I fondly recall the lazy summers which consisted of my sister and I brewing elaborate potions on the back porch of our house. My mother would come home to the stench of grass, rhodedendron leaves, and rain water, all mashed up into a mystery concoction that we professed was magical. 

Though it seems foolish now, I long for the innocence, creativity, and the utter conviction that we once had in ourselves. It didn’t matter what the world told us. Even as I was enduring my mother’s wrath, I always believed the potions were real. 

There are times I wish I could return to the free and creative spirit of my eight- year- old self. I see my sister and I writing and performing plays in our basement, or digging up cicadas in our yard, and I taste poetry in my mouth. 

There is an openness that comes with being freshly spat out onto the ripe soil of the earth and told to play. I believe that if we all learned to harness that openness a little more, the world would be a better place. 

Today, as I sat before my computer, I felt the immense and daunting pressure to create: something, anything. This is a tale that has repeated itself many times. Just the week before, I sat in the same spot, nearly in tears, trying to get myself to write something. But every word I wrote seemed flawed.

Today, this struggle is evident nearly everywhere. Workers sit in offices, barraged by their bosses’ incessant inquiries as they strive toward the 100% output which is corporate America; my mother works a desk job, juggles two kids, and cooks three meals a day, barely having the wherewithal for any form of rest or creative expression. 

This in itself is counterintuitive. 

As children, we were given recess and told to play because it was good for our development. When did play stop becoming important? When did we learn to start allowing emotions to accumulate in our bodies, as we managed the multifold responsibilities that are the foundation of adulthood? 

Isn’t it possible that we are never fully adults? That we are always still learning and growing, with the curiosity of a newborn infant? Each day is new, ripe with the opportunity for discovery and growth. 

Structure and rhythm kill the creativity which is the basis of our own existence; they impair our ability to approach life with the adaptability and excitement of a child. This turns every day into a tedious ritual that we must fulfill in order to be worthy of so-called “adulthood.”  

As a writer, I often find myself most in flow when I remove the pressure to create; when I lift all judgements and beliefs of what is ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ The writing becomes play for me. It is a form of experimentation. Through it, I can liberate my soul from criticism, social responsibility, and truly speak my truth. 

Because deep down, the soul craves freedom. The only way we can achieve it is by harnessing the childlike aspect of ourselves: the parts of us that rolled around in the grass, or kicked soccer balls into the woods; the parts of us that believed so firmly in something, even without evidence of its existence.

 In harnessing our inner child, we become a possibly impossible version of ourselves, and our soul grows unshakeable.