As a small child I remember that as soon as the sun descended, which it did very early in our bleak winter months, everything turned black. Now I do not mean the black that presently covers our cities in the evening: that grayish fuzziness with some blurry illumination in the distance. This was real black, a color devoid of color: a dark hue that was unfathomable to a young boy – perplexing and meaningless. Into this fell the stars, the brilliant stars. The heavens were aglow at night: endless and terrifying, oh but so alluring. One only had to step into our large backyard to be propelled upward into the heavens.   

In fact, one of the great loves of my mother’s life was her garden. I am often accused of being a workaholic and excessively orderly. This is all related to my assigned task in my parents’ small estate. I was to locate the remaining rocks in the sifted, nutritious topsoil before it was spread on the lawn; a highly important task given that the lawnmower could propel a piece of stone tens of feet at a bruising velocity. My mother worked for endless hours creating her own agricultural brew: seaweed and used coffee grounds being the main ingredients. The thrust of our work was the creation of a brook leading into a large pond. As with many wonderful dreams, it was never finished. An aside: when my parents sold their home. it was converted into six two-bedroom apartments. They bulldozed my mother’s garden and cut down all the magnificent trees, and “they paved paradise and put up a parking lot” (1): we must remember our impermanence.

In the cool autumn, my great friend, Drake Richardson, would come and spend the weekend. I had a World War One issue two-man tent. We would set it up behind the house and hurriedly crawl into our sleeping bags to avoid the ubiquitous wet dew that permeated everything. After my mother came to check and dutifully make sure that we were “tucked in,” we were left alone. Conspiratorially, much like ferrets, we slowly began to probe the night air. We lived on the coast so the breeze was tinged with a spicy saltiness. Forgetting the dampness, we were soon lying on the moist grass in our pajamas. Up was everywhere, inundated with glorious pricks of iridescent light. I sailed into the stars. Star Trek had just begun: (2) you were god anointed: time traveler, slayer of evil demons and builder of worlds. These were heady, fantastical thoughts for a boy from an isolated village.

Much has been made of the difference between imagination and fantasy: imagination rooted in possible reality – I could be rich and famous, while fantasy, in an adult, borders on psychosis. I cannot fly to the moon (I think). I believe that this distinction is vacuous and disingenuous, serving only staid educators. The mind must begin in fantasy. This is the mental exercise that gives us our creative elasticity, our vital juices. Soon the intelligent mind segues into imagination and builds a physical, reality based, foundation. I constantly search for the Holy Grail (3) of education: imagination. But, like the chalice, it is elusive and does not exist in corporeal form. Each individual must conjure up his own imaginative essence, and introspective work is the requisite. Author Robert Fulghum (b. 1937) has a thought: I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.

Finally, we close with Dr. Seuss (1904-1991): I like nonsense; it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.

 

A small joke: A little boy asked his father, “Dad, do you think that Sherlock Holmes is the greatest detective in the world?” His pere replied, “He is pretty good, but your mother is better.”

This week, please think of how fantasy has shaped your life.

Every day look for something magical and beautiful.

Quote: Imagination is not innate. It must be cultivated much like a rose garden: careful pruning produces beautiful blossoms.        

Footnotes:

1) Joni Mitchell Big Yellow Taxi

2) Star Trek

3) The physical Holy Grail is a dish, plate, stone, or cup that, according to legend, has special powers, and is designed to provide happiness, eternal youth and food in infinite abundance: some interpretations have it used by Christ at the Last Supper before his crucifixion. It means something special to be achieved or reached.