Some trade that was.
The wild-child could fight, damn-it. She could shout and tangle with monsters of disproportionate size. She could point her finger and raise the roof, all at the same time. She could scatter scraps of paper without one time imagining how long it would take to clean it up. Man, she could just FLY.
The model of appropriateness, though, just sucks it up and shuts it up. She does her job with care, never misplacing a scan-tron or a grocery list, isn't that nice? She wears hairspray and three layers of make-up to have nearly flawless skin. She shows up on time and creates very lovely lesson plans, often actually having days of inspiration and brightness. But those days are becoming further apart because it turns out appropriateness is just not enough to keep the fires a-burnin'. It turns out you also need orange overalls.
I've grown a set on me... and it ain't balls... it's fear and measurement.
Fear of losing time, or running out of it. Fear of other people seeing me as incompetent. Fear of seeming too light, not serious, not in control. Fear of confronting incompetence or immorality in my peers... or fear of the shrapnel that would fly if I did... or the weeks of discomfort while the dust settled.
The wild-child-Daisy climbed in that box and then I let the box get covered in layers of dust. The boxes of measuring tapes and rulers that I use to evaluate myself and the people on the road with me, though, aren't dusty at all. They are shiny and well-ordered, of course, and well used. Martha F'in' Stewart could feature the order in that box on her blog.
And what grief that causes... well, truth be told (and that's sort of the point now), what grief it should cause. The fact is my heart is numbed by my very active brain which even now whispers, louder and louder, stop writing and do something productive. My heart is stone-silenced by the distractions of grocery lists and lesson plans and calendar items to remember. It's shut down by the rationalizing I do to reassure myself that it's just fine to be silent in the face of Wrongness.
The fact is I'm no longer sure how to open that box of wildness I stored away so long ago. My brain keeps saying, "Leave it right where it is." But then my heart remembers a time, without my conscious bidding, of that time when my spirit didn't even know that bravery was a word because it was just the air I breathed and who knows to call each breath "air", right?
.......
I just came back from seeing Rise of the Guardians with my seven year old son and some friends. As I watched it, I felt sure he was seeing it as the literal story of the guardians -- Santa, long-bearded with a Russian accent; the Easter bunny, fierce and quite Australian; the tooth fairy, beautiful and maternal; Sandman, creative and silent; and Jack Frost, young and rebellious -- battling Pitch Black, a.k.a., the boogie man. When we got in the car, I expected him to rave about the fight scenes and colors, or the funny lines from some of the characters. Instead, he sat in the back seat and, talking to his friend when he didn't know I could hear him, he said, "I believe in all of them except Pitch Black." His friend said, "I believe in Pitch Black, too, though." My son then said the words he remembered from the movie, "That's right. Remember that kid said, 'I believe in you. I'm just not afraid of you." The symbolism was peeking through for him and whacking me right on the side of the head.
It was my cracked door into the closet where I stored away the red hat and the bravery. It wasn't a gentle shaking of the door knob. It was an axe, trying to break through the door so it just couldn't be shut again.
These things in my life that I brood over (because brooding is a heck of a lot safer than fighting are just the Boogie Man)... real, but not important enough to be afraid of.
I can, as North (a.k.a., Santa) encouraged Jack Frost, remember what my center is. Santa's was wonder. Bunny's was hope. Sandman's was dreams. Jack's was play. When they operated from their centers they could conquer their fear. And so can I. When I was little my center was curiosity and fierceness. Maybe it still is.
The appropriate model of mother-hood and professionalism is quite safe, but not always real. When I tell a story of a professional I know admitting to law-breaking, I focus on my incredulity, calling attention away from the fact that I didn't actually stand up and shout real words of censure. When I work things out with my friends, I fight to deliver diplomacy and even self-effacement rather than shouting at them, even when I'm the one with hurt feelings. When I have a great idea for helping my work team build some excellence together, I wilt and shrink when everyone isn't on board at the same time. I find what I call a "work-around" rather than embracing a "work-through." I avoid. I close my mouth. I wilt. But, I'm very appropriate and I smell really nice.
I don't want to be this person. I want to be THAT person... that girl I was who could tell her boss to "kiss my ass" when her boss refused to back down from doing the wrong thing. I want to be THAT Daisy who didn't vibrate with anger left tucked in, but vibrated with victory for standing up for what she believed in. I want the box of measuring tapes and rulers to be the box covered in dust, because it is the box full of blue eye-shadow and orange overalls that contains my center, my true-self, my courage.
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