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My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So it was when my life began;
So it is now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

- “My Heart Leaps Up,” William Wordsworth

I never really wanted to be an adult.

The havens of childhood were enough for me. The soft, whirling hum of those wonder-filled days blur into a constant arpeggio of piano fading into the distant laughter of kindred friends. I suppose growing up isn’t so troublesome if your childhood wasn’t built on fairytales and pirate ships and tea-parties.

But mine was.

My childhood was rich. It was the kind you only read about in storybooks; the kind that’s so whimsical and charming in old films. My childhood was a happy symphony of imaginary worlds with friends and Mother (as I affectionately call her) dressing us up like pirates to fight raging tempests on our faithful ship—which was really a playground rusting in the summer sun.

Autumn days were for library visits and tea-parties and walks to the willow trees where my siblings and I produced dramas that even Jo March would be proud of. When winter’s icy winds blew across the mountain ranges, we would drive to the edge of the forest and wander the kingdoms of evergreens while sipping cocoa from the thermoses between our mittens. In the evenings, we’d hang up paper snowflakes and improvise winter waltzes around the fireplace while Mother played piano and the aroma of cookies wafted in from the kitchen.

If spring finally dared to kiss the earth with her sun-hued wings—which always happened when the time was right, but never before we began to wonder if she had forgotten—most of my hours were spent in the arms of the lovely, old, cherry-tree rooted in my best friend’s garden. Our childhood cherry-tree patiently listened to all our girlhood secrets, cradling us in its boughs while the books in our hands swept us away to distant lands…where fairies live and birdsong is laughter and the sky never weeps.

Summers were the best days, though. Because they were the longest. In summer, it seemed that adults forgot all about the bothersome seconds ticking away on their watches and the days stretched on and on. Summertime meant bright, blue mornings soaked in hikes and lake days—and deep, blue evenings swirling with ice-cream after bedtime and running through fields of fireflies with close friends.

Nothing was simpler than childhood. And yet, nothing was harder than having the limits of a child.

I guess that’s the irony of it all. It’s only good so long as you choose it.

When I first noticed childhood slipping from my fingers, it was instantly paired with the panic of a clock ticking faster than I could control. It wasn’t until the threads of my wonder-days were unraveling that I began to want them.

Three-years-old isn’t old enough to know that you need to touch grass and feel the sun kiss your face and listen to your Mama read books while you drift asleep. Five isn’t old enough to know that Dad winning every game and friends fighting over whose stuffed animals had better talents were actually some of the best parts of life.

It isn’t until the three-year-old turns five that they can tell the grass is sweet, the sun is charming, Mama’s voice is home. It isn’t until the five-year-old is quicker than Dad and tired of stuffed animals that the simplicity of it all fades into a bittersweet memory.

It takes growing up to realize that you never wanted to.

And now, here I am: all grown up.

Or, at least, that’s what I’m told.

The little, freckle-faced kid with light, wild curls is now nearly unrecognizable: a brunette with tight ringlets and glasses instead of hair-bows. Sometimes I look at pictures of my little-self and wonder at the strangeness of being so distant from the person who I was…who I still am.

I’m all grown up, but parts of me still feel seven or twelve or sixteen. I still want my Mother to hug me like I’m five, I still want my Dad to over-explain things to me like I’m eleven, I still want the passion I had for people and life at thirteen, I still want the compassion I had at fifteen.

But somewhere in all the days-between, I grew up.

Now I’m left to wonder, what exactly it means to be an adult. I still feel young, and, in most senses of the word, I am young. And the world feels smaller, sure, but it feels bigger too. Like growing into my shoes didn’t make the trails shorter, it just made my ability to walk them a little easier.

I’m sure it will be different when I move away from home. I’m sure the “growing-up” will settle more surely when adulthood becomes a way of life instead of a mere status update. I’m sure when the time is right and fitting, all will fall into its proper place and everything will make sense again.

But for now, I’m drifting out of the days-between and stuck with a new beginning that I’ve ignored for too long. It’s time to become friends with adulthood.

I was thinking about all of these things on the roof the other day. I go to the roof when I’m happy, sad, confused, or whenever my heart feels particularly cluttered. There’s something sacred about talking to God in the same place every time—like meeting Him in a haven only He and you know about.

Sometimes I bring my journal with me, but I rarely use it. Most days, the birdsong serenades me into deep thought or the shifting of shadows under dusk’s light draws new prayers out of my soul. This last time, I didn’t do much of any of those things. Instead, I watched the clouds…they looked like sailboats drifting away, carrying the sorrows of the sky to spill upon some parched land.

While I watched, I wrote adulthood a letter. It went something like this…

Dear Adulthood,

I’m sorry I’ve been distant.

It’s not that I don’t want to love you. It’s just that I don’t know how to. You’re like a new friend that I want to grow with, but who I know nothing about. I want our friendship to be sweet…I want to know you as richly as I knew childhood.

I know that might be hard to believe because I’ve avoided introducing myself to you…and flee every-time you try to initiate conversation. But I needed time to think about the gap between childhood and adulthood. I needed to figure out how to bridge the hollows of that space-between. To me, accepting you was like letting go of a dear, old friend. It was like the soft, gentle end of conversations that you imagined would last forever. Growing up has come with the subtle closure of so many friendships…I wasn’t ready to let childhood drift away too.

But I’m learning, slowly, that you are not different from childhood. In fact, just as the little girl with wild, blond waves is just as much Rue as the brunette with glasses is Rue…the whimsical whirl of childhood is just as much you as the elegant depth of adulthood is. You and childhood are the same wonder and nostalgia, the same memory and laughter, the same lullaby drifting in recesses of my mind. You’re both natural ebbs and flows of the same, lovely world.

You haven’t changed me…I’ve changed you. I was growing up, there was no stopping it. The ticking of time lulled me into a rhythm of moving on, letting go, drawing deeper, different people. The ebbing of your tides was just a response to the rushing on of mine.

Growing up is not letting go of childhood…it’s growing deeper into it. True growing up, means letting my roots dig deeper into the soil they’re already planted in. It means drawing from the springs of laughter and charm and whimsy in my youth and letting those spur the delight of wonder and nostalgia of older days.

Maybe one day, when I’m old and gray, I’ll look back and want this season too. And so, dear adulthood…I’m sorry I’ve been distant.

I didn’t realize I was avoiding the lullaby that grew with me from childhood. I didn’t realize you were the familiar dreams and passions and hopes and sorrows that I always knew. I didn’t realize you were growing with me, not I with you.

And, most of all, dear adulthood, I’m sorry that, although you recognized the little girl in my grown-up self, it took me so long to recognize the childhood in your weathered face.

I’m sorry I’ve been distant.

And now I’m ready to be friends, if you’re willing to try again. I’ll meet you in the space-between, where wonder and nostalgia roam. Maybe there, beneath the willows of time’s bough, we’ll find some kindredness within and reminisce the simpler days we’ve known.

I still don’t really want to be an adult.

But I’m willing to be a grown-up child.