Remembering the Girl I Used to Be

Although many light years have passed, the girl I used to be still visits occasionally.  She infiltrates my day dreams on quiet car rides and some nights she flickers before my eyes just before I go to sleep.  But until recently she seemed as separate from me as a lost limb…

It could be because of my new grandmother status – one can’t help but marvel at being a newly-minted grandmother when just yesterday I was a newly-minted young lady.  Now as I ponder the full life in front of my little grandchild, is it any wonder my younger version appears so often now?  I read once that we should remember the things we had a passion for in our younger years and revisit them in our older years.  I think I’m more comfortable with that than the feeling of being nostalgic for one’s own self.

Looking back, “my” girl was actually quite endearing.  She meant no harm although she made a few mistakes.  She was sweet, shy, authentic – far more authentic than I am now since my long work history has stolen some of the power my girl came by so naturally.  She loved pretty things:  small floral china boxes, love songs, powdery scents…the moon.  She read romance novels but only really good ones.  She perused the newspaper.  Every day.  She adored the sea, poetry, and embroidery.  She drank tea with sugar and milk and wore antique combs in her hair.  She picked flowers and made bouquets, kept a recipe box and baked chocolate chip cookies.  Her favorite pastimes were reading and watching old movies but she loved parties too, and dancing.  She especially loved the ballet:  practicing it, studying it, and watching it.

Ballet was part of my girl’s world from the time she was 3 until age 22.  She craved the beauty and grace, the costumes, the shoes, and the drama.  She rolled the French words for balletic movements off her tongue as if she were a Parisian.  But life intervened and it was time to hang her shoes and find a job.  And a husband…

You may be happy to know that I have dusted off my ballet dream and joined an adult class near me (Dear God, don’t let me fall on my face).  I feel so joyful when I put on my classic black ballet shoes which were surprisingly affordable.  My classmates are all women of a certain age and our teacher is very kind.  We wear leggings and long t-shirts now and there is already a sympathy among us – we intuitively know that this is the place where we are honoring the girls we used to be.  After all, who in their right mind would take ballet lessons in middle age?  We know we will never light up a stage, or even be really good.  But we love it anyway and cheer each other on.

The image above is very special.  It was forwarded by a good friend, who has also had some visits from the girl she used to be.  She remembers vividly the day her father brought home a Magnus chord organ with a few specialized music books ordered through the Sears and Roebuck catalog.  She quickly learned to play the organ and pounded out songs with all her heart and soul.  Her favorite audience member was her granddaddy who banged his arm in time on his chair as she clunkily worked her way through Litszt’s Liebestruam, and other hymns.

And since playing the chord organ for her family was one of her happiest memories, she acquired not one, but two organs recently and is playing her heart out in her upstairs atelier.  She said she feels like a girl again, stealing back a dream that was long hidden though her marriage and motherhood years.

I think the girls we used to be want more than just to be remembered – they want to see some of those ardent aspirations reach fruition in some capacity.  Perhaps we owe it to them…those lovely dream-filled creatures who used to be us.

Indeed, the copy on the ad above states that we should pick up our fancies right where we left off all those years ago.  What does the girl you used to be want you to do?