The adult in me saw this scene, shook his head, and immediately thought about germs, stains, and a hefty cleaning burden for his mother.  The kid in me saw this, smiled, and thought about the delightful textures of dirt and wet sand oozing between my fingers, the cool and soothing feeling of mud on my hands and arms, the anticipation of digging, and the opportunity to put into physical forms the images in my mind.  The adult in me grabbed the camera; the kid in me put this on the Web.

 

There is a simple pleasure that comes from having abundances of physical and creative energy, an absence of responsibility, a blissful apathy towards the passing of time, and a selective memory for passionately recited rules about how we should (and should not) play.

 

 

I regularly (and with some measure of pride) tell others that I haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up.  You see, my transition to adulthood isn’t quite complete, and I still cling to some of my childish ways.  I’m not yet ready to let go of the memories of what it’s like to be a kid.  If anything, I’m going backwards — I’m relearning how to give in to the joy of mud.  The situation may be beyond hope — I may never really grow up (and, thus, may never figure out what I want to be in this world).