Grownups at play

A few months ago Vava and I were walking home down the broad sidewalk and gentle hill of our main street. Her little hand was nestled in mine. Grey clouds were rolling in, high up in the sky, and little puffs of wind blew about. 

It was a Sunday, and the day felt free and light. There was very little traffic and hardly anyone around.

I looked down at my long-limbed girl, freckle-faced and starry-souled.

"Wanna skip?" I asked.

Her face lit up. We skipped. Holding hands, l-left r-right, l-left r-right all the way down the long hill, blocks and blocks of skipping. We laughed and laughed from sheer joy until we ran out of breath, then we linked hands and did it again.

And a few weeks later I was walking the same route again, this time by myself, and I really wanted to skip. It's faster, and fun, and my walk was kind of boring. And the memory of our gleeful skip danced on ahead of me while I walked on, step after boring step.

You know how when you're a kid, you can't wait to grow up because you'll be in charge of you?  And you think you'll be able to do anything you want?

But you won't be able to skip down the street by yourself. Or wander in the woods, feeling the different textures of bark and looking under moss for bugs and challenging your friends to find the biggest mushrooms. Or lie upside down on the couch with your feet on the wall, absorbed in your book.

I mean, you can. But with a side order of side-eye and maybe a few questions about your sanity.

Why did we ever decide that skipping isn't for grownups? Or climbing trees? Or biking with no hands? Why do these things signal something wrong, instead of something deeply, freely, beautifully right?

[Our culture tells us that for adults, pursuing interests should be productive, or competitive, or financially driven. 

A grown man biking furiously with a delivery box on his bike? Responsible. A grown man biking as fast as he can down the street with a racing bib on his shirt? Laudable. A grown man racing down the street on his bike, chortling with glee? Wacko.

Anyway.]

I held in the skip until I got to my own street. I couldn't see anyone out and about. And so I picked up my feet and careened down the sidewalk l-left r-right, l-left r-right all the way home.  Bliss.

Last night I was driving down a street in the dark and I saw a man doing the same thing. Not skipping, but practicing tricks on his bike. He was on the far end of middle age, still wearing the dressy shirt I imagine he'd worn to work. 

When I drew alongside him he was pedaling steadily, hands in the air, a look of quiet bliss on his face. I felt a wave of joy and unity and a sense of rightness. Humans at play are captivating.

When the day breaks - when the morning stars sing together and the trees of the field clap their hands - I will not trudge down the streets of gold. I may bike. I may skip. If the good Lord sees fit to grant me some rhythm I will even dance.

And all the grownups will play.

(But it's so much better if we start now!)