When I first learned to rock.

I only vaguely remember this rocking horse, my only equestrian companion, although it is clearly being ridden at my maternal grandparents' home in a New Jersey suburb, out in the enclosed porch addition where my grandfather had his ice cold Manhattan

every evening after a day at the office in the eponymous city, Ritz crackers and sharp cheddar on the side, a simple, hearty supper to follow. I now remember this is where I acquired a taste for Maraschino cherries, those fluorescent pseudo-fruit confections I always relished with my Shirley Temple at elegant restaurants in the country.

I keep discovering photos of my smiling young self, which confuses parts of me. There are defenders in me, strategic selves who would have me only remember the difficult, and rarely the sublime. But now I wish to reclaim the capacity for joy I clearly felt astride this springy steed, watched over by some loving adult, camera in hand. Yes–I would tell my defenders–I know there were hurtful experiences, but the scary places you would keep me from also contain these treasures, and the possibility of both recovering the sweetness of childhood in myself, and of freeing myself to encourage that recovery in others, is too important to miss. Stand down, my brave warriors, and let me be undefended when it's called for. Turn your eyes from my vulnerability, and see the strength I now possess. Let yourself fall, and have faith I will catch you, just as the earth catches my body, silence catches my attention, and love catches my desire. Stand down, and let someone much stronger watch over you for a change.