Time

I spent part of my evening looking back through my box of memories. Although I call John a packrat, it's true that I have my own box of guilty pleasures. I keep old diaries, love letters, photos and meaningless notes. Well, meaningless to anyone else...full of meaning to me.

I found myself wondering where the idealistic girl went who wrote those notes, who penned those poems, and believed every words in those love letters. Some days I can't believe I was ever truly that stupid. Other times I just can't get over the idea that I was ever actually that young. Maybe I was just naive. Now I can't quite conceive of the idea that John ever WROTE anything non-technical, much less a love letter. But I have a whole ziploc bag full of them, and surely any forger would have written something more clever than THAT. Right? So he must have meant it at the time.

But what has happened to me? Is this a natural part of growing up, growing out, growing wise - to become so cynical and so skeptical. My ability to accept people at face value has long been seen as a fault by others, but I rather liked that part of myself. And I find that it is a part of me that is slipping away year by year. I am becoming sarcastic rather than just dry witted, becoming sharp rather than just observant, and impatient instead of efficient. Despite working with young children, I will have to admit that I might forever have lost touch with the child I once was. I love working with children because it gives me glimpses into their world, to see through their eyes for only a few minutes. Not so long ago, I still had that vision for my own use.

Now, I don't regret growing older. I don't fight against it. I am now in my mid-thirties (wow, does that feel weird to say), but inside I still am the same person I have always been. But what I do regret, is leaving bits and pieces of who I was behind. Too many meetings, deadlines, child induced power-struggles and needless concerns are sucking out a little bit of my soul. And I resent it. I resent the hell out of it. But what can I do?

I'm still looking for a way to get back, not the girl I was, but the wide-eyed ambition I turned to the world. The person my husband wrote those love letters to must still be here somewhere. Perhaps I should put up wanted posters. Put her picture on a milk carton.

I can only see the headlines - "Lost: My Youthful Idealism. Reward."