I went to a kindergarten meeting at my partner’s daughter’s school the other evening. Teacher Hans was talking about the importance of telling stories to the children, bedtime or otherwise, and a great majority of this room of fairly well-off/successful adults simply went to pieces at the thought of having to rely on their imaginations to tell the stories rather than to utilize the imaginations of others per their/their editor’s dictation.
Really? There isn’t even enough imagination left to make up a story to entertain a half-asleep five year old? At what point did we stop pretending that sticks were really swords made in the explicit interest of vanquishing evil? That the grass was lava and if your balance slipped from the edge of the sidewalk you’d be burned alive? That fist-sized rocks were merely feasts in disguise? Sure, they are childish activities, but when we stopped inventing explanations for why the stars shine, or what the tooth fairy does with all of those teeth and why she/he is willing to leave something valuable in return for them (they of course grind each tooth up with a mortar and pestle, thus rendering it fairy dust, duh), the world through our eyes lost some of its magic. Instead, our fantastical wonderings were replaced with worries; the plaguing questions that we never utter aloud but rain on our thoughts throughout the day, questions about whether our hair looks good today, or if we are wearing the right clothes, what’s going to happen in the television show ____, or if we are cool enough, or interesting enough, or rich enough, etc. Not only was the magic ripped from our gums, but the subsequent worries only compounded with each passing year; what college am i going to go to? who is going to hire me? how am i going to pay this car payment? does my spouse still love me, etc?
There is an inherent irony in this: when I was little, I wanted nothing more than to be a grown-up; I couldn’t grow up fast enough. I couldn’t wait to be able to see over the counters, to put my feet on the ground when sitting on the couch, to have a girlfriend, to drive, etc. These sorts of excitements enthralled me at their very thought on nearly a daily basis for years and years, but now I find myself craving the wonder and excitement—and most importantly the imagination—from childhood. Now, don’t get me wrong, I very much enjoy the freedoms that adulthood has granted me, but what if we could integrate the best of both worlds? Would it be weird to see an adult swashbuckling the air with a stick? Tightrope walking the curb? Hell yes, people would think that you’ve lost your marbles (which was never much of a deterrent for me, but I’m not your average bear either).
So these poor, imaginationless parents, frantic with worry about inventing a few characters to verbally dramatize; I just felt so sorry for them, that in chasing prescribed dreams they’ve simply forgotten—or become too tired—to just think differently for like twenty minutes a day, that their source of inspiration comes solely from reality, or even worse: their nightly programming sessions. Let’s just pick up a brush and some cheap watercolors; let’s create some totally crazy arbitrary story; who cares if no one ever told you how to paint or invent stories, you’ll figure it out along the way, and best of all you’ll figure it out in your own way(s), and guess what? You can’t be wrong! When can you ever say that in adulthood? It’s just a matter of starting to think imaginatively again, and no ‘your sister didn’t get all of the artistic genes in the family’, everyone is totally creative, or at least has the aptitude—you just have to tap back into the creative pathways and let them branch back out; to stop stifling creative thought before it even has a chance to bloom for the sake of facts that you’ve been forced to memorize. Its like saying you can’t run thirteen miles: of course you can, but probably not easily unless you’ve worked up to that point by running a little here and there. I mean, in all likelihood none of these aforementioned parents are going to bust out some J.K. Rowling in their first try, but think about how their general approach to life could change if they simply instituted a twenty minute creative sparking session every day…
This message brought to you by my May Day inner-spirit.
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