Somedays I read children’s books. Not chapter books, middle grade or young adult — illustrated picture books. I escape to faraway places where stars still twinkle, trees speak to your soul, and dreams are not only created, but found.
A place void of routine and full of whimsy. Where grass is always green, eyes are open to discovery, and magic is never overlooked or lost to a frenzy of doing. Perspective doesn’t travel beyond the moment, and you are surrounded by only those who love and cherish — your best friend, favorite pet and of course, family.
The adult world of worry and deadlines, tasks and toil doesn’t exist on those colorful, decades-worn pages that still smell faintly of ink. It’s real magic — the opportunity to relive the innocent, purity of mental youth.
Pages turn as a rush of childhood daydreams revisit. Those of my own and memories of my young children’s. The time before school papers and projects that overnight progressed to endless activities and emerging middle year social pressures. Before teen angst slowly debuted and took over, pushing the boundaries of innocence.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a good story …. especially adult fiction. Truth however forces me to admit it often weighs heavy after all I’ve had to carry in real life. My shoulders are weak and at times I don’t want to read the other perspective, feel the comradery, or be forced into a state of gratitude …. I just want to sit in the grass and smell the flowers once again.
