Acid Pits, Jail, and Paris

Today I once again had the pleasure of going straight from babysitting a six-year-old to Storybox rehearsal— but this time I came armed with diet coke, and sometimes, that makes all the difference. 

In six-year-old-land, we discussed his brother (he is an only child) who isn’t around much because he’s a spy. The kid I babysit is also a spy, of course, and has been training me in martial arts so that I can save myself from the acid pit I’m destined to fall into next Monday. (When he predicted this last week, I got a splitting migraine on Monday. With an imagination as strong as his, I wish he would fantasize about me with oodles of fame, fortune, and fulfillment.) Reality as we know it took several turns, including orange juice being a restorative tonic that brings superhuman strength to its drinker, the trees turning purple, and my charge speaking in Cat to the family pet. 

Then I went to Storybox, where we met new “playmates” who were generous enough to “spect” for us. And the experiences and stories were as unique and wonderful as ever. And a certain clarity came: It is all the same. Not literally, of course. But the same part of me that plays with this six year old is what storyboxes with people. It is a part that is both focused and open, receptive and firm, defined and mutable. 

Even now as I write this and think of that state, I wonder if we do not always exist within the margins of that state, but only become hyper-aware of it when thrust in a situation like Storybox. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

This is Storybox!

Sarah-Doe