Sometimes the situation at my front door is quite stress-inducing. It’s not just the shoes, though the quantity of shoes is quite overwhelming. It’s more the giant chunks of dried mud and the leaves that fall off the shoes that get me. Now, the shoes— all twenty-seven and one-half pairs of them—aren’t the real culprit for this epidemic of spreading mud. No, it’s the people, namely children, whose feet tromp in the shoes in the mud that cause such a terrible mess.
I am working on cleaning up said mess, but there is another work being done too: a work in my heart, for I’ve forgotten my way. I don’t know when I forgot my way to Neverland. Maybe when I first became responsible for the keeping of my own home. Or maybe when I was in the throes of sleep deprivation with my first newborn. To-do lists and piles of bills certainly didn’t help me remember. Regardless of the timing and the cause, Neverland disappeared from my map and became but a fuzzy memory.
My children, however, seem to have a direct path to Neverland and visit quite often. It’s not just when they take off outside to play; I have to call them back home from Neverland when they’re supposed to be doing their chores or schoolwork. Bedtime is certainly a time when they love to wander off to Neverland instead of straightening up their stuff and brushing their teeth. It’s cute how often they want to go (and also infuriating).
Children take everything seriously, but I’m guilty of the opposite. I don’t take their play seriously enough, and instead, I’m just plain serious. I’m more concerned with the number of shoes by the front door than I am with the joy of the explorations those feet just returned from. I’m so frustrated with the mud chunks that I just swept and mopped five minutes ago that I forget to be thankful for the blessing of dirty bodies, tired from traveling to unknown lands.
When I’m not grumbling about the state of my front entry, I’m still aware enough to realize there’s a beauty in Neverland—beauty that results in wonder and delight. The children beckon me to join them often. “Mama, come look at this! It’s a giant man-eating worm that we’re running away from!” And “Mama, did you see the size of the lake in our front yard? We’re going sailing on it all the way to Norway to learn to be Vikings! Come with us!” they call. But sometimes their invitations to fly away to Neverland are nonverbal. Their laughter or perhaps even their silence will pique my curiosity, the first step on one’s path to Neverland.
There are also maps to Neverland that help me find my way. One of them is Robert Louis Stevenson’s anthology of poetry, A Child’s Garden of Verses. Stevenson captures the beauty and whimsy of childhood so perfectly that if you read his poetry enough, he almost offers you a portal straight to Neverland. His poem “The Swing” is such a good reminder of what it feels like to fly on a swing and why it’s important for children—and perhaps even adults—to spend as much time as possible soaring up and down, pumping their legs, and holding tight.
The Secret Garden is another book that helps me remember my way. When Mary Lennox asks for a bit of dirt, she’s asking for a place to dig, explore, and own without an adult telling her how to do it properly. She needs to learn and feel it and do it wrong so she can do it right. She needs to be a child. She needs fresh air and freedom, and to use her muscles to grow strong and healthy. As Mary grows and learns, who doesn’t want to step outside with her to see what possibilities await them if they only had a bit of dirt to call their own? Digging, building, and imagining what it might become is walking down a path toward Neverland.
Of course, Anne of Green Gables and many of L. M. Montgomery’s novels are essential for one trying to return to Neverland. We’ve all read them, but maybe we need to read them again. Anne Shirley sees the beauty and possibility in everything. She isn’t afraid to ask questions and to dream. Anne is the type of person we should all be—the one who sees an ordinary forest, road, or lake isn’t so ordinary after all and is, in fact, the Haunted Wood, a Lover’s Lane, or the Lake of Shining Waters. She reminds me so much of my beautiful girls, and I love them and her for it.
There are so many more—I think of all the books and series my children have read and reread and quoted all day long for years: Ramona Quimby, Hank the Cowdog, Geronimo Stilton, and The Penderwicks. Maybe they’re not highbrow literature, but these books have shaped my children’s lives and won the affection of my whole family. They have shown me my children’s hearts and reminded me it’s ok to laugh and slow down.
I don’t think I can spend as much time as my children in Neverland, but I should visit more. There’s good work to be done there.
The Burkes lived overseas for three years and have been to almost 20 countries together, surviving some adventures they will never speak of to the grandparents.
- Finding My Way Back To Neverland - April 28, 2025
- Coming of Age - March 10, 2025
- The Work of a Boy - February 3, 2025
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