Thompson Road
Before my world was the actual world, it was one little street. Thompson Road. Two rows of houses overlooking a giant tree whose roots spread wide across the yard like volcanic lava. We would run frantically over those roots and through the street, trying to escape the eruption. We screamed "CAAARRRRRR" whenever a car would roll around the corner at approximately five miles per hour. Our parents would follow that with "SLOW DOWN!!" if the driver dared travel faster than five miles per hour so close to their children. The car was oblivious to the fact that it had halted a whole world for a moment.
It was a world with its own code of conduct, put in place by seven-year-olds. Kids are often all too aware of what is theirs. I don't remember being like that (which doesn't mean I wasn't like that, it just means I don't remember it if I was), but I do remember being completely unaware of what was not mine. The street was ours, despite the fact that it was actually several pieces of privately owned property lined up next to each other.
Within Thompson Road, we created a beautiful imaginary world called Roxaboxen. We borrowed the name from a book we loved, and we borrowed bushes in our neighbors' yards to make houses, garage windows to make a bank, and dog houses for the jail. We used our elderly neighbors' air conditioning unit for an ice cream store. To make the imaginary ice cream, we would shove (not-so) imaginary wood chips down the vent. It was the best pretend ice cream any of us had ever tasted. Until we broke the air conditioner and the shop was politely asked to close.
We built Main Street through the back yard of our least understanding neighbor. Some of the Roxaboxen residents had lived in that house before, and when they moved a few streets away and two grumpy women moved in, it didn't occur to us to make any adjustments to our world. After all, if anyone was trespassing, it was them. So we kept on running down Main Street.
But we didn't just run. We also installed a lamp post to light our way (through the broad daylight). And by installed, I mean we took an old lamp post someone dug up to throw away, and leaned it against some of the grumpy ladies' bushes. It turned out the grumpy ladies were not very concerned about our midday visibility, and moved the lamp post onto the sidewalk to wait for the garbage truck. Thankfully we were able to intercept it before it was too late, and moved it back to Main Street where it belonged. Then they moved it back to the sidewalk. And we moved it back to Main Street. To this day, we're still moving it back and forth. Just kidding. But it went on for a little too long, considering we had no business putting old lamp posts in grumpy peoples' yards.
The poet, David Whyte, has a concept called The Arrogance of Belonging, which Elizabeth Gilbert discusses in this essay. The idea is that solely because we exist, we are entitled to have and express our own voices and visions. And without that belief, we won't be able to take any creative risks. When we created Roxaboxen, we may have taken this idea a tad too far, thinking not only that we belonged, but also that everything belonged to us. However, I think that is better than the alternative. There is something special about the way children see themselves in the world that leads to creativity and imagination, and maybe it's rooted in this sense of belonging. We were able to retreat fully into Roxaboxen because we felt entirely safe on Thompson Road. We belonged there.
As we grow older, do we lose the creative freedom of childhood because we lose our sense of belonging and worth? Do we no longer feel entitled to spend our time creating? Are wonder and curiosity replaced by fear and insecurity? If so, that's a shitty trade. Let's trade back! Let's trade for a life where a tree can be a volcano, and a street can be a whole world. Let's trade for confidence and self-appreciation. And most importantly, let's trade for the belief that we belong because we are alive.
Love Love Love,
Kat
P.S. You know when you inhale a mouthful of putrid subway smog and then exhale minty-fresh fairy dust? No? Well that's what I just did. I took in a lot of metaphorical subway smog yesterday: first-thing-in-the-morning attitude, work nonsense, a lunch place that took two and a half hours to deliver two separate wrong orders and then charged me for them and refused to bring my actual food (don't even get me started). SMOG. And then I wrote about something I love. Writing about anything feels like a fairy dust exhale. But writing about something I love, that's the minty fresh magic. Just a little tip for when you're having an extra smoggy day-- write, draw, talk, think about something you love :)
P.P.S. I wrote this song when I was living somewhere that didn't feel like home, and I just needed to feel that sense of belonging again, like I did on Thompson road. It's called "Going Home," and it's on my upcoming EP due out 10/6/15!
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