Six discarded red bricks, (scorched around the edges,) three boards, and a collection of mismatched, homeless pots served as my childhood playhouse. Assorted dishes and silverware came and went as it was hard to hold purchase in the outdoor kitchen of a five-year-old. To get a mental picture of the inner-workings of this operation, think Barbie Dreamhouse in the form of a pretend, single-wide trailer without walls, roof, or flooring.

I spent big chunks of my childhood playing outside and much of that time was within the borders of those six rugged bricks. Once I stepped inside that space, I could transport myself to Mary Tyler Moore’s apartment or to Walton’s Mountain. I could be a housewife waiting for my husband to come home from the field or a career woman enjoying a ciggy after my tough day as an advertising executive. (It was the 70’s and I had access to candy cigarettes. I liked the green ones as I fashioned myself a Newport Menthol kind of girl.)

There was no security system or door, and I alone handled admission. Skippy the dog and the barn cats were welcome, although I didn’t grow up in a house that allowed animals inside. On occasion, my cousins or friends would visit my playhouse, but mostly it was just me, dreaming up one act scenes and starring in all the roles. The space, which I relocated all around our farm, deploying our red Radio Flyer as moving van, featured an artsy, studio feel. The skills I sharpened turned out to be faithful.

In contrast to this happy place where I was captain of my domain, my first year of school was hard fought. Looking back through the lens of adult me, I can offer up grace to the humans involved. With a September birthday, I was younger in age and maturity than most of my classmates. My fresh-out-of-college, first-year teacher wasn’t equipped or inclined to deal with a student who could intellectually handle the academics but couldn’t emotionally make it to lunchtime without a crying spell. I didn’t grasp the concept of schedules and timelines. I was a reckless abandon kid, used to being outside more than the short period of recess. Sitting still at that wooden desk dropped my soul below room temperature and made breathing feel shallow and constricted.

My first year of school experience could be summarized by an episode involving a coloring worksheet returned to my desk with a frowny face and a large, red minus mark. Miss Wall’s note told me to, “Follow instructions or else.” (I may have added in “or else” for dramatic effect, but you get the drift.)  The assignment – which I interpreted as open, freestyle art time­– was color by number, which meant that the grass was green, and the sky was blue, the shutters on the house were black, and the fence was not colored because all God’s children surely knew that fences were whitewashed. April Kelly snickered as I stuffed the worksheet into my reading book and lined up with the bus riders. It had not been a great week and it was only Tuesday.

The students who followed Miss Wall’s directional code were rewarded with gold sticky stars and their papers were taped to the bulletin board for upcoming Parent/Teacher night. Except for their names at the bottom, the pictures were identical. Though I envied the recognition and yearned for the praise, something deep inside my subconscious registered that being the same had a price.

After School Bus #5 deposited me home, Mom asked me why I colored my entire picture with orange. “That crayon has been feeling left out,” I told her, steeling myself for the consequence of a bad grade.

“Well, I bet ole orange is feeling better now. Why don’t you go on outside?” she responded. She didn’t explain the psychology or wax poetic about withdrawals from emotional bank accounts. She didn’t call the school to schedule a conference with Miss Wall. That’s not how Mom rolled. After I sought happy refuge in my playhouse, the picture quietly went onto the refrigerator, frowny face, and minus mark a-blazing.

It’s wishful here to say that recognizing that I was unique in the way I saw the planet over-rid my desire to conform.  But it didn’t.

I invested decades pursuing degrees, hobbies, and jobs that were ill fitting and unfulfilling. Some of these pursuits offered tangible gain, but often I felt hollow, even when my proverbial picture got taped to the board.

There were relationships with disingenuous, ladder climbers with whom I invested time and budget. I tried hard to be friends with people who only truly cared about themselves and the advancement of their agendas. I committed this crime against myself for a long time and this part of attempting to fit in smarted with bruising.

It took me a hot second to regain the perspective and courage to color in orange, outside the lines. Perhaps just now do I feel I have circled back to the confidence I once possessed in that open air playhouse, with dirt floor and sky ceiling.

My parents did their best to stretch paychecks across five kids and a farm. Sometimes the ends met, others they didn’t. A high interest Sears & Roebuck charge card filled in gaps of necessity, but lots of wants were left in the balance, beyond our family’s means. What we got instead, (maybe accidentally,) was the currency to pay attention to details, to massage nuances, to make a lot from a little, to live unencumbered.

We were “let’s get creative” people before the term entered innovation sessions in corporate America. Our ability and willingness to think outside the box and seek solutions beyond the mainstream glued the tattered puzzle pieces of our lives together, and we kids were better with this know-how, but this is the kind of awareness that tastes better marinated over time, seasoned with age.

I suspect that my rocky relationship with rules and the internal drive to tie multiple paths to a destination can be excavated back to my early days when I kept company with the infinity of my imagination, contained by a loose brick property line. I had the world and the world had me.