The Lost Child

(Bev Cransier)

Why am I so afraid to create on paper what has been my constant underlying passion since I was a young teen of 16? What is it that I am so afraid of? Failure? Rejection? Could be. Or is it actually more to it than just those insecure feelings?

A story I heard recently struck a chord in my heart and memory when I listened to a fellow writer describe an incident which involved her young grandchild. She described her grandson’s reaction to a prism of light reflecting its beams on a wall as that of awesome wonder and pleasure. It carried me back in time when I remembered a young child who approached the wonders of life around her in that same inquisitive way. Various thoughts stirred within me as I questioned what occurred during her lifetime which caused her to lose that ability to look at life in such a wondrous way. I felt a strong suspicion that her passion was still very much alive somewhere deep within the recesses of her soul. Over the years, I have caught quick glimpses of her passion. Now and then, I have experienced her being ebb and flow full of a vast range of emotions. Often, I find myself pondering about possible past circumstances that may have stifled her passionate true feelings, especially now as she fades into the life of a middle-aged woman.

I remember many years ago how she used to sit for hours at her bedroom window and fantasize about the leaves on the pink dogwood tree just outside her room. She would envision the leaves dancing and nodding in conversations to each other, keeping rhythm with the gentle breeze. In her mind, various conversations took place between the “family” of nodding leaves and she could entertain herself for endless hours. The birds flying to and fro in the trees and bushes would also catch her eye, and her imagination would run wild again creating stories about each of the various bird “families.” The little girl would visualize in her mind what activities occurred in their nest “homes” and how excited the young birds became anticipating their parents’ return with food in their beaks as a prize for them.  

Occasionally, she would catch a glimpse of her neighbors’ shadows as they would travel from room to room in the house next door. She envisioned a large gigantic storybook entitled “Life” existed in the heavens and represented each family in the world. “Each home had a story to tell,” she would say to herself. On each separate page of the giant book, a home was represented in the story of life. At the end of every day, when family members in all homes represented shut their eyes for sleep each night, angels in the heavens closed the gigantic book of life for yet another day. As a young child, she was awestruck by that concept and pondered on it quite frequently, playing out the various characters in her mind’s eye.

Her childhood home was situated on a dead end street with the backyard bordering a grassy marsh which boasted cattails in their season. Her family home was next to the last house on the block on the marsh side. The reeded marsh ran on the outside perimeters of her backyard and curved around the adjacent neighbor’s yard to establish the boundary for the dead end street. The distance between her parent’s lot and the houses on the opposite side of the marshlands was approximately 1-1/2 miles apart from each other. Quite often in the early mornings while getting ready for school, she would take time to daydream and gaze at the houses across the marshy grasslands. Sitting at her bedroom window, she would watch the shadows cast by moving figures in lighted rooms within those homes. As she watched those shadows, her creativity would take over as she imagined the various activities taking place within the families living in that neighborhood. It was an impressionistic and innocent time in her young life. 

At that point in her life, she didn’t realize her passionate imagination was a gift to be encouraged. Without her realizing it, experiencing a private world of imagination all her own set her apart from significant others in her immediate world. She felt so different from her siblings and the other kids at school and thought that maybe something was wrong with her. Should she talk to someone about it, she thought to herself? She didn’t know who to go to for Mom and Dad were always so busy and she just wanted so badly to fit in and be “normal”. She often craved the attention of others and in a family of five children, it was difficult for her parents to evenly distribute attention to all of them. This was no fault of their own -- they were just unaware of the deep craving for recognition she particularly needed and desperately wanted in a private world all her own.

She remembered a particular way she would strive for attention would be to dramatically induce antics so she would be the center of attention. When she would proceed with one of these antics, she would more than not receive a disapproving look from one of her parents signifying it was unacceptable behavior, or worse yet, feel the jealous look from one of her siblings. Even if her reward of attention was captured for only a few moments, or the attention she received was negative in nature, a feeling of success would encroach her spirit. 

Her parents cared for her and her siblings well -- as much as any children could be cared for in a middle class family of the 1950’s. Her family was not well off financially by any means, however, her parents worked very hard to provide a comfortable living environment for their five children. They loved their children very much, but in that day and time, love was not always spoken aloud, but shown in various non-physical ways. Not shown -- but known. Despite the knowledge that she was loved, she still felt lacking -- a feeling that has haunted her to this very day. At times, she still feels disconnected and yearns to be in touch with the world around her, only to be fooled at times by a phantom connectiveness. It puzzles her.

She grew up in a family atmosphere of Virginian-type manners of "Yes, Ma’am,” “No Sir,” “Please,” and “Thank You.” Manners had been engrained into her life from early years on and added dimension to her personality. But, also engrained in her continually was, “What would the neighbors say?” mode of thinking. That would definitely curb any mischievous or negative behavior patterns right down to the quick! Even to this day, that particular mode of thinking, which was engrained in her so long ago, reflects her restrained and aloof performance in both outward appearance and behavior patterns. It had squelched her spirit.

Her older sister would describe her as passionate about everything! The young woman could identify with that, for when she felt something about anything it was with all her soul. Whether it was a happy emotion or despair, inquisitiveness or withdrawal, her emotions would range so dramatically from high ups to low downs.

Years later, it was discovered she suffered, and still suffers, from Attention Deficit Disorder which caused various learning and social disorders in her life. After all these years, that recurring feeling of being different invades not only her creative world, but also rears its ugly head in her social skills and how she perceives the world around her. The young woman had to learn on her own, through painful trial and error, what worked successfully for her and what caused negative reactions from those around her. She has learned to adjust to her world by learning new behavioral patterns that compensate for her feelings and actions. These compensation patterns help to guide her through life’s various issues and everyday occurrences with others and life in general. Every single day of her life, she continues to struggle with this issue of living in a much different world than others. A different beat of life’s “drum” is what she hears and she is forever searching for creative ways within her daily grind of life to appease her restlessness.

She was born to think outside the lines, but social expectations of her young days clipped her creative wings and dutifully she succumbed to what was expected of her. Trying so hard to please her parents and everyone around her, the effort instilled a behavior pattern of passivity for approval to include those in authority positions. Her early social environment created an inner child who strived to be a people pleaser and, at times, it spills over into present day.

I look back today at that child’s life and realize I died to my own creative self. I sold myself out without even realizing I did so. How can I revive my creative child? The passion to write has been inside me since I was 16 years old -- I am now 50. So many years of creativity have been lost. Is it too late for revival? 

A characteristic I have developed over the years from my many different struggles in life is that of being a survivor. I have decided to rise above my fears and losses by beginning a journey of discovering this lost, creative and fragile child within me. She’s still here with me - just hiding behind a memory. I catch a glimpse of her occasionally playing creative “peek-a-boo” with me, and I am confident and optimistic that she will be unveiled.

Recently, I had the wonderful experience, and one of which I consciously chose to happen in my life, of participating in a journaling group. The messages I heard from my fellow writers were echoes of “Give up control,” “Take a risk,” “You do have a voice,” “Look at your soul through writing,” and “A lot of it may be junk -- but that’s okay.” These words were a healing balm for my soul’s passionate fire to write without fear. The gift of my opinion being valued was given freely by this group and I was confirmed positively, even though I was a stranger among them. Their unconditional acceptance of me being just where I am in my writing activity provided the catalyst I needed to begin my “lost child” journey. I intend to accomplish this journey through the practice of a new habit of journaling. 

If I come face to face with fears that jump out at me from the lined pages of my journal -- so what! I have the power to just close my journal until I am stronger, or more inquisitive to open the “door” of my journal once more, peek in and start my walk again. My new journaling friends enlightened me to the fact that it was the worst that can happen to me! During my journaling process, I will sometimes just crawl at a snail’s pace, and other times, I will sprint like a champion marathon runner breaking the ribbon at the finish line to claim first prize! Shakespeare wrote many centuries ago, “To thine ownself be true.” How that phrase rings clearly to me now as a reminder of what I must do to find my “lost child.” 

I am anxious, through the encouragement of my fellow journalers, to begin this journey with all the passion that my heart holds. When I write, I am my happiest -- my soul sings and soars! I have so much to share with others and I feel obligated through this vessel of my life to use that talent. So be it! I will not be afraid of the shadows of a lost child’s passion from this day forth!