The older I get, the more connected I feel to the 7, 8 and sometimes 9 yr old Jessica.
She was really flamboyant, loud and imaginative. She was into expression, art and (on the weekends only, of course,) running around naked on her best friend’s farm. (It was a family of complete hippies. They let their kids say “shit,” the dad smoked weed, the family pet was a hedgehog and the mother birthed all four children on the bathroom floor.) On one particular occasion, the mom explained to me the spiritual interworkings of the universe. As we sat in the family sauna on a winter night. It was pretty trippy.
Anyway, I am still so very connected to who I was then. I enjoy nudity, art and obsessed with the idea of a home birth.
Okay, I’m kidding about that last part. Kind of.
So when I came across the writings of little me, I had to marvel at her insight & sense of purpose. At seven, I knew I wanted to be an artist. I knew I wanted to tell a story, and help other people tell their story. I didn’t know then if it was through writing, but found out just two years later.
I also knew I wanted to be a mom. Not an artist OR a mom. Not an artist, THEN a mom. I wanted to be an artist AND a mom. I didn’t believe in a world where I had to choose.
What a little feminist.
And while I have #1 mostly covered, I hope the rest follows suit. There is nothing truer or more pure than a childhood dream. Except, maybe, childhood dreams fulfilled.