NOTE FROM THE POET

I’m Sydney, and I’ve found that this is by far the hardest section for me to write. Some people know exactly what they want to say about themselves and love doing it. I don’t. There are lot’s of things about me. I love animals. My dogs are the sunshine of my life. I love plants. I play video games. I have an awesome family and we’re very close.. But, who cares… Maybe that’s why I love poetry. Poetry lets me write about me in pieces – what’s significant to me in the moment. But, whether or not anyone wants to read it, here we are, in this dreaded “About the author” section.

Daylighting as Lawyer / Moonlighting as a Writer

Growing up I wanted to be an author.. the next Tolkien.. but, I’m now nearing 28 years of life and as of 2020, I am a licensed, practicing attorney. If there was ever anything that could’ve permanently withered and killed the parts of my soul that were always creative, nostalgic, hopeful, and dream-filled, it was law school. And it certainly almost did. It’s strange I pursued a career that put me so close to the state of mind I had consciously spent most of my childhood fearing and avoiding. Yet, I’m an empath and I saw a need. A need for empathetic attorneys. A need for female attorneys. Plus, growing up as a woman in a small, backwards, southern town, the idea of putting some credibility behind my name grew more and more appealing every single time a man’s eyes glossed over at the sound of a woman talking. So here I am. Currently I am a Public Defender, so I work for my state representing clients who cannot afford to hire an advocate, but who I believe all certainly deserve one. It can be daunting work, but it is worthwhile and can also be immensely rewarding.

Leaving Neverland Behind

When I was young and learned that certain names had meanings, I was disappointed to learn “Sydney” only meant “Wide Island”…. especially when it resulted in my family jokingly dubbing me “Wide Load.” It’s funny now, but wasn’t so funny at the time.

I imagine most children, even if they don’t entertain notions of grandeur, at least have the sense that they must exist for some small purpose – that they must be special somehow. We all know that, (in most instances at least), the older we grow the more disillusioned we become about our reason for existing. For some people, that disillusionment is an easy pill to swallow: they simply accept their place in reality and either make the most of it, or continue on merely existing until they stop. I’d be lying if I said I do not envy them now and then.

But, there are some people who Time must drag through their life by their ankles, kicking and screaming, because growing up means losing so very much.

I believed in fairies and dragons for much too long. At age 13 I started leaving my bedroom window cracked every single night, waiting for Peter Pan to come take me to Neverland. On my 18th birthday I was deemed a “legal adult”, but unlike my friends, I didn’t celebrate. Instead, I mourned the untimely passing of my childhood, gone too soon…

One of my greatest and most noteworthy disillusionments, came very recently in the form of the realization that, for all the years I had likened myself to Wendy Darling, I had actually been Captain Hook all along. You see, Wendy finally closed the window. Leaving her childhood behind with a goodbye kiss, she could still looked back now and then, and fondly remember Neverland and Peter – but gracefully accepted, nevertheless, that she “must grow up.”

Not me… Me, to whom Time was a hungry crocodile, nipping at my heels. Me, to whom the ticking of the clock was a horrific reminder that the ravenous reptile would always be gaining on me, ready to consume me the second I slow down. Me, who couldn’t stop chasing after Peter Pan even though I was much too old.. and who was always on the hunt for more pixie dust because I still had never learned to fly.

I pity Captain Hook far more now that I see his greatest sin so clearly: nostalgia.

The older I grew, the less I saw Peter as the hero of that story. I began to realize what Peter actually represents: In many ways, he is the fear of what’s to come. It became clear that my fear of growing up, as I watched my own childlike wonder begin to die with the passing of Time, always looked a lot like that boy, who never grew up. My own “Peter” made me so afraid of my future that, at times, I was tempted to step out of that open window without a hand to hold onto or any happy thoughts to lift me in the air… I’d just fall, if it meant time would stop.

The day I could clearly see that I had become the wrong character in that story was the day I decided it was time for me to shut that book.

J.M. Barry be damned. (I don’t mean it, J.M., I’m actually extremely grateful for what you have been teaching me for all these years).

I didn’t step out that window, but I haven’t fully let go of my childhood either.. But, I DID stop running from Time. When I quit running, I could turn around, face it, and finally see that Time had never been a crocodile after all – not even close. All along, time has been storybook waiting for me to fill its pages with whatever meaning I made on my own. Seeing it that way made it a little easier not to be so afraid.. and instead of feeling this constant longing for what I’ve lost, I long for something else. Now, I find myself longing for all the things that will come. I know that “wishing for what was” is not necessarily a better mindset than “wishing for what will be”, but at least I am finally hopeful again – hopeful, and determined to learn to see the magic right where I am. My childhood was magical, but the child I was is gone. So, I say goodbye to her with a kiss, and move forward in her honor.. although, now and then, I might still leave the window cracked.

The second star to the right…

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Let’s create something together.

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