I've always wanted to write a children's book—to create something generally heart-warming that conveys a simple truth in a simple story meant for little hearts and minds. That sounds sing-songy but I’m serious. What I love about children’s literature is its tangibility, humor, and succinctness. These stories usually have a clear-cut beginning and end; and everything pretty much makes sense. Not so with the stories and characters in our lives. My desire to write a children’s book has taken on a new shape—one that is less picture-perfect, way less cute, and grounded in the reality of my own story. (But if this blog were a book it would have watercolor illustrations.)
As every day gets warmer and the sights and sounds of summer settle in, the beauty of this season compels me to write. Little baby corn stalks shooting up from the earth, bathed in sunshine make me thankful for those rainy days.
For me, this season marks the end of college and the beginning of a new chapter. It’s a freeing and equally terrifying thought. College was like a children’s story, actually. It had a clearly defined start and finish with lots of surprises and adventures in between. I’ve said goodbye to days in Bloomington—to walks on worn sidewalks and wooded paths to class, to the lingering smell of beer in the air on Kirkwood.
I have not always been deeply appreciative of the freedom in college, this world that does not completely resemble "the real world" (as our elementary and even high school teachers call the unknown places lying beyond graduation. I can hear my geometry teacher’s voice, bless her heart, "You may not think this is important now, but when you're in the real world..." implying that our sixteen year-old worlds are not in fact real? So far I haven't had to find the cosine of 90 in my post-high school journey…yet.)
But the here and now of this very real world is a beautiful place to be. Today is a gift. I don't want to ignore or put off for tomorrow what is growing in my heart today—seeds that somehow survived a hard, cold winter underground. They represent life—which is meant to be shared.
A few weeks ago some friends and I camped out at my friend Maryann’s farm way out in the country. On the way we played The Animal Game….it’s this full-out strategy-driven competition where you count the number of animals you pass on your side of the car and compete with the passengers on the opposite side. Here’s the catch: if you pass a cemetary on your side, all your animals die and you have to start all over…Things can get pretty heated.
Sarcasm aside, nothing sets my mind at rest and my heart free like a trip to Maryann’s. It’s a place that brings peace with every mile between me and the shopping malls of Carmel. For as long as I can remember, the gravel road that leads to Maryann’s has been a sanctuary from the suburbs. It’s a place to run and to wander; to garden and to swing. It’s the second home I always wished was really mine. The sky is bigger and the grass is greener. Fields as far as I can see calm and excite me all at once. The quiet is mesmerizing…nothing but wind and birdsongs in the trees.
I walk alongside fields of corn in its tiniest babiest stages of life, row after neatly planted row. This new life, so preciously small mirrors the landscape of my heart. It was dormant for a while. The ground was so hard that a force stronger than myself had to uproot the tangled weeds that had taken over. This overturning of the ground was messy and it hurt. I felt empty and weaker than I have ever felt. That season was necessary and purposeful so that new seeds could be planted and new life could grow. Something had to die in me so that I could experience life. There is promise and hope that each little corn stalk will grow taller and stronger every day; and it has a long way to go. I trust that the sun will rise again tomorrow and the rain will come. Storms will roll in and life goes on one day at a time.
I’m thankful that life contains more adventure and growth than can fit in a children’s book, far more than we can imagine or predict. I can’t take it all in. I can’t read it in one sitting and hold it in my hands and have it make sense cover to cover. This season is marked by things like heartache and trust, by joy and pain all mixed together. Often, I just don’t get it. Life is puzzling. But Robert Frost said that he could sum up everything he has ever learned about life in three words: it goes on. That is what this summer is teaching me, and what the beginnings of little corn remind me: it goes on.
