Smack Dab in the Middle

 If you spotted me when I was nine playing in a tree branch cave, I was probably enacting stories with leaves, rocks, and pinecone characters. In a secret, private place, we can let our imaginations run wild in our vast interiority.  In contrast, stepping up to read your made up story out loud to the class means exposing your secret imagination to the appproval, disapproval, jealousy, or worst, the indifference of the other kids. Sharing your imagination takes bravery, both as a child and as an adult who wants to write and submit work. Our imagination is so uniquely ours that any judgement passed on we takes as a judgement on our very self. Last week, I lost a companion I have loved for twenty years. Of course that’s shattering, the pain, the grief-mines I step on every hour. But there’s no question that pain is outweighed by the twenty years of love. When your imaginative work is rejected, that’s shattering too. But would you give up the creative relationship with that work...