When Are We "Grown-Up"?

The Art of Evolving, Breaking and Evolving Some More

     Okay, I just finished listening to “Prove it All Night” (Bruce Springsteen from the classic Badlands album) and all of a sudden, I am seventeen again.  But I’m not, I’m 61, so perhaps I should be listening to “Glory Days” (another Bruuuuuuuce song). 

      Swing back to 1981 and Springsteen’s “River” tour- My Best Buddy Ellin and I at the Philadelphia Spectrum, having just finished a four-hour Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band concert (no, we weren’t “in” it, but we were part of the very active and involved crowd) We are sitting on the hood of her car, drinking warm beer someone gave out in the parking lot, in the soft summer rain.  No personal listening devices, no CD’s, just all we Bruce fans not wanting “it’ to end.  Classic moment. 

     What does it take to grow up?  When are we grown up?  There is a moment inside me…it’s the only way I know how to describe it, and it saves me time and time again.

     It’s that untouched hope, and it has been beaten up, battered, disappointed, shattered, bolstered, reknewed, challenged and it is always there.  It sparkles in unexpected moments, like when my little, amazing Pre-K student Rashad, looked up at me with the eyes of an angel and told me, “Miss Mary, you are the best rapper”.  Here I was, a 50-something-women, with two silver braids, gauze skirt, toe ring sandals and my favorite T-shirt (it says, “Live Together”), having just made up some song in rhyme to get everyone to line up.  If I put it to music, they feel it, and most often, follow.  Isn’t that the power of music?  And more importantly, isn’t that the power of young children and their pure take on what is in front of them.  They, see it, they hear, they say what is on their heart.  Each of them, philosophers if you listen carefully.

       I suppose that is why, two years ago when I dislocated my right shoulder and arm, morphine not enough to kill the pain so that they could pop it back in place, I lost myself.  With the addition of an injection of fentynal on board too, the instructions from the Doc., “Now, it seems this may still hurt you, and I’m sorry, but we need to get this back in place NOW as the next step is surgery and I am not going to let that happen”.

     I McKnighted up and said, “Just do it-I’ll be fine”.  (Oh, I was crying hysterically but I had never experienced that level of pain and fear).  Attempt number one, not successful.  Attempt number two, “Pop”-instant relief.  I said to him, “Did you hear that?  It’s back in.  Thank you sooooo much”.

      The next year long Physical Therapy and the dependence on other people to do my laundry, food shop, drive me and the list goes on, left me feeling “old”.  I felt “Broken”.

      I mean, I really broken.  Emotionally, I broke and did not know if I would ever come back.  But, I McKnighted up, found an amazing therapist, compassionate and knowledgable psychiatrist, along with my continued PT and the addition of once daily at-home yoga practice and I began to feel my “Mary” come back. 

      I will never go back to that point again.  I let my old music aid in my healing, my writing, my connection to nature and the understanding that I was still on the edge. I have to keep pulling myself up by my bootstraps with every ounce of strength I can muster, day after day, moment to moment to stay “Mary”. 

     Just yesterday, I was telling my therapist, “Some people have resting bitch face,” today I have ‘Post Crying Face’ and it has been with me since yesterday.  I can’t imagine where I have enough liquid to be crying the tears I am now. I cried so many yesterday, this must be cerebral spinal fluid”.  We both laughed.  Then he said, “You are one of those very rare people who can find the funny in just about anything”. 

     My “funny”.  If you don’t laugh at my “stuff” we cannot be friends.  We can be cordial to one another, but you are not in my circle.  I laugh at your “stuff” and you laugh at mine.  Beware of people who don’t laugh at your “stuff”.  If they are only allowed to be funny, run, don’t walk away from them. 

      If they only play their music and you can only play yours when they aren’t around, run, don’t walk.  Run for your life. 

     This is it.  This is your life.  How many of us really ponder that especially when we are young?  I don’t think I did deeply.  It seems that my hopes and dreams always hinged on someone else and their acceptance of me.  Stupid and short sited.  That idea is so limiting I feel strangled just typing the words. 

     Would I have made a good hermit?  Perhaps.I prefer to think of it as a Thoreuvian existence or at least the one he wrote about in Walden.  The true facts of how often he saw/welcomed people are his and his alone.  I don’t think he suffered from the “what if?” anxiety that I do.  I mean, he left his door open when he went for walks…not unlocked, open!  What if a bear had wandered in?  Or a skunk, or a band of squirrels?  

     Okay, so I can’t be Thoreau but, I can be a constantly evolving self, retaining my core self and adding to my knowledge and my “sparkle” in my way. 

Your Turn: Tell me about your core self. What brings you back to “you”? How did you know when you were “grown up”? Or, if you are in a hurry, just tell me a song that brings you to life. Thank you! I love your stories!