It was a bank holiday today with St.Patrick and everything so there was no bus to work and I had to walk. Overnight rain had left puddles in every dent in the pavement. The Icelandic word Hoppípolla meaning “hopping in puddles” [also a song from Sigur Rós] carries with it something rare, permission. Permission to step out of the sensible world for a moment and land, quite deliberately, in the joy of being 7 again.
There’s something quietly rebellious about it too. As we get older, the world starts handing us rules we never agreed to, don’t splash, don’t run, don’t look foolish, don’t let your feelings feel too much and defintly do not show it when they do, and yet, there I am at 7:30am, looking at a puddle outsode the spar and thinking, why not?
In hindsight yes I had wet socks all day but that single little jump of defiance, I broke the surface both literally and metaphorically. I accepted the mess (wet socks, laughter, a raised eyebrow or two) and for a second, time folds in on itself and I am 7 and alive.
It’s not really about the puddle, is it? It’s about refusing to let wonder be something you used to have.
There’s a quiet wisdom in people who still “jump in puddles,” whatever form that takes. They’ve figured out that youth isn’t something you lose, it’s something you either keep practicing, or slowly set down. My advice if a puddle presents itself… I’d say the only sensible thing to do is take a running start.
PS .. is there a word for the close cousin of Hoppípolla, autumnal leaf scuffling?