One of the most difficult things I ever had to do in life was acknowledge to our seven-year-old son that Santa Claus was a lie. He was inconsolable, and I wasn’t far behind.
Don’t recall which of us went through more tissues.
And with each passing year, another fairy tale shot to shit.
Seems though that when you try to express life’s disappointments, mind-fucks and wake-up calls in adult terms, the heart of those thoughts and even some of the words come from the innocence we all lost along the way.
A beautiful post.
A nice reminder to keep things simple.
It always starts with chicken. When I think what should I write about today, the first thought that pops in my head is chicken. Then sheep, then pigs and then bears. Then I think, OK, what should I really write about?
Yesterday when I asked myself what I should write about I didn’t think of chickens or sheep or pigs or bears. But as I was writing I did find my mind wandering to chickens and sheep and pigs and bears. It just happened.
Perhaps life is best understood through the fables and fairy tales filled with animals. Perhaps it’s my inherent naiveté that drives me to the lessons of childhood stories. Chicken Little, The Three Little Pigs, Baa Baa Black Sheep and so on.
These stories keep life simple, strip away the noise, get to the heart of the matter. But as we grow older chickens change from lessons…
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