Clinging to Neverland

Lately I've been telling my classes about my trip home; it is a nice use of class time when I just don't feel like teaching and they don't feel like learning. Well, I of course include details of my trip hiking with Daane on the A.T. For a little bit of the "wow" factor, I always throw in his height. "My brother is very tall. He is 191 cm." This statement is punctuated by gasps from my students, as even my height, 178 cm, is considered somewhat elephantine in this small culture. As I speak about him, I cannot help but be cognizant of the passage of time, reflecting on memories of an adorably pudgy boy now towering and masculine, complete with his hiking beard. All grown up.

Realizing how grown Daane is makes me consider this same phenomenon in my own life. I mean, when your baby brother grows up, what does that mean for you? Am I all grown up? This is somewhat of an enigma to me, for though I have many of the proper signs, I lack certain ones that as a child I always identified as benchmarks of adulthood.

As a little girl, I used to imagine my wedding, planning the details as I lay in bed awaiting sleep to fall. The groom had no face, but he was there amidst a host of guests and a field of flowers. Like play typical for a child, I liked to periodically change the outfits of myself, the groom, and the various guests. But as I remember those sweet, hopeful memories, something I still someday hope for, I realize that I have passed the birthday that puts me several years beyond the once-future imagined bride. I then assumed that at my current age, I would start having children. As I look at that now, I recoil slightly, knowing my life is far from those pre-dream images. In truth, it is not something I want now for myself. Later, yes. But as a single, independent girl living overseas, I am content to be that way. Did you notice that? I said, "girl." I still don't conceptualize myself as an adult. Am I just afraid to grow up?

I wonder about that. How frightening it is to accept aging. As humans, we violently fight the outward, physical signs. Sometimes, I believe, we fight the inward signs as well. Often I feel as though I'm still playing dress-up, donning adult clothes and make up to hide the little girl. There are still moments that cause me a certain degree of surprise that I am not still ten years old. Seeing my family is, as I said, one.

Is this ridiculous to think about? I have a full-time job at which I do well. I live overseas, thriving in another culture. I have my own apartment that I found, decorated, and pay for by myself. I lead a fellowship group at my church. Yet there remains a nagging suspicion that some day I will be pulled aside and asked to take off my play clothes, to stop pretending.

In truth I have no answers to this question. I do not feel as if I lack anything with these considerations; I merely expected to feel more "adult" by this age. I expected to be identified by events that have not occurred. But life continues to surprise me in its very unpredictability. Perhaps I should not be surprised; it is a common sentiment familiar to most. But there are moments when my mind succumbs to reflection and imagination that I realize how I must adjust for who I did not become, who I will never be, and this quasi-adult that I now am.

To be honest, I love that.

"So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!" ~James M. Barrie