Beautiful Morning

By | March 23, 2023
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Beautiful Morning

I see some children waiting for the school bus…

It is such a beautiful morning, and the children look so happy. It makes me pause for a moment and remember a time in my life when I was a child and I waited for the school bus on a spring day just like this. The sun is just above the horizon, and though spring has just begun, it seems as if a touch of summer is in the air. The dreams and anticipation of picnics, baseball games, and the feel of a warm sandy beach on my toes, all dance in my mind.

I remember this same wonderful feeling as a child when after school I would go outside with my friends on a spring day like this one to do whatever I wanted. We were enchanted and laughter flowed easily because we all knew that summer vacation grew nearer with each day.

The innocence of children is too quickly corrupted by the world, more now than ever before, I think. At some point in time, we all lose the child inside of us – or at least it seems to me that most people do. But some of us fight hard to keep the child inside alive – and it’s not easy to do.

Today, as I watch the children waiting for the bus it occurs to me that the child inside of me never died and that this makes me different. I think this is what makes me rebellious and unusual – some would say I can be bellicose while others say I’m weird. But I have a child’s heart. That is to say, I have a soft heart. And if you dig down deep enough and come to know me well enough, you’ll find that my heart is both compassionate and generous.

When a child is trapped inside an adult body, you look at the world through the eyes of a child and it makes for an odd stew — a strange concoction of feelings and emotions. The child struggles with the man. Sometimes the child wins and sometimes the man wins. It’s a constant struggle but one I hope never ends.

I don’t think I’ve ever really felt part of anything because some medical experts would say I’m “conflicted”. I’m not a leader but I’m certainly not a follower either. I’ve always been somewhere in between.

I always feel like an outcast when I’m in a group of adults. Looking at the school children this morning as they wait for the bus, I feel part of me wanting to join them, grab a baseball and a couple of bats and start choosing sides for a game of baseball in some old dusty, vacant lot. 

Suddenly, I hear a distant window breaking as I hit a long home run, over the street lights and telephone wires, and right into Mrs. Maloney’s front window. We all run away in fear that we will be discovered — but it isn’t a terrible fear – we are just a bunch of kids playing baseball on a beautiful, sunny early-spring day.

My dad will make me pay for that window if I’m found out. My friends though, true, and loyal, won’t rat on me. I’m safe if Mrs. Maloney didn’t see us running away.

The children are smiling and laughing, I can hear their giggles. It is such sweet music to my ears. It touches my heart and I want to linger and watch them board the school bus – but I cannot. I don’t have time. The man inside me has things to do and places to go. There is far too much on today’s agenda to waste any more time on the child inside and the yearnings and memories from so long ago.

And to be honest, too much of my time this morning has been spent contemplating the innocence I have lost.

As I start to drive away, I stop the car for a moment as my thought overwhelm me again. As I watch the children still waiting for the bus, I realize that we all are children.

We are all children of the universe. We are all but tiny specks of starlight, flickering in a vast sea of darkness for a fraction of a nanosecond in the boundless cosmic ocean of time. We all are as meaningless and as meaningful as anything and everything else. We matter not at all, and yet we are all that matters.

It’s been a good morning. Summer, though more than two months away, floats delicately on the wind as spring tiptoes in softly and soon will fade into summer.

The decreasing slant of the sunlight and shadows, the more northerly sunsets, and the tiny buds on the branches of the trees that now dance in the breeze are all signs that summer is on its way. It will creep in slowly and softly as a whisper. It will arrive on cat paws, unnoticed and unseen.  I’ll have to rely on the calendar to tell me that summer officially is finally here.

As the days grow longer, I’ll look back upon this spring morning and sigh a nostalgic sigh when summer is full on and the days have become hot, long, and lazy.

And one day, in the heat of the summer I will wake as if from a dream and wonder where time has gone. Just yesterday, it seems, I walked a snowy winter path, crunching my way through the deserted forest. It will seem like only yesterday when I was walking along in the cold sharp winter air and waiting eagerly for the snowdrops and crocuses to appear from the cracked, frozen ground, and remind me that spring was on its way.

Someday soon, I’ll sit with sweat on my brow, under the shade of an old maple tree, sipping an ice-cold glass of lemonade. I will be struck with wonder at how fast time passes. And the older I get the more quickly time passes. It somehow doesn’t seem fair, but then again, by now I’ve learned that no one my age should ever believe that life is fair.

The seasons, each of which seemed to last forever when I was a child, now pass so quickly that they fade almost unnoticed one into the other. And then it occurs to me that I am living in the winter of my life. Yet the child inside me never gives up, he keeps drawing me back, giving me teasing glimpses of what I once was – of what I used to be. And though pleasant, it makes me sad in a way because it reminds me of things I am no longer able to do.

But I will not go gently into that good night. The child inside won’t let me. Trying to gracefully surrender the things of youth is difficult for me. I don’t think I will ever completely surrender.

Spring has just begun, and that means that summer swiftly approaches. This bright spring morning is a good time to be alive and outside soaking up the warm spring air and sunshine.  It’s a good morning for remembering all those wonderful spring days from the past… memories of me flying kites, picking dandelions, and falling in love. I remember so much because now there is so much to remember.

I refuse to let go of the child inside. I couldn’t do that if I wanted to. He’s part of me and I am part of him.

My pensiveness fades into reality and I put the car in gear and drive away. In the rearview mirror, I see the children boarding the school bus and I turn my eyes to the road ahead and drive into my day.

With a sigh, I whisper… “it’s such a beautiful morning“.

The Child Inside

I remember long ago
Snowmen standing in the snow.
And drifting silent frozen flakes
Fell on the ground below.

I remember blazing stars
And looking up and finding Mars.
And seeing the wonder in the sky
As silent castles drifted by.

I remember memories.
The soft and gentle summer breeze.
The feelings all remain inside
But I don’t remember where they hide.

I wonder where that child went
The one so happy and content?
Could it really truly be
I’ve lost the child inside of me?

Today I’ll brush myself aside
And try to find that child inside.
I’ll make the world a better place
By putting on a child’s face.

One thought on “Beautiful Morning

  1. Norris Kenwright

    Excellent, I feel that way also. I now know that I am conflicted. Perhaps I know why I like the Cat Steven’s song “where do the children Play’ because we have come so far from innocence. Cheers, keep writing dreaming and remembering. I remember you quoting from A.E. Houseman’s poems “A Shropshire Lad”. One of my favourites.
    Into my heart an air that kills
    From yon far country blows:
    What are those blue remembered hills?
    What spires, what farms are those?

    That is the land of lost content,
    I see it shining plain,
    The happy highways where I went
    And cannot come again.
    With regret my heart is laden
    For golden friends I had
    For many a rose-lipped maiden
    And many a sprightly lad

    By brooks too broad for leaping
    The sprightly lads are laid
    And rose-lipped girls are sleeping.
    In fields where flowers fade


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