Excerpt From A Writer's Journal

Somehow, I'm not sure when, one of my kids went from being a toddler to a little boy almost overnight. He is going to be eight. I am going to be 35. What a strange sense of time. It goes slowly and yet slides by slippery fast too. Sometimes I look up and years are gone. I remember this child in my arms as nothing more than a tiny newborn bundle all wrapped in potential and now here he stands, before me in all his boyhood glory, wrapped in his own bursting, bold imagination. The world is his to conquer and mold. Every moment of his imagination. So let ones' imagination again flow like they do theirs. To be able to loose yourself so completely in play. To never tire of imagining and playing the same scenes over and over again. I remember. I have worked hard over all these adult years to hang on tightly to what it is like to be that child.