Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
It’s the middle of the day, and the sun, making a rare spring appearance, is just beginning to warm the earth. All around me the mist of the morning dew is rising as it evaporates off the grass and leaves. I kneel on the ground, not caring about the green streaks on the knees of my jeans and lower my head to peer into the mist. I blow gently, a short puff of air, and dissolve into giggles as the dense cloud parts in front of my lips. Like a mighty goddess controlling the clouds over the some distant planet, I reach out with my fingertips and rake them through the clouds, drawing patterns and designs, only to watch them fade swiftly as the fog once again covers all traces of my play.
The world is my etch-a-sketch.
I jump as I hear a stick crack on the ground behind me, and I freeze. Motionless, I shift my eyes from side to side, listening as another soft footstep sounds behind me. Mentally, I chide myself for getting lost in the moment when there was so much work to be done. I slowly reach to my right, gliding my hand over the grass to my sword, gripping the hilt with a practiced movement. In one smooth action, I leap to my feet and turn to face my attacker, yelling at the top of my lungs.
The battle is long – it’s as though the masked attacker knows me better than I know myself. Every move I make is perfectly countered. Back and forth we go for what seems like hours. I land a hit on his shoulder, but as I step backward to regain my footing, he jabs forward and slices into my side before I can get out of the way. I lunge forward, fighting through the pain to take a swing. It glances off the armor on my opponent’s shoulder, useless. I groan as I roll across the ground, not even feeling the sharp rocks as they dig into my back, and rise to my feet to deliver a fatal blow to his midsection. I raise my sword over my head in triumph, cheering my victory.
Over the sound of my voice, another one calls out my name.
I groaned, my sword turning back into a stick and falling to the ground.
“Mothers.” I grumble to a passing beetle. Nonplussed, he continues on his way. I offer a heaving sigh and trudge back across the backyard to where my mother stands, hands on her hips.
“Honestly,” she sighs. “how many times have I told you about hitting that tree?” She ushers me into the house and helps me unzip my jacked. “You’re chipping off the bark, you’re going to kill it!”
“But mom…” I protest “the knight was attacking me, and he had a mask, and a sword, and he was going to…”
“No ‘buts’!” Mom dusts the dirt off my jeans with a little more force than necessary. “You have SOME imagination…and LOOK at these grass stains. I just washed these yesterday.”
She guides me into the bathroom to begin the cleaning up process, all the while going on and on under her breath about how much trouble my imagination is going to get me into one of these days. And she’s right, it has.
Over the years, I spent more time in class with my head bowed over a notebook, scribbling stories, than doing homework. Fully grown (physically, anyway, I’m not so sure about mentally), with three decades under my belt, and I’m still lost in my own fantasy world of imagination and stories. And I love each and every minute.