I Thought I'd Grow Out of Rainbows, Too.

Last night I dreamed I saw music. Pale, swirling twisting tendrils like whitewashed wrought iron, caging me in safety as I lay on my bed. But when I woke up I thought of scary movies. And life. Lately I’ve been a little afraid of life, and intimidated by the vast expanse of things I don’t know. It is moving forward, life is, and a certain level of practical-mindedness is necessary. Not that I am unused to practical concerns. But sometimes I worry that in all my efforts to learn and grow up I’ll lose the sentimental romanticism that I’ve enjoyed as part of myself since before I can remember. Surely there is a place in adult life for whatever it is that possesses me to indulge in my own private candle-lit ceremonies, to dream of mystic cultures and customs, to climb out on the roof under the stars and hum tunes in minor keys. Surely there is room to satisfy my deep longing for adventure and magic? Or are those things to be grown out of? Honestly I’m a little embarrassed to write about my love of such things. At this point in my life it seems there are better things to worry about than the frivolity of enchantment.

Like scrambling to learn everything about life within the next five months. Or at least far more about it than I know now.

I don’t want to drown in practicalities. I want to sparkle. To glitter in elegant contrast with my surroundings and glow with the mystery of something ethereal. I like to sparkle literally, too. Chains around my neck and wrists, rings around my fingers, needles depositing crystals in my flesh and I am star-studded, twinkling in the nearest light. Sometimes I have to hold back; I tend to like too much of good things. When I was a little girl and we made sugar cookies, mine were always piled high with frosting and sprinkles. That hasn’t changed; last year when we made them at Christmas, mine were still globbed with icing and sugar. I go overboard with things that are meant to be subtleties. I always kind of thought I’d grow out of that. Maybe not.

I thought I’d grow out of rainbows, too. I haven’t, but I have grown in to a love of more neutral tones as well. I can’t decide which I like better. I like so many conflicting things and sometimes I think that’s a problem. But then sometimes I think it’s just appreciating the beauty in everything.

Lately I’ve been missing God. Not that He isn’t near; I really just haven’t been keeping up on my end of the connection as much as I used to. I’ve been focusing more lately on what I believe, which is good, but I haven’t been focusing as much on how I go about believing it, and I think I’ve been missing a connection. I seem to be forgetting that I don’t need to have God all figured out intellectually in order to connect with Him wholeheartedly. I’ve been analyzing the subject more than I’ve been engaging in the relationship, and both are so important that one feels lonely without the other. To me, anyway.

I feel sheepish sometimes, about my desire for an emotional connection to God. As if it’s a less mature procedure of faith. But maybe that’s where it can belong-—the romanticism, the enchantment, the mystery I’m afraid of losing from life. In a relationship with the Creator. Maybe religion can sparkle, and maybe it’s supposed to. Maybe that's silly. But it's an idea I'd be sad to grow out of.