From Camari Carter - TODAY'S MISSION is inspired by a writer named Jeff Goins.
Write about childhood.
Write about dreams and hopes and when you still believed in Santa Claus.
Write about blissful ignorance
Tap into that part in all of us that remembers what it was like to be innocent.
Don't speak to the jaded adult; communicate with the child within, and help us find that person again.
Cheers to childhood!
I left the kitchen door and padded, in my slippers, out to the small shed in the yard. We lived on an isolated county road in the mountains of New Jersey and my cat Mittens was in active labor in the shed. My mom wanted me to see the birth of the babies and encouraged me to “just watch” she told me, “don’t touch her or the babies. She knows what to do.” She, herself, was busy with our newest member of the family, my third sister, and could not accompany me out to watch the other newest members of our family emerge.
I slowly opened the shed door and the morning light peered over the box my mother had placed in there for her. Mittens had been nesting in the box for the past couple of days or weeks, my young mind could not comprehend, and she was now pushing the babies out.
I snugged down into the corner of the shed, no bigger than a very small bathroom, and not wanting to disturb her, held my breath. I watched as she panted, her mouth open, her stomach seeming to rumble and roll, the babies slowly emerging. I was awestruck. This was the first delivery of kitten babies I had ever seen. This was the first-time kittens came into the world with me watching, my mouth open in awe, my eyes I imagine larger than the saucers we ate our snacks on. I wanted, desperately, to touch them. They were so tiny and sweet and their little, squeaky mews made Mittens lick them and settle them and they seemed to know immediately that she was there for them. Each in turn rooted to find her teats and soon six little babies were nursing at Mittens belly.
Even though my mother had told me not to, I reached out to touch them. And Mittens let me. She meowed quietly as I put my hand forward, perhaps as a caution, but she let me stroke each one and I did so respectfully, with only one finger, touching each baby in turn. I also stroked Mittens and told her she did a good job. I don’t know why my ten-year-old self thought to do that, but it seemed someone should tell her.
When I went back into the kitchen my mother had hot chocolate and cinnamon toast waiting for me. But I was too excited to eat. I went to my room and took out my journal and wrote. I clumsily told the story of all that I had seen and drew a picture of the cat and her babies.
Even then my instinct was to write and tell stories of all I had seen. From my young self until this day, I still have that instinct.