I've got sunshine on a cloudy day...

...when it's cold outside, I've got the month of May.

But where have "my girls" gone?

I remember being a young and fantastic child, my head filled with such whimsical ideas bouncing this way and that through my overactive mind. What a time that was, so free of the restraints of life. The ropes of reality hadn't found me yet, that slink through the grass, hissing and slithering until they find your feet and wrap themselves around your ignorant ankles. They make their way up your naive calves, and restrict your creative hands and fingers, that before could paint masterpieces with only two colours of paint and no brushes, and now require a case full of colours to get even close to what you want your painting to look like.

Back in those days, I had so many friends. I wasn't a very social child at school, really. I didn't have many of those sorts of friends. No, I was always surrounded by a different sort, I ran with a much more imaginative crowd. This crowd accepted me for who I was, embraced me for my goof, ran and played with me when no one else would.

They were my girls.

Now, I won't claim to entirely remember them, because unfortunately I can't. I've tried, to recapture them in the deepest parts of my memory, but I just can't seem to find them completely. I've heard about them in the stories my mother tells me, however, and they do seem like an exceptional bunch. And every so often I get a vague memory of the comfort they brought me, or a game we played once, but because I've grown up as society has forced, there is no possible way for me to regain them.

Some would say they weren't real, they were made up, imaginary. But for me, for a six year old girl with radical ideas and knotty hair, a hippie in her own time, they were as real as anything could ever be. They had names, they had faces, they had voices, they had feelings. They were loved, and could love. And they were my very best friends.

I called them "my girls" my mother tells me. She says I used to talk about them so lovingly, I'd go down the list of names, and point throughout the room. Or there were times when only one of my girls would be in the room with us at a time, and I'd have to run off to retrieve another before I could introduce her properly. I could describe their personalities descriptively, and always with the utmost care not to offend in their honourable presence. There were even times when my mother would be walking through the hall with a stack of clean towels in her hands, and hear the faintest little voice coming from my room, as I instructed one of them not to tug on the other's hair, or that it wasn't safe to jump on the bed in such a reckless manner. They may not have been the greatest at conversation, some might say, but they could listen like no one could.

I don't know where they are today. I can almost remember the moment I dismissed them, without wanting to, I did. Not at my parents persuasion, not at my school friends persuasion, but at my own. With my own blossoming womanhood at hand, I took my stick of insecurity chalk and drew a circle around myself, with not even enough space to move. Without knowing it, I had locked my girls out, and locked myself in - trapped by the fear of an unsettling world, bound by the fear of failure, unsure of what I would do to erase my transparent line of chalk and free myself again, dance again.

My girls could no longer reassure me of how beautiful I looked in that dress. They could no longer take my hand when I felt alone. And it wasn't as if I could see them as they paced around my circle, watching and waiting for my escape. No, from within my circle I couldn't even see them anymore.

I'm still working on my circle. You won't be surprised to hear that I haven't erased it, because as a woman you too understand the concept of the circle. You've seen the circle, and felt it, grow and shrink through your hectic and uncertain roller-coaster life. But I'd like to think that right now, my circle is growing. I'd like to think that I am allowing myself room to breathe again, opening myself up to possibilities, making enough room for perhaps two or three people to share my circle with me.

I'd also like to think that one day, when I'm least expecting it, the circle will be gone. Simply from the traffic of people entering and moving on from my circle, the treads of their feet will brush the chalk away. I know that day isn't today, and I know it isn't tomorrow, but I know it's coming. For me, and for you, and that we'd both better be ready because once it's gone, it can't protect us from ourselves anymore. It won't need to.

I know my girls are still out there, whispering magical whims into the ears of some ambitious little girl, coming alive in the drawings of a seven-year-old angel. Letting that knobby first grader win a race or two, and celebrating in her triumph. They're there, and maybe one day we'll meet again.

Thank you, my sweet girls.

Brushing away the tangles of life

Something I think I enjoy most about my entire day.

I'll work a long day, up at 6, home by 4, and I'm exhausted. I've been running around, making everyone else happy, scratching my head for ideas, pulling my hair from stress, running my fingers through my hair for comfort, fussing with my hair for cosmetic purposes.

And then I get home and the most magical moment happens when I get to the bathroom and grab that favourite brush. Those teeth stroke my scalp in just the right way, as the brush moves fluidly through my strands...

I hit quite a few tangles from my stressful day, but the brush takes them out with ease, tugging ever so gently on my over-worked head. And I brush, and I brush, until my hair is only comparible to silk, cascading in one heavenly fold over my exhausted, sore shoulders and neck.

I look forward to this moment every day. These are the tangles I can solve in this life. This is the stress I can ease in my day.

And all it takes is one humble brush.

Ah yes. No joy like this one.