Shining the searchlight

When I was a child in Cincinnati, my parents used to take me with them to their bowling league practices on Tuesday nights.  It was a long drive -- the bowling alley was way on the other side of town -- and (since these were the days before seat belts) I would lie down in the back seat on the way home and watch the stars and the city lights go by.

One of the things that used to fascinate me was the searchlights they'd set up at the car dealerships; their big beams sweeping across the sky, crossing and circling in the darkness up above.  I think that's what this image reminded me of when it caught my eye this morning.

Childhood -- the early years, anyway -- can be such a time of mystery and magic: there's still so much we don't understand -- and we are so much more content to just appreciate the mystery of it.

When is it that control becomes an issue?  When did we decide we needed, not only to understand, but to convince others that our understanding is the correct one?  At what point do we lose the joy of "batting around ideas"?

Hmm.  Maybe that's what's wrong with me -- I haven't quite grown up yet: I'm still so curious; so eager to shine the searchlight, to sweep the sky looking for invitation and meaning...