My world is gigantic

The other day, my 4-year-old granddaughter was describing her house to me. She talked about chasing the dog in the back yard and learning to do cartwheels in the den. Then she sat back and smiled.

"My house," she said stretching her arms up over her head, "is gigantic."

When we're youngsters, things seem bigger than they really are. I remember the first time I went back to my grandparents' house after they'd passed away.

I was in my late 20's, and it was the first time I'd seen the house vacant. What once seemed so big now seemed small, especially the dining room.

As an adult, I realized the room was normal sized, but the area I remembered was gigantic, able to sustain numerous conversations while accommodating children playing tag in and around the table.

I wandered around the house, and I found myself looking at the house as an adult, growing sadder that the huge place I remembered was only that big in my memories.

I lingered outside, especially in the "the big yard." After Sunday dinner, everybody hustled out there and played Wiffle ball. Our uncles were the pitchers and the hitters and the nieces and nephews took the outfield.

We loved having the adults play with us, and we were happy to run after wild balls that landed in my grandmother's hydrangea bushes. But standing there as a grown woman, the yard was rather small, not the gigantic place I remembered.

Back then, the trees we climbed seemed tall enough to practically touch the sky, and my cousins and I would stay up there for hours. We talked about comic books, toys and things we were scared of, but we felt safe in the comfortable branches.

Looking at that grove of trees as an adult, they weren't nearly as tall as I'd remembered, but the limbs still seemed a comfortable place to sit. On impulse, I climbed up and looked around.

I could still see the tower on my grandparents' house and the house where our friends once lived. Most afternoons, we'd walk along the stone wall in front of our house, trying hard not to fall off. As a kid, it seemed like that wall went on forever, but looking at it through adult eyes, the wall was only about four feet long.

Reality. It's how adults look at life. Trees and back yards no longer seem bigger than life.

Instead of looking at our yard as a place of mystery and intrigue, it's a responsibility. We trim the trees, cut the grass and then merely glance at what's supposed to be a relaxing area on our way out the door to work.

The rooms in our house require upkeep – dusting, mopping and sweeping. We spend time in the living room watching movies or falling asleep on the couch, but we seldom kick back in a chair and let our imaginations roam to faraway places.

I've never tried to execute a cartwheel in my living room. I watch my dog romp in the back yard, but I don't chase her. I'm a grown up, and I seldom see adventure around every bend.

But the look on my granddaughter's face made me realize that the only ingredient bigger-than-life adventures require is a fertile imagination and the willingness to look at life through the eyes of a child.

And when we can do that, then the world really will seem gigantic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.