"All children...soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up."
-- J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
I realized it when I was nearing my thirteenth birthday.
It was a most horrible realization, the awareness that the exuberance of my imagination and the ability to play, wholly satiated by the delicious taste of make-believe, had somehow been unintentionally quelled by that cruel thing we call Reality...
I realized it while babysitting a six-year old. We were sprawled out on the living room carpet, surrounded by scattered Playmobil figures. I don't remember the exact nature of our game, but I distinctly remember that at one point I told her, "No, we can't do that! That wouldn't happen in real life." I also remember my almost immediate revulsion at my own words.
How would I know what "real life" was, anyway? When did I slip on these grown-up boots? Why was I crushing Imagination under my heel? When did I stop wearing dandelion crowns?
How would I know what "real life" was, anyway? When did I slip on these grown-up boots? Why was I crushing Imagination under my heel? When did I stop wearing dandelion crowns?
I'd been warned of this by C.S. Lewis and J.M. Barrie. I didn't want to be a Susan. I wanted to have a Lucy-heart.
I often find myself wistfully wishing for the same unbridled, unadulterated creative imagination and enthusiasm of discovery that we enjoy in childhood...those moments, like in The Nutcracker, of peering through the keyhole to the trimming of the Christmas tree in the drawing room, moments of rosy-cheeked anticipation and delight.
Little did I expect to find this feeling recently in a production of My Fair Lady at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. In fact, I think I settled into my seat somewhat begrudgingly at first.
And then for the next two hours I was captivated by a musical that was anything but cliché.
If it's done well, musical theater possesses the remarkable ability to transport both adults whose creative imaginations have dimmed and children who still experience the delights of life at the fullest and freshest into a uniquely charmed world.
It draws one's eye to the sparkle of a chandelier, the heartbreak and humor etched on all the faces, the harlequin colors of the ladies' skirts as they kick up their heels in whirlwind dance numbers. It satisfies one's soul with familiar and beloved melodies and new realizations about the interplay between selfishness and self-sacrifice that often characterizes relationships. It's earthly and yet ethereal at the same time.
The scene at the races was one of my favorite moments of the evening, for as the ensemble stepped forward, the gentlemen's sleek top hats and the ladies' lavishly feathered ones all descended from the ceiling on transparent cords to nestle right atop their respective wearers' awaiting heads. As the hats dropped slowly down like so many exquisite snowflakes, I watched as the audience looked up with enchanted surprise and collectively gasped at the gossamer loveliness and cleverness of the scene. On every face was pure, child-like delight.
That night we biked back to our hotel in the dark, pedaling on old-fashioned bicycles. And we sang exuberantly, "I could have danced all night... I could have danced all night... and still...have begged...for more... I could have spread my wings...and done a thousand things...I've never done before..."
We all have to grow up, to some extent or another. But we can still peer through the keyhole. We can still play in the garden.
I often find myself wistfully wishing for the same unbridled, unadulterated creative imagination and enthusiasm of discovery that we enjoy in childhood...those moments, like in The Nutcracker, of peering through the keyhole to the trimming of the Christmas tree in the drawing room, moments of rosy-cheeked anticipation and delight.
Little did I expect to find this feeling recently in a production of My Fair Lady at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. In fact, I think I settled into my seat somewhat begrudgingly at first.
And then for the next two hours I was captivated by a musical that was anything but cliché.
If it's done well, musical theater possesses the remarkable ability to transport both adults whose creative imaginations have dimmed and children who still experience the delights of life at the fullest and freshest into a uniquely charmed world.
It draws one's eye to the sparkle of a chandelier, the heartbreak and humor etched on all the faces, the harlequin colors of the ladies' skirts as they kick up their heels in whirlwind dance numbers. It satisfies one's soul with familiar and beloved melodies and new realizations about the interplay between selfishness and self-sacrifice that often characterizes relationships. It's earthly and yet ethereal at the same time.
The scene at the races was one of my favorite moments of the evening, for as the ensemble stepped forward, the gentlemen's sleek top hats and the ladies' lavishly feathered ones all descended from the ceiling on transparent cords to nestle right atop their respective wearers' awaiting heads. As the hats dropped slowly down like so many exquisite snowflakes, I watched as the audience looked up with enchanted surprise and collectively gasped at the gossamer loveliness and cleverness of the scene. On every face was pure, child-like delight.
That night we biked back to our hotel in the dark, pedaling on old-fashioned bicycles. And we sang exuberantly, "I could have danced all night... I could have danced all night... and still...have begged...for more... I could have spread my wings...and done a thousand things...I've never done before..."
We all have to grow up, to some extent or another. But we can still peer through the keyhole. We can still play in the garden.
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