It’s been far too long since I last posted an original writing to this blog–even though I’m quite certain no one reads it (but isn’t writing, selfishly, really for the writer?).
Anyway… As part of yet another renewed effort on my part to adopt writing as a regular habit, here I go.
Yesterday, I took both of my boys to the park, so my oldest could run a mile or two in preparation for his first track meet this week. We brought our dog with us, too, since she loves the park.
On the walk back home, we passed a boy about 8 or 9 (my youngest son’s age) playing on the bank of the creek behind our house. He was dressed in a cape and wielding a plastic sword as he battled unseen imaginary adversaries. Both my sons looked at me with an expression of amusement at the boy’s antics. The boy spotted us as we walked past him, and he promptly suspended his imaginary melee, presumably feeling self-conscious about his behavior and fearing implied or outright ridicule from us, I’m assuming. And I couldn’t help but feel a little sad about the boy’s deflated expression–because he reminded me of myself at his age. As an only child, I frequently had to entertain myself–which often meant immersing myself in my self-created imaginary worlds where I fought off villains (usually Star Wars-themed). But to me at the time, they were real–even if only in the confines of my own head. So I understood and empathized with this boy’s self-consciousness and disappointment that reality had to intrude on his self-created fantasy.
I also envied the boy–and my younger self–and the amount of creativity and bravery it takes to embark on such a vivid imaginary journey in spite of the fear of ridicule from others–who would be all too eager to deflate such pure and simple expressions of imagination, because deep down they themselves lack the bravery (or the imagination) to act on their own creative impulses. Like many adults, I’ve lost too much of that adventurous devil-may-care spirit, too concerned with what others will think or say. Such creative inspirations and expressions are fragile enough at times to withstand outside criticism without shattering. Even though the narrow-minded (and dare I say jealous) opinions of others matters not at all when it comes to such things.
I hope to remember that boy–and my younger self, for that matter–the next time I sit down to write and I hear the cacophony of criticism and ridicule in my head, discouraging me from my imaginary worlds. We could all benefit from the same adventurous spirit of that boy as he slew his made-up monsters. It might in some way even help us find the courage to face our all too real monsters.