Not long ago I went back to the farm where I grew up. And much to my surprise, there— plunk in the middle of "my field"—was a house! A long driveway cut through the very place where my older brother and I once ran with a kite. The old stream was dried up, covered over with weeds. Most of the maple trees were gone. The stone walls were crumbling.
I had to deal with strong pangs of nostalgia. But, in thinking about this, it occurred to me that this experience could be a metaphor for the way our lives seem to be sometimes: first, that lovely field, and we children starting out so innocent and free, with beauty all around. Then, growing up—or maybe "growing down," with mistakes and lapses "plunked down" into experience, firmly settled into memory, spoiling the beauty of the landscape, the child, everything.
I can think of things I wish I hadn't said over the years—or done, or thought—that appeared to ruin my pretty field. There have been times when I've felt that the sparkle of the innocent, free-flowing purity of my childhood had largely dried up (like the stream), become overgrown, encrusted with nasty, mental "weeds" that seem to come with the vicissitudes of everyday life. I used to think there was nothing I could do about it. In fact, in my college days, I came to the conclusion that character flaws were ingrained and I would just have to cope with them—and so would everyone else!
