imagination

The Birth of an Imaginary Friend

March 31, 2011 By heather 1 Comment

“You pronounced it Saggy with an a toward the back of your throat–” as in father– “remember?” my mom said.

I remembered. And I remembered that one day, my imaginary friend, Saggy, left me. But only for a time. He returned after his wedding with Mrs. Saggy.

“Do you know where Saggy came from?” Mom asked.

I didn’t, so she revealed the mystery: when I was a toddler, strapped into my car seat as we returned home from whatever errand (side note: I also learned that as a baby, I was thrown into the bassinet in the back seat–unstrapped! How did we survive the 70s?), the cat would skitter across the driveway to the front door to await us.

“There goes that saggy cat again,” Mom would say. (The cat’s stomach sagged from an operation.) But from my perspective in the back seat (in or out of a car seat), I couldn’t see the cat.

One day, we pulled up, and I announced, “There goes Saggy again!”

We can’t figure out where I got the name Monan. To be honest, Monan and I were closer than Saggy. Perhaps that’s because Monan didn’t leave me to get married.

Moral of the story: point of view is everything.

And I’ve always been a little crazy.

Filed Under: giggles, imagination Tagged With: imaginary friends

The Lady Who Ate a Baby

September 7, 2010 By heather 9 Comments

On one of our camping trips last year, I convinced two little boys I was a blue alien (named Abema from the planet of Zircoff). This year, another little boy called me The Lady Who Ate a Baby.

How else would a baby get in my tummy?

Other highlights from this weekend’s camping trip:

Our camping group consisted of a Russian, a Frenchwoman (the Russian and French are married), a South African couple, and another guy from North America. And their kids. At any given moment, you’d hear Afrikaans, French, Russian, or English. Usually yelled very loudly.
Because of the myriad of languages, some of the kids wanted to learn phrases from one of the languages they didn’t know. The most popular phrase this weekend: "I am a vampire" closely followed by "I am a zombie." Yelled loudly while chasing each other at 10:00 at night. My apologies to surrounding campers.
The Russian is a born storyteller. Add to that, he was a truck driver for years (and now owns a truck driving business). Russian flare + truck-driving stories = entertainment for hours.
After I shared some of my dreams (that I’ve been chased by a serial killer, chasing a serial killer, exploring
the psychological problems of a serial killer, solving the murder by a
serial killer who killed by giving students in a scientific study
genetic-altering pills that caused them to murder, protected my family [in a shoot-out] from a serial killer, and been a serial killer) and my husband revealed to the group that my favorite musical is Sweeney Todd and one of my current TV shows is Dexter, the Russian (who was also at one time a street fighter) steered clear of me. If you can scare a Russian street-fighting truck driver, you know you’ve got chops.
All tires remained in tact.
Invisible bridges connect all paintings in the world. I discovered this while my young friend Etienne and I told each other stories while hiking. In one of the stories I told (not my best work, I admit), a girl had to pop into a painting to save her friend (a girl from a painting) who had been kidnapped by a wizard and taken into another painting. Like I said, not my best story ever, but the discovery that all paintings are connected if you can find the bridge at the edge made it worth it.
Camping while pregnant has two disadvantages: (1) you can’t drink, meaning no evening glass of wine while star-gazing, and (2) you have to pee often, which can be an advantage if you think of the extra exercise you get practicing the yoga chair pose every time. I had no problems with the 6-mile hike, though, thank you very much.

Beats sitting in front of a TV every time.

Filed Under: camping, imagination, pregnancy

Movies: The Diving Bell and The Butterfly

September 17, 2009 By heather 5 Comments

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly is based on the memoir of Jean-Dominque Bauby, editor-in-chief of Elle magazine. After suffering a massive stroke, Jean-Dominique lived with locked-in syndrome, meaning that though his mind was active and healthy, his body, except for his eyes and minor head movement, was paralyzed.

A speech therapist devised a system so that Jean-Dominique could communicate by blinking his left eye (his right eye had to be sewn closed because of problems–I can’t stand watching anything related to surgery, needles, or sharp objects and eyes). She repeated each letter of the alphabet (arranged according to popularity rather than in alphabetical order), and he blinked at the correct letter to spell words.

After Jean-Dominique learned the system, he contacted the publisher that had recently signed a contract with him. He wanted to write his memoir.

This movie is some Swiss Family Robinson story. It doesn’t gloss over the ugliness of the disease, making it some beautiful conduit without which Jean-Dominique would have never discovered himself. It is wonderfully acted, directed and filmed, often in a documentary style. When Jean-Dominique first wakes in the hospital after coming out of a coma (and for quite a bit after that), you see everything from his hazy perspective. My husband and I cringed at the blurry, vacillating objects. It’s hard to watch, in other words, attempting to give you a taste of Jean-Dominique’s adjustment.

Jean-Dominique is not suddenly some saint because of his stroke and syndrome. He feels sorry for himself; he doesn’t always treat people well. In fact, at times, he can be an ass (at least in the movie–who knows what’s fictionalized and what’s true to form).

But here’s what amazed me: even at this point, when his body betrays him, when he cannot function as he once did, he responds with creativity and culture. He chooses to use his imagination. This is how integral creating is to humanity. I found myself wondering if he, in fact, acted more fully human than I do watching TV on the couch every night (or in the office crammed together with my husband on the one overstuffed chair, since we no longer have cable and watch TV shows on the Internet). This shamed me. How can I complain about the difficulties of writing? He awoke early in the morning, considered what he wanted to write, memorized it, then dictated it by eye-blinks later that morning for four hours each day. No surprisingly, his book became a bookseller.

But he didn’t have much time to enjoy that. He died ten days after it released.

Writing the book wasn’t about acknowledgement. It was about creating itself and about communicating.

Filed Under: anthropology, creativity, culture making, humanity, imagination, movies, The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, theology

The Artist in the Sunday School Class

September 10, 2009 By heather 2 Comments

She arranged the six squares of construction paper–red, blue, and yellow on the top row, green, purple, and orange on the bottom. In a Modrian-esque way, she then selected smaller squares of tissue paper in colors that mimicked the construction paper blocks.

The other four-year-olds left the table, one by one, as if retreating
from the ark. They found legos and kitchen sets and toy cars.

She undid some of her work in order to glue it down, every decision made after contemplation.

After that came the streamers–not dumped or thrown, not amassed like a shimmering mountain as the other children had applied their goodies. Her silvery streamers, each with hints of different colors, she smoothed, twisted, and swirled just so.

"Do you want glitter?" I asked. (Actually, Kim, the teacher I assisted in the Sunday school class may have asked her this.)

She considered her piece. "No, thank you." Then she signed her name.

A masterpiece.

Filed Under: art, artists, creativity, imagination

Imagine You Are a Blue Alien

May 26, 2009 By heather 6 Comments

It’s a tricky thing convincing two boys you are a blue alien. Five- and six-year-olds ask a lot of questions.

Hiking through Palo Duro Canyon, I discovered blue marks on my hands and arms. Of course, I told the boys, "Look! My fake human skin is coming off. You can see my blue alien skin."

"You’re not an alien," they insisted. After all, they’ve known me for most of their lives.

"How do you know?"

And so it began. I didn’t have antenna, they argued. Not all alien have antenna, I said. Plus, I’ve had to hide what I really look like under this human skin. Did you know I have four ears?

So ensued the barrage of questions that tested my mettle. I’m from Zircoff (which, for those of you interested, is 236.2 light years away from Earth). I mainly eat fruit (Zircoff fruit is much better than Earth’s), but I also eat little boys who disobey their parents. And bullies, yes. My three best friends are Lala, Rae, and Geep. Also, my name in Zircoff is Abema. (Pretty, no?) And I’m 802 years old.

They wanted to know the language. What do you call ears in Zircoff? (Leeleelee, for you linguists out there.) Eyes? Nose? Etc., etc., etc. Not only did I have to come up with words on the spot, but I knew I’d have to memorize everything I said. I’d have to remember the Zircoff word for neck (zulu).

Here’s what I learned: hanging out with two boys, ages five and six, exercises the imagination. We told round-robin stories on our hike (mostly about the village people who lived there protecting a secret; when an evil villain attacked to steal the secret, which would allow him to take-over the world, of course, and when his forces became to powerful for the village people to fight, the village people [who do not sing any rendition of YMCA] had to call on the curse of the gods, which turned everything and everyone into stone, which we then pointed out [that's the sentinel who warned the people; those are the warriors with their bows and arrows; there are the people's homes]), and I convinced them I was a blue alien. They believed me until one of their moms blew my cover.

The next time I discover blue marks on my skin, I may reveal my inner fairy.

Psst–If you find this post interesting and think others might as well, would you mind taking a minute to stumble it? It would mean a lot to me.

Filed Under: aliens, creativity, imagination, storytelling

Tapestry: Imagine

September 25, 2008 By heather 2 Comments

I’m up at the Tapestry blog today talking about how our imagination can spur us on toward missions, to sharing Christ’s love with the world.

"Let’s take a tour of the new earth.
Perhaps you want to go on the back of a tiger. Maybe you prefer flying. Or walking on water…All these people are doing exactly what God created us to do: glorify him as we
create beauty. Contrast this with the picture we often see around us: people hurting each
other, consuming rather than creating, destroying rather than building."

Read the rest of the post.

Filed Under: imagination, missions, resurrection, tapestry

There Goes That Imagination Again

August 13, 2008 By heather 5 Comments

The other day, while having dinner with friends, the group talked business stuff. My gaze wandered to these small screen doors (bigger than dollhouse doors, but miniature all the same) leaning against the kitchen window.

What world lies beyond those doors?

There must be fairies and tree nymphs and water nymphs and flowers bigger than me and unicorns (there are always unicorns).

A friend, a doctor (and so also bored by the business discussion), said, "I know I’m not an idiot, but when they start talking managers and administration and marketing, my eyes glaze over."

"Yes, but I have fairy wings," I said. "They’re a translucent plum color with glittery, silver edges."

She gave me that blank look. "What?"

I pointed to the screen doors. "Beyond them. The world they open up. In there, I have fairy wings."

"I think you have a lot more fun than I do," she said.

Filed Under: giggles, imagination

You know you have an overactive imagination when…

July 19, 2008 By heather 11 Comments

I was walking toward the bathroom. As I approached the front entryway, I heard a VROOOM! VROOOM! I peeked around the corner and outside the door. There, right in front of my door was the shadowy figure of a man!

My heart palpitated then hid in my throat.

He’s got a chainsaw! He’s going to chainsaw through my front door and kill me!* And with my new old cell phone** I can’t get coverage in my house most of the time. I have no way to call 911! I’m going to die!

Right before I peed myself in fright, I looked out the living room window. Oh, it’s our next-door neighbor with his leaf blower cleaning up our yard for us.

What a nice man.

* These are actual thoughts.

** The reason I have a new old cell phone is because I laundered my cell phone (which, as a friend pointed out, is better than laundering money). Apparently, cell phones are adverse to washers and dryers. To buy a new one, since my two years isn’t up yet, would cost $175–that’s the cheapest model! Thankfully, my husband had an old cell phone. (Actually, he had half a dozen old cell phones, most of which belong in the Smithsonian. Have I mentioned that he keeps everything? You’d think he grew up in the Depression.) So now I have a new old cell phone.

Filed Under: horror, imagination

24601

March 27, 2008 By heather 13 Comments

I saw this meme lurking around the High Calling Blog collection (a fun network of people that I recommend you check out if you haven’t already) but thought, what odd job have I done? I skipped it. Then Brandon tagged me, and I can’t very well go ignoring good tags now, can I? Which means I’m doing a meme and combining it with some unformed thoughts rattling around in my head about my job now. First the rules (because you can’t have a game without rules–I tried once, and while it was fun for me, no one else wanted to play again):

1. Write about the Strangest Job I Ever Had and tell what I learned from it.

2. Link to other “Lessons from Odd Jobs” posts.

3. Tag my post “Lessons from Odd Jobs”.

4. Tag other bloggers, in or out of the HC network. (I tag Michelle, Tanya, and Pam because they’re three good story-tellers.)

5. Link back to the Lessons from Odd Jobs page and and email this month’s host at “Marcus AT highcallingblogs DOT com”.

As I said, I’ve never had an odd job. I’ve been a janitor, a worship administrator, a women’s ministry intern, a pharmaceutical tech, a music librarian, a medical receptionist, and a musician. I’ve babysat, edited, taught flute and piano lessons, played odd gigs at odd places, composed, and entered mass amounts of data. I’ve learned that author’s are touchy, the floor of a man’s bathroom is always sticky, and certain pills smell good.

But the strangest job I’ve ever had: a writer.

Who else gets away with hearing voices in their heads? Who else can zone out of conversations while creating alternate realities and have a legitimate excuse?

This brings me to the tweaking part of the meme. The wilderness part. You guys were with me as I wrote about becoming me, the imaginative theologian who loves the arts. It’s who I am. I have visions of the Church being a patron of the arts, of incarnating Christ through art, of being a beacon of creativity. I have a desire to help shepherd and guide artists and lead them in spiritual formation. Something (or Someone, I should say) pushes me to do more with my writing, to work harder, to be excellence (by the way, there’s a good article, The Habit of Excellence, up at The High Calling this week), to embody the sufferings and the hope of resurrection.

I’m an artist.

Or am I?

I’m a mediocre musician and a rookie writer. Am I an artist?

I’m in a place of stripping and purging. I prayed for insignificance that God would strip away my pride.

And He’s answering it.

I read last night in Dark Night of the Soulthat in the purging process, there’s a time when the soul feels rejected by God.

I’m in that process. Some of it, I suspect, is God telling me, No, that’s not what I have for you when I take on jobs impetuously. Some of it is an answer to that prayer for insignificance. Some of it, I don’t understand.

I feel alone. I feel useless. I’ve been in this wilderness for four years. God reveals things now and again, like oases. A couple years ago, I started writing. I thought, now we’re getting somewhere!

Only I’m not anywhere.

It’s not that I don’t love my job and my life. I teach flute and piano. I spend most of the day writing. And I’m heading up a new group blog for bible.org (more on that later). I love my job(s).

But I wonder if God loves them. If He loves them, why doesn’t He use them? If He loves them, why doesn’t He give me that bit of encouragement when I ask for it?

So the oddest part of my odd job: watching everything be stripped away.

I can’t help but think of the part in the Maundy Thursday service when the priests stripped the altar. Christ’s presence gone (metaphorically speaking).

I can’t help but think of Mary meeting Christ in the garden, of the travelers meeting Christ on the road to Emmaus, of the disciples meeting Christ in the locked room.

I warned you that these thoughts are unformed, swimming around without a dock. Next week, I’m going to the symposium, Transforming Culture: A Vision for the Church and the Arts. I’m looking forward to refreshment. I’m looking forward to just being who I am, an imaginative theologian, and perhaps, an artist.

My soul belongs to God, I know
I made that bargain long ago
He gave me hope when hope was gone
He gave me strength to journey on

Who am I?
I’m 24601!

Filed Under: art, imagination, imaginative theologian, meme, ministry, music, work, writing

In My Own Little Corner, In My Own Little Chair

February 28, 2008 By heather 12 Comments

Christie at Whistling in the Dark is talking about her favorite character: Jo March. Jo March is my favorite second favorite character, second to, of course, Anne of Green Gables. Christie talks about stealing some of their magic, and I agree. We want part of their magic. That’s why we dream, why we read, why we act, why we watch movies or plays or musicals.

I want to be Anne because I love her whimsy and her candor. I love the child who wasn’t afraid and the woman who never lost her childlikeness. I love that she embraces life and always loves right where she is.

Let’s start a club, a what-character-do-you-want-to-be club. It could be like Halloween, except better.

Who do you want to be?

Filed Under: characters, imagination