At night, in the darkness, when everything is still, my brain can imagine anything. As a child, the darkness meant I could construct stories, populate them with characters, progress the plot daily. The moon lit the trees and flowers, the snowdrifts and snow forts, the piles of leaves and stacked logs, turning them into creatures of my own invention. In the night, everything is possible.
GrBeing grateful to my mother is a consistent theme in my life. I admire so many of the choices she made about parenting. The earliest gifts I remember receiving were a plastic train set and a Playskool village, both at Christmas (I think I was three). I recently found a photo of that village, which flooded my memory with the stories I used to tell with those movable pieces. In my mind, I was already constructing an involved world (see the second photo), designing houses and roadways, adding amenities to the landscape. I never had that larger village physically, but it was there in my imagination. I was given a doll and a panda bear later, both favorites of mine, but I’m thankful that my mom opened the door for the designer in my personality, giving me tools to tell stories in many ways. (Full disclosure: I photoshopped my head onto that second photo.)