My inner wild child

For some time I’ve wondered where my inner child has gone.  She stayed with me way beyond the time most adults have forgotten what it is like to delight in kids toys (especially the wind up ones that send the dog mad), play hide and seek with the cat, go out to a public field with headphones on and have one person rave in the middle of it., build a snowman for the sheer delight of knocking it down again and run through ankle-deep multi autumn coloured leaves in the fall.    She kept me abreast of current music trends and fashion styles, persuaded me to ride a motor bike and go back to university as a mature student, taught me that wearing a mini skirt and stilettos over the age of 30 is not a bad thing.  She never tired of watching fireworks, blowing bubbles or marvelling at rainbows.    She was wild, fun, led me astray from the path of respectability and I loved her to bits.  Then little by little she faded away, her voice became a whisper easily overridden by sensibility, her energy and zest for fun suffocated by work and tiredness and her joy and delight dulled by loss and tragedy.   Eventually she upped sticks, left me to my routine enmeshed life and we lost touch.    What I didn’t realise at the time was that her mischievousness, appetite for adventure and youthful presence enhanced my life and stopped me from becoming mentally ‘old’.     Then just as I thought I’d never write my name with a sparkler again or blow a multitude of bubbles in the summer breeze and run around like an idiot trying  to catch them, she came back.  I think it might have been the aquamarine stilettos that caught her interest or the two nights of partying in them that gave her hope that I was not a lost cause.   Whatever the reason we are together again and she is now trying to persuade me to get my nose pierced and dye my hair a candyfloss pink.   This time I don’t intend to ever  let her go.

31 thoughts on “My inner wild child

  1. I am smiling and am little teared up at the same time..

    I love the child in me too. I do try to put her in a box at times but she springs up every time. And when she does not I open her up when i read such beautiful words as yours..

  2. Oh how I relate! I’m digging deep to reconnect with my inner-child, too. Best of luck to you, and I look forward to reading more!!

  3. Your blog speaks on many levels of your love for adventure, life, order in many made objects and nature. Viewing was a wonderful experience. I learned. Thanks. Lloyd

  4. I very often let my inner child out. tee hee I love bubbles and have my own. I have coloring books and crayons too. I say they are for the grandkidlets. ha ha.. I love to color. Have a wonderful weekend. :) Renee.. Loved your post…

  5. This is just beautiful..the inner child how blessed you are to have stayed in contact for so long and to know when she had left…temporarily….love this post and have nominated you for the Very Inspirational Blogger Award.Congrats and go to my site should you need more info about the award. ….Leanne

  6. I had to smile to myself when reading your reflections of your inner child and your references to blowing bubbles. I too am a bubble lover (they are just so awesome) and an artistic/creative person. Sadly, many ‘mature’ people think that my pleasure in such things is a touch of eccentricity :-) Little do they know what fun they are missing out on!

  7. Perhaps the inner child is really our umbilical connection to our original selves as we were born. As children we sometimes still have memory of the time that preceded birth, of the etheric sphere. The inner child keeps us connected to that most sacred spiritual zone that is unique to our individual experiences. If you are lucky, that ethereal sphere stays with yo has strong intuition all your life – that feeling about taking a chance on turning left instead of right – not easy to touch or define but it definitely exists. I reconnected with my inner child a year or so ago when I started by blog – for me I found my voice again through my inner child. Thanks for posting.

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