I have always loved writing. I remember as a small child imagining and scheming worlds beyond my own. I wrote tiny novelettes, short stories, prayers, and pretty much journaled myself through my childhood. My imagination was so rich. I read The Boxcar Children and the Chronicles of Narnia over and over.
When we are children, it is as if the world offers itself to us saying, “come, what do you see? what do you think? what are you wondering?”
I have missed that part of my life as an adult. When I had my own young children, I survived the stresses by songwriting and performing that music. I still do that. But there were plenty of people looking sideways at me. The world, as many of us experience it, likes to convince us that engaging our imagination is sweet and frivolous – and for children. Aren’t they cute? Fluttering around the house in a tutu or a Superman cape. Maybe worn backwards? And they certainly are.
Well, I am nearing 1/2 a century now. My tutu has long since gone to Value Village – and I never wore a Superman cape because I was a girl.
At this stage of my life, it is writings of the great poet Hafiz, the Psalms, Mary Oliver, Desmond Tutu, the desperate situation of so many in the world, heart-created music and the those fleeting experiences of love and connectedness that call to my imagination.
Underneath the hard realities of work, marriage and raising children, there has been a sometimes inopportune voice whispering “come, what do you see? what do you think? what are you wondering?”
I guess this is my way to respond to it.