly; I find it in the way I catch my breath and I feel it in my small nod of appreciation for beautiful life moments. I nod in acceptance and appreciation for the many memories that ride the wave of nostalgia.

I can navigate this wonderland, after all, I created it.