``It`s a girl.``
`-Oh she got her mother`s eyes ,
-I think the lips are more of her father`s, the eybrows too...
-hopefully she`ll have her mother`s hair as well.`
Little did they know that I`d inherit my father`s optimism, and my mom`s sense of organization along her stubborness mixed with my dad`s sense of daydream and his urge to fix everything including trollers in supermarkets, door handles at my aunt`s and peoples` lives.
And I just recently discovered how my mom and I identically rub our hands together, like we`re applying a cream, in stressful situations where we are due to make choices or do something we don`t really appreciate.
With these little details piling up I finally realised how I`m just a compilation of lost and scattered fragements of my parents` souls sewed together and planished with my life`s experiences and I couldn`t be more honored.
However, due to my creative nature and my easily bored mind of repetitions, I`d rather stitch these inherited segments of my parents genes into a creative and authentic patchwork rather than replicating them into a pattern identical to my parents or anyone`s life.
And that with the aknowledgement that I wouldn`t be able to protect it from life marks: a coffe stain from here, a dash of perfume from there, a scissors cut in the corner, a broken heart, a joyful success, a blooming relationship and so on.
The question remains, will the younger me be proud of my patchwork?
Will she be proud of how I`m not exhausting my spirit to fit in anymore, how I`m embracing my nature more? Will she understand that I sacrified the dreams she expressed in kindergarten paintings for the greater good?
Will she aknowledge my efforts in using more sophisticated tools than scissors and glue to mend the scars life has caused us? Will she be mad at how the teenager me broke her kindness policy for fitting reasons, or for how I`m letting our dreamland be ruled by realism and clouded with life`s dark shades?
The 9 years old me with silky hair gathered in two pigtails feeling safe and cherished like an egg blanked by warm feathers and refusing to share her dolls with other kids. Will she be proud of the 19 years old me?
To say that nothing has changed 10 years later would be an unpleasant joke, my hair has grown slightly frizzier and my fragility is seeing the light of day, big time. But I`m still as quiet and am not terrified of clowns anymore.
Still, if there`s anything I starve for from the child me, is her connection with nature, how she used to ride horses, milk cows, climb to rooftops on ladders and confess her secrets, unrealistic dreams and adventures to the stars, fearlessly and excitingly.
Now I fear the dark and despise insects.
I wonder what silenced that wilderness? For the price of what did I sacrifice that dauntless energy? Have I mastered all sciences to give up on that fearless curiosity about beggers and fish aquariums?
And most importantly how can I ignite it back ? ... because I heard that a candle can be relighted from the smoke of an extinguished flame... and I believe that no wind, no storm is strong enough to take that smoke far away from us, it is stuck on the ceiling of our souls, and I believe that the child in us never really dies, she/he may just have been silenced.
(So I`m considering a Safari, anyone? x) )
A while ago, I wrote this note on instagram after an emotionally heavy day:
What took your authentic smile away, where did your honest opinions and compassionate behaviors go? What happened to those wild dreams of peacefullness and love, what made your childhood spontaneity dissapear? ...
I know that your heart broke as you opened it to share all this brightness with the world while growing up, and I know that you got disapointed at how the world interpreted it...
But kid, you deserve that light back , you need it to dust off the ashes of your heart, you need it to find the message that the child in you is trying to snail post to the old you... a message of love, of empathy, of restless ambition and of tireless learning. Carry it carefully.