There Is a Brave Child Inside Me

There is a brave child inside me, always wanting to come outside and explore the world, but I’m afraid for him. So I keep the doors locked and tell him to play inside where it’s warm and safe.

He knows I’m protective of him, but he wants to be set free so he leans in and whispers sweetly in my ear. It’s always the same three words that roll off his lips.

Do the work.

There’s a brave child inside me that wants to go outside and survey the confectionery store. To taste the sweet things in life. To study his reflection in the window, and wonder when he will grow up. To climb trees, skin his knees, play with puppies, and feel the wind in his long hair.

But I don’t want him to go outside. He could get hurt. People might misunderstand him. They might laugh at his sense of humor, or the silly things he tries to express. So I make his bed, keep his room tidy, and tell him it’s best to stay inside. He just smiles, hugs me, and whispers the same three words in my ear.

Do the work.

He keeps me company in the mornings when I read, the afternoons when I try to write, and the long evenings when we watch movies and tell stories to each other and wonder if we both could become more than we are. He puts his arm around me when I despair, lifting me a little. And then, when I ask about the path forward, he always says the same three words.

Do the work.

It has gone on like this for years. Sometimes I think about my parents and the past, even though I know that mournful reminiscence is a kind of procrastination. The brave child inside me knows this too. Whenever he sees me lost in quiet reflection, missing the ones who are gone, he nudges my fountain pen and journal in front of me. He uncaps the pen and scratches out on paper in a youthful copperplate the same three words so often whispered in my ears.

Do the work.

I talk to others who paint and write and photograph the beauty in the world. I ask them how they do it. How they set the child free. They always smile and say that the answer resides in the child. Go to him, they say, and listen. Because you both want the same thing. So I go to the brave child inside me and ask, “What’s the answer?”

He looks out the window for a long time, studying a small verdin that lands on the feeder where I’ve attached sliced oranges to get her through the winter. He studies the little bird and then, with a tear in his eye, he looks at me. He hugs me, gazes into my eyes, and whispers the same three words.

Do the work.

That night I tuck him in and stay up late at my writing desk. I sip my coffee and search my soul for the words I must string together to tell the stories that sing in my heart. But words do not come. I collapse on my desk, exhausted.

I make our beds in the morning, prepare our breakfast, and ask the brave child inside me what we should do today. He stares out the window, watching the little verdin as she pecks the orange and then flies away. “Can you imagine?” he says to me. “What it would be like to fly.”

And I know what I must do.

I pull out the backpack and stuff some of his clothes inside. I pack his sketchbook and a small lunch and a little bit of money. I help him lace his hiking boots and slip on his winter coat and beanie cap. I hold his shoulders in my hands, look into his eyes, and tell him how much I love him. “I love you too,” he says with a smile of both affection and anticipation.

I open the door.

He crosses the threshold and steps outside, looking up at the sky and surroundings. He looks back at me. “Don’t worry,” he says, “It’ll be okay. Just do the work.” And then he skips off into the distance until I can no longer see him.

I weep for some time. But then I pull myself together. I read until nightfall. I make a pot of coffee and settle in at my writing desk.

For the first time in my life, the words come with ease.

I am finally doing the work, but it doesn’t feel like work. It feels like a kind of celebration. A glorious release.

There was a brave child inside me. It took many years, but I found the courage to let him go. I summoned the strength to finally do the work.

And now we are both free.

Before you go

I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life, shoot black & white photography, and draw cartoons. Follow at The Saturday Letters.

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This post was previously published on Medium.com.

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Artworks by John P. Weiss