Thoughts on the Future, Looking to the Past
The value of childhood lies not in the experiences the child hastily wishes themselves out of but in the years later, as the child stands with eyes toward the future and a grateful heart cast to the past.
Long ago, if we pull back the vine of years, childhood sits in a garden of its own making. A garden often lost in the stream which we all tumble. Tripping off the stepping stones of each passing year, until we’re caught in the drag and pulled along. Downstream we flash. Upstream we struggle.
When I was ten, I could be anything. I could do anything. My imagination went wild. It didn’t matter what practicality said. I could imagine my best friend, had to stay, could not move away, because she was a long lost twin sister.
She wasn’t of course, and she moved away with her family at the end of the school year, but we imagined anyway.
I imagined myself into lands full of unicorns and sword-fights, airships and time travel. I forgot about the world. The world would always be there. It would always be boring. Nothing could compare to the imaginary one in my head.
I had always wanted to travel. I figured anywhere would be far more interesting than at home. In the extreme weather valley full of snow and ice, lakes and hot summers. Nothing to do but walk and walk, past orchards and lakes, trees which touched the sky and hills which blocked everything else from view.
I went to Greece and Turkey. I walked with my imagination for the first time in reality. I walked where stories grew from the talk of people. I realised, while standing at the top of a mountain, surrounded by green plains and other mountains. Every fantasy I have ever thought of, started somewhere here on Earth. Somewhere, someone had a thought, passed down a thought, recorded a thought or remixed a thought. Somewhere a story started and still continued to this day.
Remember in the Rain of Lightning
We never grow out of childhood, if we believe in stories. If we believe they have things to teach us. Even if it is to let us escape the expected for an hour or two. They teach us to let go, to relax, to trust, to breath and enjoy. They teach us that no story is any different than any other, except what book jacket the publisher decided to slip on it. They teach us that, though we each are one voice among billions and really, our stories don’t matter in the physics of the universe, they matter if we have something to say.
If we set up a fire on the beach. If we create a beacon of warmth, hope or companionship.
We have something important to say and that, in the end, is all that matters.
But first, step out of the whimsy of childhood and fold up your ratty blanket which has seen better days. Set it on the table. Prepare to tell a story.
Remember. Push back the ivy boughs, step into the garden. It made you the story you walk today.
I, Imaginist
This is why I am an imaginist: I create, because I am. Because I wish to share how magical our world can be, even when, in the darkest hours, nothing seems to shine, not even our innermost thoughts. So remember, when you stand under the rain of lightning, under a burning sun. You are the hero of your own story.
Go out there. Do something. Walk to the grocery store, talk to a neighbour, eat a tub of ice cream. Whatever you do, love yourself. If you are trapped in a dark storm, know it will pass. The sun will come out and yes, another storm will come again, but so long as you keep walking, you can withstand anything.
A Note: Left on the Door for a Hero
Moony.
