Imagination

I've been thinking about the words, imagine and imagination.

John Lennon's song has been playing over and over in my mind:

Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You, you may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will live as one

In everything little and big, our imaginations are like nations of images.  Each person's imagination is a unique country in his or her mind, as different in landscape and topography as actual countries on the map.  Everything we've ever seen, loved, known, feared, tasted, or hoped for is stored there.  Those natural resources are called memories.

Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge."  Imagination is infused with possibilities and potential.

Reading fiction or watching movies, I'm transported into imaginary places that I remember as I do real cities and towns I've visited.  I'm so there that I forget I'm here, on this bed, in this room.  I project myself so seamlessly into the character on the screen that I get tears in my eyes when she cries.

I'm also transported in time. If she is young and beautiful, so am I--until the credits roll.

When Will and Veronica first learned that they were going to have a baby, this is how they told me:

They walked in, looked at the three framed pictures on my sideboard (Jackson, Marcus, and Nathan) and Will said, "Mom, I think you better get another picture frame!"

Elena was pea-size that day, and I had no idea whether she'd be a boy or a girl. What made me cry with joy that day wasn't Elena yet (whose face and gender were still mysteries), but the blurry image starting to form in my mind and in my heart.

Here she is today in Picture Frame #4--a little cowgirl.

When I haven't gotten what I hoped for, or when I've been shattered by disappointment, it's the imagination that ultimately reminds me, "There are other things...." or "Get up, get moving, make something."

Imagination also has a dark side--the anguish of picturing the unbearable. When I hear of brutal acts, such as the execution of James Foley, an American journalist, I think, "I cannot imagine!"--and yet it's because I can that I am haunted by it.

One minute, James Foley was one of us, living, doing his work, writing, speaking English sentences. One minute he had a voice and a self and was somebody's child, somebody's brother. The next minute, his life was over--and in a way that I still call unimaginable.