Chipped Polish & Wornout Jeans

“The way I flew? Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever did really fly” “Yes, you did.” “The dear old days when I could fly!” “Why can’t you fly now, mother?” “Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way.” “Why do they forget the way?” “Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly.” ~Peter Pan, pg 222

In case you didn’t catch it the title and opening quotes are in reference to Peter Pan and the location of Neverland. It’s sad but Peter Pan made me realize how jaded and cynical I’ve become. We read it for my children’s lit class, Children’s Fantasy Fiction, back in undergrad, and I bawled at the end when Wendy had forgotten how to fly because she grew up. I’ve grown up too… I don’t remember how to fly anymore. And when Peter said he’d teach her how again, but she told him not to waste his fairy dust on her, I almost died. I won’t ever fly again. I’ve grown up and forgotten and can’t be retaught. I’ll never remember; I’ll have but fond memories of the days when I could. I want to fly away to Neverland and fight pirates with Peter… that sounds good right now. I want to remember how to get there and how to fly. Long ago I used to fight pirates with Peter. I used to go to Neverland and play with the Lost Boys. I want to go back there. “Second to the right, and straight on till morning” That’s where I’ll go.

But the point of this entry is that I know that many people have forgotten how to fly. They’ve stopped believing, and that’s very sad. I clapped loudest when I watched the play; I clapped for Tinker Bell, who I believed in with all my heart. But lately I’ve come to realize that my clapping has grown softer, my innocence has faded away. People all around me have stopped clapping; they’ve stopped believing, and that is a tragedy. They’ve forgotten Neverland and Peter, and Neverland is childhood and hope. Whether you believe it or not, J.M. Barrie was right. We all know Neverland and Peter; we all flew away with him and fought pirates and redskins and played with the Lost Boys, and eventually we all flew home and grew up. “On these magical shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.” The main problem is that we will never land on the shores of that dreadful paradise again, where adventure would sweep us away, and we would be free and innocent. Neverland is not a safe place all the time, and our companion Peter Pan is careless and cruel at times, but it is a paradise to be certain.

Maybe it is that we grow up too fast now, achieving adulthood and abandoning Neverland before we should. Forgetting our old adventures as we discover the troubles and difficulties of adult responsibilities, which are much more difficult to battle than the pirates of our youth. Once upon a time we fought pirates and redskins, we defeated Captian Hook and watched as he fell to the crocodile. But we don’t remember that; we don’t remember Tiger Lily or the Neverbird. We’ve forgotten. And I cry for us, for our past. I do not wish to be Peter, who is still a little boy, but I do wish I could remember how to fly, just once, and head back to Neverland for another adventure.

Deep within us, there is a sprinkle of fairy dust and a happy thought, and that will let us fly. In the shadows there is a boy in a garment of green playing the pipes or brandishing a dagger. He’s crying as he tries to stick his shadow back on with soap or perhaps he’s crowing with glee and delight. Some night while you are sitting in your room, you’ll hear a crow and the window will blow open and a boy will drop in on the floor. He will be the same as ever, and he will have all his first teeth. Now he might forget you from time to time, but you mustn’t forget him, for he will come back eventually. He is a careless little boy. Peter doesn’t change, we do. But if you listen closely you can hear him whispering to you.

The weather was beautiful yesterday, mild and clear and sunny, and its pretty much the same today. It really feels like Spring outside, and if it weren't for all the studying I have to do, I would definitely spend my time outside, taking pictures, and soaking in the beauty of it all. I hate to admit it, but this Yankee city (and this Yankee campus) is really nice right now. I know that L-ville is not exactly NYC-northern, but its definitely not the South. I had to explain what yonder means to someone today at lunch. Back on topic. I love Spring (I know I also said I love Fall and I do); it's a great season, minus all the rain and allergies. I think for me Spring represents something wonderful, and that's why I love it so much. Spring is rebirth, renewal, a ressurection; everything seems to come back to life. Flowers are in bloom, trees are beginning to green up, and the world seems to waking up from a long sleep. I think that it makes sense that Easter is at the beginning of Spring; the Resurrection of Jesus coincides with the rebirth of nature. I am trying to let this season renew me. I am trying to let it give me hope. I believe in miracles, and I believe that somethings are just meant to be. I believe that life and love can be like nature. Sometimes it takes a winter to bring about a spring. This is a really short entry, and I apologize. But there is an almost finished CivPro outline demanding to be finished.

I always think of the Yes, Virginia Editorial when people make a huge deal about how Santa isn't real. While you may not believe that he is a real person, the idea of Santa Claus is something that should be cherished, especially for kids. I mean Santa Claus is not about the gifts and cookies and milk and fat men in red suits. It's about love and faith and hope and generosity. I think that if you obsess over whether there really is a fat man in a red suit who comes down chimneys and eats milk and cookies and has flying reindeer, you are sort of missing the point. It is Christmas Eve I would like to share something with my readers that chokes me up every year. So here is the Yes, Virginia Editorial:

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Taken from Yes, Virginia

I know that I will be too busy to blog tomorrow since I'm having a girl's day out with Mama during the day and then I'm going to be at MTSU judging mock trial tomorrow night. However, I really wanted to do this post because it is really important to me and I'm trying to make this blog worth what visits it gets. Tomorrow is To Write Love on Her Arms day, and if you don't know what that is click this link right here: TWLOHA. It's a movement about self love and the prevention of self injury and suicide; it's about fighting addiction and depression and  And it's personal for me for a reason I will get to in a moment. So tomorrow on the inside of my left wrist in small black letters you will find the word love; I'd do it a little bigger but there is a need for me to look at least semi-professional and presentable at the tournament.

I said that for me TWLOHA is personal. That's because when I was a sophomore in college, which seems so long ago, I lost a good friend to suicide; it's something that I will never really forget. That phone call from a friend who was like a brother, hearing his voice shake as he tried to tell me the news, the tears I could hear over the phone, they are as clear to me as that night I got the midnight message. I can still feel the shock, the pain, the confusion, and the loss like it happened yesterday. The scream in my head was that this was some sick joke, that it could never happen to one of us. We were invincible, all powerful, untouchable, blessed. Our diverse group had seen enough damage, emotional baggage, and hurt. But in the end that stuff just seemed so petty and minor. Who gave a damn about break ups, hang ups, and stupid fights? He was dead, and we couldn't bring him back. We'd broken the one thing we'd promised as people began graduating and moving. To always be there; to never let anything happen to us. I can still remember the funeral, the tears running down my cheeks, the sudden realization of my own mortality, the way the wind cut through my sweater as I stood beside my friends watching the casket lower into the ground, and the way we all tried not to fall to pieces. It was not the first time that I knew someone who had committed suicide, but it was the first time it was so close to me. I remember thinking: "God, why did You let this happen? Why take him from us? Why didn't You stop him? Why didn't You give us some kind of sign that he needed us?" And I remember blaming myself for not noticing, for letting our little group of friends fall apart just because we were no longer having lunch all together and meeting up as often, for being too wrapped up in the drama and insanity of my own life. I remember wondering most of all: Why he felt there was no other answer, why he thought that it was the only way, why he hadn't come to me or to any one of our group? Did he think we didn't care, that we wouldn't drop everything to save him, that we wouldn't listen, that we could not do anything? He was supposed to be the sane one, and he had been our rock when we needed him. He'd talked us through so many hard times. He'd kept us together. I remember feeling as though we'd failed him, though I knew that we hadn't really. We'd loved him, and we hadn't known he was in trouble. I still wonder what life would be like had we known something and been able to save him. Would our little group have stayed together instead of scattering to the winds? I don't know, but I do know that I will always miss him and always wish that something had saved him. I remember him because he was my friend, because he was my brother, and because I loved him like a brother.

So I write love on my arm for Nathan, who saw no other option, for the friends we've all lost, and the one's we will try to save. I write love on my arm and whisper a prayer for those who need help. I ask God to send an angel to those people who are lost and searching for an answer. I write love on my arm because my life matters and so does everyone else's. I write love on my arm because we are all in this together and because you never know when you will turn the corner and find someone in need. I write love on my arm in memory of those who have gone and those who are saved. I write love on my arm for everyone out there.