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Imagination and the Soul
By Risa Rotman
When I was a child, it was called being imaginative. I made
up lots of songs and stories as the mood hit me. I had lots
of make-believe friends, including the "hundreds of froggies"
that accompanied me wherever I went, a twin sister who lived
under the bed, and a pet shmatte that was as real as
any bunny rabbit could have been.
I really must have driven my mother crazy with my anecdotes.
One event particularly sticks out in my memory. For special
occasions my mother would put pins in my wet hair before I
went to bed to give it that curly look. Curly hair was
obviously so much prettier than straight (unless you'd ask my
own curly-haired daughter). One ordinary day in the first
grade, I decided that I must have that curly look .
How would I convince my mother? I explained that, we, the big
kids of first grade, were putting on the play of Rivka and
Eliezer for the little kids in kindergarten. Since I was to
be Rivka, I just had to have curls in my hair. (How could
anyone be Rivka without curls in her hair?) My mother fell
for it, or so it seemed, and curled those locks. The next day
when she asked me how the play went, I admitted the truth,
that there was no play. She surprised me by not being
surprised.
Somewhere along the line, the joy of story-telling was
dampened. Repeated accusations of telling lies put an end to
all my fun. Who wanted to be called a liar? Lying is a
terrible thing. Everyone knew that.
So my active imagination got stuffed to the back drawers of
my mind and very occasionally got released in tiny dosages,
but was mostly forgotten about. Recently though, I started to
think about childhood imagination in a new adult fashion. At
a small event, a friend's daughter proudly told us how that
very day her teacher commented to her and a few friends some
terribly insultting remarks. The daughter's pride stemmed
from the fact that she didn't cry, but her friend did. We
ladies, who were sitting and listening, were all appalled.
The mother of the child felt she had a big problem on her
hands. She was considering how to start dealing with this
seemingly unpleasant teacher , until slowly slowly it came
out that the whole thing never happened — a product of
a lively imagination. It was food for thought. A bright kid
— look how much attention she got for her story —
five adult ladies enraged at the supposed insensitive
teacher's remark. It made me think. Surely the child has to
know that she must always speak the truth, but if only we
could tap into that imagination. It was also a great lesson
in judging favorably for us ladies.
Not long ago, I read an article by a well-known author, about
her ability to come up with new fresh stories at any time
just by looking at the regular items all around. Boy, that
could be helpful in getting my kids to cooperate more with
me. One of my kids is a delight in every way but takes no joy
in the getting up, getting dressed routine in the morning.
Trying to break from the screaming/ threatening mode, I
offered to tell a story if she cooperated. (It was a bribe
that wouldn't ruin her teeth or even cost me anything.) So
hesitantly I told her a story about a flower. Flowers are
easy. They can be pretty or not so pretty, have thorns, smell
nice or not, and she loves flowers. After a few
mornings of flower stories it was time to move on to
something else. So as the socks went on and the hair got
brushed my mind raced for ideas. Soon the other kids started
clamoring to hear about the chair that could travel the
world. I got three mornings out of that story. This morning I
started the saga of Itzy and Bitzy, a pair of shoes that
belonged to a boy named Aaron. Who knows how many buttons and
ponytails this will take us?
I give my thanks to that author and her article. Not only has
it helped our morning routine to go peacefully but it's given
me back some of my own lost childhood.
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