Children’s books and second innocence

If possible
would you choose
to become a child
Again straddle
joy of discovery
imagination and grin.
Or would you
crouch in fear
a dark corner
Hide between
tragedy of fate
clinging to mind.

Munch’s painting Scream, a familiar attitude, depicts something carnal about personal nature. We are left to face existential reality, running from what we should attend.

I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.  Edvard Munch

A favorite childhood book I purchased in 1997, to reread in adulthood, expresses a daughter’s love for her mother. Charlotte Zolotow’s Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present spurred imagination. I adored my mother. I absolutely wanted to express my love in the perfect gift. Her love in return absent abuse. An existential scream I hid from the world. My bond, an imprisoned nightmare I grew up with, unable to reconcile feelings until much later in life. To recognize the grief important. Pieces of my life begin to fit together through a foggy lens. Knotted wires, always a force to reckon, dangling in the basement, reaching for my neck. The rope threatened my peace of mind. I found myself unable to descend, the basement trappings, a poisonous torture cell. Yet I was an adult. Or was I?

I desire a second innocence. Days of playground jump rope. Except I would be my own mother. I would love myself. The childish daydream of a hidden room, beautiful yellow and cozy. Shelves of books to get lost, would no longer be my home. My place would be in the world, loving and being loved.

I am nobody. I do not pretend to be other than myself. I desire to share my life that exists, to hear other stories in return. The sharing of stories a wise activity. Knowledge passed through generations in hopes history would not be recycled. What bothers me about that is the possibility it may not be possible to learn from the past of others. Perhaps we learn our own past to march forward into our own brighter future.

Art Memoir Poetry

2 Comments Leave a comment

  1. It’s good to be a child in adult years, and re-live the innocence and the mysteries of the world. It’s also good to be one’s own mother, to love oneself, unconditionally and to heal all the wounds. If only we could do it all the time, Jeanne. 🙂 xxx

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