Starcatchers

I have always had a sort of fascination with the story of Peter Pan. There are many reasons: pirates, fairies, flying, imagination, swordplay, and eternal youth. Perhaps it is that last one that stirs me the most. I always loved the idea of escaping to a magical land where one could stay young forever.

It is not just a fear of growing up that drives this fascination, though I am afraid. I’m afraid of the responsibilities, the heartaches, and the change. But more than the fear of moving forward, I am grieved by the loss of what has past. We can never go back to our youthful carefree days, and I feel a great sense of loss. I will never curl up on my mother’s lap entrenched in her arms being rocked back and forth with the beating of her heart loud in my ear. I will never go tromping through the woods fighting off invisible ninjas or slashing down weeds with wooden swords. I will never swim beside my brother in the ocean as our super hero selves, Crayola and Crayon, punching waves in the face and saving all those who lie sleeping on the sand. I won’t play beanie babies on the school bus, or catch touchdown passes in laced socks and Mary-Janes.

The innocence, the confidence, the idea that I could do anything, be anything, those feelings are gone. Maybe dulled is more fair a term. But at any rate, I miss it. I miss the freedom and the simplicity of that life. Grown up life seems so complicated. Consequences are more severe, relationships more demanding, and pain more acutely felt. Could we only go back once in a while and feel the sensation? Wouldn’t it be wonderful?

 “On these magic shores children at play are forever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.”
― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Starcatchers

Wake up you starcatchers,

            You early morning dreamers,

You freckle faced raggedy gingers.

Pick up your pixie dust!

Today is for tasting cirrus vapors

Not for sinking your toes into the black soil of the earth

Where calluses serve as a symbol of toil

Rather than the freedom of Neverland days.

This dawn, we skate the horizon

To a place where swords and cannons are overtaken by daggers and pebbles,

Where the lips of orphans are not parched or cracked or bleeding.

For there, children clap for the salvation of fallen fairies,

Kites bear the weight of imaginative adolescent girls,

And ticking clocks mark the passage of crocodiles

Not of time.

Neverland does not mourn the living

Like barren winter trees still green with wick.

For there, we do not have seasons that pass,

But one infinite moment in which

Boys conquer men.

Ride with me

To where dreams are never too lofty,

Because where we go

We walk in the clouds

Weightless and unhindered by limits,

Or practicalities, or bedtimes.

No no!

We will glide on in endless story.

Follow me in youthful exodus

Out of the bondage of sheets, duvets and feather pillows.

Out the open window,

The gateway to possibility.

Do not stay behind as your fathers

Or their fathers before them.

Let this be the ageless generation!
                                     
                                                  -Elisa Parmer