Part of a line from an old Cat Steven's song sometimes haunts me: "...where do the children play...". Today, I honoured my curiosity about the rest of the song, dug through my ancient albums, and really listened to the words for a change. Oh, he wasn't talking about me in particular, or even survivors in general. He was addressing a much more global issue, but like so many other things in my reality, the words trigger something in my depth and set my mind to thinking...

I don't remember much about playing as a young child. I do remember a "hiding game": me in the dark, damp cellar, feeling almost safe, hoping no one would find me. I remember an "airplane game" where I stood on a bridge over railroad tracks, pondering, (since really I knew I couldn't fly) whether life stopped hurting once we were dead. Deep thought for a child...

I think I know where I played; I think it was the same place I survived. It was the part of my mind where no one else could go --the part I'm just now myself unravelling. I listen a little longer through the crackle and hiss of what wasn't original on the album and catch a few more words that were: "...her eyes like windows, tricklin' rain..."--maybe he was talking about me afterall...

I find myself shaking my head, pulling myself back into the now. The dog's asleep near my feet and I'm comforted by her snore; the cat's snuggled up on my favourite sweatshirt on the extra chair beside me leaving loose hairs and potential claw pulls but somehow right now, it doesn't seem to matter. I grab the little ball with the bell from beside the keyboard and roll it along the floor to see if either of them will stir--nope, they're too comfortable. It's ok, though. They don't need to play with me. I just need to know that I can play...and that I can play here.

Copyright 1998, may not be re-printed without express permission.

Sage

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