Sometimes I like to close my eyes and remember I’m seven again. When I was seven, I went to the moon.
When I was seven, I crawled onto the swing of my grandmother’s porch and flew to the moon. Sometimes, I flew beyond the moon to the stars. I even flew to heaven once. I met God and told Him I loved Him.
When I was ten, I took a walking stick and adventured out to my grandmother’s barn, to her river, up her mountain. I jumped haybales, I skipped rocks, I climbed up a tree to find the hidden trails.
When I was fifteen, I sat in my bathroom floor and put earbuds in my ears. I listened to pianos, guitars, and harps. I drew people, I painted emotions, I wrote about love.
When I was twenty, I sat by the oceanside, I stood on the cliff of a mountain, I curled up under a blanket in my dorm room with my headphones on. I listened to violins, cellos, and flutes. I wrote about sacrifice, contentment, and the mysteries of the world, about seeing God in everything.
Last summer, I visited my grandmother’s old house. I sat on the unpainted, cracked porch swing. I closed my eyes. I went to the moon. Then to the stars. Then beyond.
I never really grew up. The adventures just became grander.
I have lived a happy life.
Am still living a happy life.