>> Monday, October 10, 2011
The path looks a lot different than it did as a kid. My perspective is different walking the two blocks from my parents' house, down the hill, through the field, into the woods, down the ravine and out onto the rocky shoreline as an adult returning home than it did as a seven year old playing runaway or a ten year old watching boys launch their BMX's off jimmy-rigged jumps on knotty dirt trails through the trees, or on the beach as a 13 year old trying to fool an 18 year old that she was a 16 year old, or as a 16 year old night-swimming in her underwear with a gaggle of girls and few lucky boys, or as an 18 year old saying goodbye to the western shore of Lake Michigan only to put down shallow roots on the coast across that lake.
It's as if the old Me's are still there on that beach somewhere. Huddled around a makeshift bonfire of driftwood kindling ringed by stones, or standing in the woods, exhilarated and intimidated by the energy of youth and hormones, or sitting on a rock heartbroken and alone, or walking the shore with my first baby, with my boys. We're all there at once, populating the beach like little paper dolls.