Remember how imaginative we were as kids? Spinning incredible tales in our fantasy plays, like when playing teacher or house or doctor? When every day seemed to have a story attached to it?
Sure, free time and reign abounded, perhaps more so than for kids today, but there is something unique in a child’s mind that sets the imagination to limitless bounds.
Fearless imaginations. Watching the world though a child’s eyes defines imagining. Everyday moments are building blocks during this period, overwhelming in content and creation. Building blocks that become walls, going up until they grow to homes filled with color, thought, stories — maybe not coherent, but captivating stories.
Many such homes disappear as we grow older, when life intervenes.
Yet every time I watch a child at play, every time I see him smash and bash and crash, and create tornadoes or building castles, or take the family on a safari trip, become a doctor, police officer, a mommy or daddy, I’m taken aback at the richness of imagination. At what we allow to die inside over the years; what we later struggle to rebuild, one building block at the time.