Meg Evans

The world felt unusually quiet when I woke up to a cool, overcast morning on Saturday. I got myself some breakfast and, while sipping Raspberry Chocolate coffee, set my art display to a painting of spring blossoms with a peaceful lake in the background.

My mind felt quiet, too, like there was nothing I needed or wanted to do. That was peculiar enough to make me wonder if there might be something wrong. I didn’t feel like reading a book, browsing on the computer, or writing a story or a blog post. Nothing else was distracting me—no chores or to-dos demanding attention. What was going on here? Had all of my creative energy mysteriously gone missing?

I imagined myself stepping into the picture on the art display, but not much seemed to be going on there either. Just another cool, overcast morning with painted spring blossoms. I looked around for interesting characters and didn’t see any, so I sat down on an imaginary log and gazed out over the pond. A few pink and white petals floated by. A frog jumped on a rock at the water’s edge.

“Doesn’t this give your mind the loveliest space to wander?”

Turning my head, I saw one girl, alone. Sara, cheerful as always, had come up next to me while I was looking at the frog. The path behind her led away into the woods, and I could just make out the tiny tree houses of Channelwood in the midst of the spring foliage.

“Ella and Queenie both have been working hard since they woke up this morning,” she went on, arranging her long skirts comfortably as she sat down beside me. “There’s always something to do. Chores, projects—so many ways to stay busy. People forget that they need to leave space for imagination.”

The frog hopped off the rock and landed with a splash.

“I wasn’t busy at all this morning,” I told her, “and I felt that I had plenty of empty space—but, for whatever reason, there was nothing to fill it.”

“That’s what happens,” Sara replied earnestly, keeping her big green eyes fixed on me. “When imagination hasn’t been given enough space in your mind to wander around and make itself happy, it finds somewhere else to go. Then you have to coax it back, like a neglected pet; and afterward, even more time has to pass before it feels comfortable again.”

I pondered that for a moment, unsure what to say. Then it occurred to me that she was a fictional character, after all; so I didn’t have to come up with an answer right away. Instead, I could put this scene on pause until I had a better idea of where it was going.

After giving myself a day to consider the proper care and feeding of imagination, I returned to the conversation on Sunday morning. The spring flowers picture on the art display didn’t match the bright sunlight streaming into my house from a clear blue sky; but I let it stay there for the time being, just for continuity of thought.

Sara was sitting on the log where I had left her, although she wasn’t in exactly the same position. She had turned her head to watch the bees bustling about on the heavy blossoms.

“They look very busy,” I said, following her gaze.

“Yes, they never stop to wonder what might happen next. I don’t suppose that means they lack imagination, though. Perhaps that one,” and Sara pointed to a bee hanging upside down from a large blossom, “is imagining a warm and sunny day, with just the lightest of breezes under a bright blue sky. Maybe it’s easier for them to pretend simple things like that because their minds aren’t cluttered with worries. Imagination doesn’t come from idleness. What it needs, instead, is regular practice, along with enough space to grow.”

I glanced away from the art display for a moment, and I had to agree with Sara when—in real life—I found myself in exactly the bright, sunny day she had described.