I used to climb walls.
I would go in the backyard of our house and get up on the cinder block walls that marked our boundary. This was all before the age of nine. I guess I was a Scout Finch kind of character. My mother would tell me not to climb, but I knew what I was doing.
Getting up was easy. Walking was easy. I didn't crouch or hug the top of the blocks. I walked stoically around as far as I could, rounding the corners with ease. I did it by myself. I didn't need someone's praise.
Sometimes, I would look down at our cat, bathing in the dirt under the bushes. Or I could peer into our neighbor's yard. Or check to see if my dad's grapes were ripe, which they never were.
I was in my element.
Yet, along the road of life, I have become more cautious, resistant, and safe. It was only brought to my attention last weekend that I was the girl who climbed walls. Why can't I do so now? What has made me reverse my role?
My sister, on the other hand, has embraced her childhood self. Don't expect she'll pass up an opportunity to climb a tree. She will say it's begging to be climbed.
Can I get back to that girl?
That fearless girl who stood on the edge of discovery and didn't care about the consequences.