The Mystery of Imagination

I've been a mother for almost 13 years.

I've been frequenting parenting sites, boards, and blogs for more of them than I’d like to admit. I've fought in the Mommy wars. I have even, in desperation, attended various neighborhood playgroups.

I've heard every parenting issue under the sun debated, dissected, analyzed, rationalized and vilified. It has provoked thought on matters I might not have otherwise considered.

Sometimes that's been a good thing, others, not so much.

I have expended a lot of time and effort defending an opinion or a point of view that seemed terribly important at the time, but that really didn't amount to a hill of beans once my kids left toddlerhood behind.

But you know what you don't hear much about anymore?

Imaginary friends.

When I was about 6, I had an imaginary friend named Luis. I think he was inspired by Luis from Sesame Street, upon whom I had a fairly serious crush. My sister's imaginary friend was Casper.

My parents tell many stories of how they had to accommodate the needs and wishes of Casper and Luis. I think Luis just sort of faded away once Jamie Tookshure came into my life. Luis just couldn't compete with a living breathing boy who had amazing Leif Garret like hair.

Unfortunately, my sister's parting from Casper was not quite so amicable. In her attempts to exorcise poor Casper, he somehow became a malevolent presence. She had terrible nightmares and spent her waking hours jumping at shadows.

My father tells of how, one evening, he gave Casper a very stern talking to. He'd had enough, he told Casper. If Casper could not behave kindly and respectfully he would have to leave our home. And so, my father packed him a bag and ushered him out the door with a firm handshake to demonstrate there were no hard feelings.

And that was the end of him.

Husband also had an imaginary friend. His name was Bill Wilson. Bill Wilson was sort of the town rogue; but he was a lovable scamp rather than a hardened criminal. However, he did burn down the jail house in order to escape, which of course, did not endear him to the noble townsfolk. As you can imagine, poor Bill Wilson was the fall guy for a lot of Husband's foibles.

My children don't have imaginary friends.

They are both very imaginative children, so I have wondered about it a time or two. Why, when Husband and I both had imaginary friends, wouldn't our children have that same tendency?

I've come to the conclusion that they just don't need an imaginary friend.

Why?

Because they are fed a steady stream of imagery, ready made adventure, fantasy and fiction. At virtually any time of the day or night, they can plug in, turn on, or tune in. They can upload, download, network and interface. There are entire networks dedicated to entertaining and anaesthetizing our children. An entire industry revolves around pandering to every playful or pleasureable impulse from birth to adolescence.

This past week when I was volunteering for Science Day at Diminutive One's school, I was really struck by the lack of imagination that some of the kids demonstrated.

During one activity, the children first made existing constellations with styrofoam cups and flashlights. They were then instructed to think of their own original constellation and write a story of how their subject ended up in the night sky.

I was amazed and disheartened at how many of the children really struggled with that.

"I can't think of anything." said one.

"This is too hard!" whined another.

"You tell me what to." they implored.

"What do you like to do? What do you like to learn about? What do you like to dream about, think about, read about?" I asked them.

They would shrug or look at me blankly. They simply had no idea how to reach inside their minds, pull out an idea and breathe life into it.

One child, when asked, told me he liked football. His constellation was in the shape of…a football. His story consisted of one sentence: "I kicked it."

My kids are very imaginative, so it's odd for me to encounter a child that doesn't have that spark of creativity and whimsy.

Perhaps I'm not being fair. Nobody really knows where imagination comes from after all. Is it learned or is it innate? If it is innate, can it atrophy, shrivel and die, like muscles that lie impotent and unmoving? If it is learned, can it be unlearned if not constantly exercised?

Perhaps my children are imaginative not because of anything that I did, but because it's just in their genes. Maybe another child lacks imagination not because of something their parents didn't do, but simply because it is not part of their DNA. Maybe you can't teach a literal minded realist to indulge in flights of fancy.

Whatever the case...I find it puzzling and sad when a child can't imagine.

But since we don't know...there's a chance that it is something we can give them. There's a chance that we can infuse their minds with imagination, just as we infuse their blood with beneficent antibodies.

With that in mind, shouldn't we treat every child as if they are inherently capable of imagining?

In order to do that, then we certainly need to stop spoon feeding them.

But it's more than that.

When we were kids, there was time to gaze up into the sky and imagine shapes in the clouds. There was time to create fabulous structures and go on fantastic adventures.

Kids these days just don't have that luxury.

We need to give back to our children the time, the facility, and most of all, the motivation to imagine.

I don't think it's too late to raise a generation of stargazers and cloud watchers and swashbucklers and fairy princesses.

I'd sure like to try.

Wouldn't you?