A Lifetime of Memories (Childhood Magic)
I grew up on a small street in an ordinary neighborhood in Central Florida. My childhood was made up of long, hot, sunny afternoons spent outside roller skating and riding bikes. Hours were spent splashing in clear cool swimming pools until our fingertips pruned and our eyes turned bright red from chlorine exposure. My neighbors felt like family. Weekends were filled with fish frys and barbecues. Long picnic tables would be lined up between our houses and everyone was invited.
It was simple, easy, and to me it felt like magic.
I loved our house. There is no place that has ever made me feel more safe and more loved. Even now, in my mid 40's, that neighborhood and that house are the backdrop to most of my dreams.
The house was a traditional Florida home. It was one story with four bedrooms. My parent’s room was on one side of the house with a family room, dining room, kitchen, and living room separating them from the remaining bedrooms where my sister and I slept. When we were little our father started gifting my Mom roses on special occasions. Different varieties and colors, all strategically placed on the side of the house where my sister and I slept. Right outside our windows.
Every Sunday, my family attended mass at a small Catholic church just a few blocks from our home. Occasionally we’d walk, but more often than not, we were running late and had to drive. Dressed in our Sunday best, we always sat in the same spot — right side of the church, next to the choir, three rows from the altar.
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Over the years, I must have sat through countless hours of services. Yet, I can’t recall a single sermon, prayer, or reading that left a lasting impression. What I do remember is the comfort I found in the ritual — the stillness of the space, the soft creak of the pews, the hush that settled over the congregation. I remember being tucked into my parents’ sides, probably squirming like an earthworm on the sidewalk. I remember holding my mom’s hand, tracing the veins on the top of her hand, and my dad gently squeezing my hand three times; our family’s silent way of saying, “I love you.” I remember singing.
My Nonnie once told me communion was a sacred moment of quiet reflection, a time for our own private conversation with God. During the prayer before communion, the congregation would make the sign of the cross over their forehead, lips, and heart. Nonnie explained its meaning: “May God always be on my mind, on my lips, and in my heart.” That stayed with me. More than the words spoken from the altar, it was those small, sacred gestures that shaped my sense of faith. It was probably the only time I looked inward, until I started to write.
Today, I don’t believe in any religious dogma. I don’t attend mass. I’m not a member of any church. I simply cannot align myself with the idea that anyone should feel shame for chosing love. I refuse to believe in a God that forces people to deny themselves beauty, pleasure, connection, and being HUMAN.
Despite all of that, I am grateful I was able to experience the type of faith and religious community that had a positive impact on my life. It gave me hope and made me feel safe… until it didn’t. There were times I was convinced it saved me…. until it crushed me.
Luckily for me, my “divergent” brain protected me, as it usually does. It had the flexibility to hold what was good, what brought me peace, and simply let go of the rest. Without question. Without looking back.
I wouldn’t change a moment of my childhood. It gave me a foundation built on love, safety, acceptance, and spirituality. I can only hope that one day, my kids look back and feel the same.
