Imagination

Run Wild

Well, don’t you have a wild imagination.

I still feels the burn of these words. They came from family, teachers, and other adults when I shared ideas and curiosities as a child. In school, church, playing at the park, watching tv, reading books, or walking the grocery store aisles, I had lots of questions and wonders.

I made a guitar from wood scraps collected behind the neighbor’s house. My friend made a piano and another a drum set. And we started a band in the garage.

With cardboard and half dried markers, I made a computer and used an old typewriter as the keyboard. I was working on programming it to make robots and comic books when it was accidentally thrown out with the trash.

Long before Master Chef made cooking competitions cool, I made everyone gourmet omelets and asked them to vote on the best. I admit the worst omelet ever was filled with lettuce and hotdog.

One set of my grandparents didn’t really have toys or games at their house. There wasn’t much to do that wouldn’t get us in trouble. We used to crawl around on our hands and knees, running our wild heads of hair through the shaggy orange carpet. With the static created, we tried to shock each other and make things stick to the wall. While this was fun and usually got us a word of reprimand, there was another activity that was secretly my favorite. One that I never told anyone how much I loved.

My grandparents were travelers. They took trips all over the world. The house had artwork and photo albums representing all the countries of their travels. Ireland. England. Scotland. France. Germany. Italy. Canada. New Zealand. Australia. Japan. I’m sure there were more. I was so envious. And wondered if I’d ever get out of Flint.

I found a way to escape. There was a large globe on a dark mahogany stand in the family room. With my right hand I’d spin it. And then close my eyes real tight. When it stopped I’d put the pointer finger of my left hand on it, almost like an act of prayer. I’d open my eyes with great excitement about where my finger landed and where I’d be traveling; a city, a country, the middle of the ocean. I’d go to the book shelves looking for pictures and titles about that place. I’d pull out the Encyclopedia. I’d ask anyone who would listen for all the information they had. I’d talk to the librarian during recess. And then I’d imagine myself there. On a long vacation. Sometimes living there. Given a new name. Speaking the language. Dressed in the clothing. Eating the food. Immersed in the culture. Learning the history. Seeing the sights. I never told anyone what I was doing because I feared their laughter or criticism.

Well, don’t you have a wild imagination.

This way of travel was a needed escape. My imagination was a means of survival. It was also a gift of life. It was a ticket out of an abusive and dysfunctional environment. A waiting room of healing. A departure gate of hope. A voyage of self-discovery. A guided tour of new places and diverse perspectives. All fueled by imagination.

As a fearful child, an anxious teen, a deeply depressed young adult I wasn’t always sure I had a future. I didn’t really believe that life could be good. That people could be safe. That there was a place for me. Even in those most difficult years, when the light of my imagination dimmed, it never completely faded. And that’s why I’m still here. Long before I found my way out, I imagined it.

A psychiatrist once told me my imagination was pure insanity. I believed him. And when the medications he prescribed stole my ability and desire to dream and imagine, I kept that grief to myself. And the despair intensified. Years before depression lifted, I imagined waking up without it.

The dreamers of the world are often mocked or dismissed. The ones who dare to imagine a different way are labeled foolish and naive. Or traitors and rebels. Or weak and soft. I try to imagine a world where soft is synonymous with strength. Where seeking peace is not perceived as weakness.

What if imagination was recognized as a skill? As a tool? As a resource? What if it was a required course? An elective? A major? A minor?  What if the church understood it as a spiritual gift? A fruit of the spirit? What if organizations sought out leaders with high scores in imagination? And made room in the budget for continuing education AND cultivating imagination? What if governments and institutions had imagination offices and consultants? What if rather than saying this can’t be done, a group of visionaries gathered to imagine the possibilities?

The world is suffering. Creation is crying. The pain is inescapable. What if the nightly news wasn’t just a recap of the horrors of the day, but a conversation about imagining a day when these horrors are no longer our collective reality?

Injustice and inequality and evil don’t have to be forever. If we imagined a world without them as quickly as we raise our hands in surrender to them, oh how different our lives and the lives of future generations would be!

What if global leaders came together to imagine even one day without bombs and bullets? What if just one voice at the power table said, let us imagine a response to violence that isn’t vengeance? What if humanity listened to the voice calling out from the rubble pleading with us, please imagine a world where we don’t aid and support our allies killing their enemies’ children?

There’s a fine line between the personal and the collective, the private and the public. I can’t just expect others to care about or connect to my experiences. I also can’t just accept that my experiences mean nothing outside of my limited existence.

I share my stories, I’m beginning to share my stories because I believe in their power. I believe in the transformational power of all our stories. Most deeply, I believe in the power of stories that stir our imagination. With every day that passes with more heartache and destruction, I’m convinced that the way out of humanity’s crisis is delayed not because we lack the will, but because we block the imagination.

Years ago, when I made the decision to come out in a pretty public way, several people asked me why. Why now? Why not wait? Why must you do this at all? The answer was simple. I was finally able to fully imagine a life where I was completely and unapologetically and queerly me. And that imagination became the courage I needed to face the loss and rejection, and embrace the freedom and joy of no longer hiding.

Impossible ends when imagination begins.

May we all let our imagination run wild.