Flights of Imagination

I perched on top of the chimney, crossing my ankles and sitting up as primly as one could on a chimney while wearing a dress. Reaching into my cavernous carpet bag, I rummaged for my powder case and mirror, for even when a lady is covered from head to foot in soot she should always ensure that her nose is properly powdered. I turned to gaze over the rooftops. The sky was a mural of contrasts that night, ranging from the fiery reds and oranges around the vividly setting sun to the velvety midnight blue where its fingers of warm light could not reach. A star winked at me…then another…then another. A warm breeze caressed my sunburned cheeks, tickled my skin, and played with the ends of my hair. Spindly ladders of chimney smoke reached into the heavens, inviting me to climb them to see where they would lead. To Never Land, perhaps? Or to Narnia?
A woman’s voice broke into my consciousness, calling me back to my backyard and reminding me that it was time for dinner. I secured the strap of my mother’s cast-off purse over my shoulder, opened my pale blue ruffled umbrella, and took a dignified step off the edge of my picnic table, lifting the umbrella to catch the wind currents…and promptly fell flat on my face. Ever undaunted, I picked myself up, and as gracefully as one could with her hat tipped over one eye, walked to my door. One day, I knew I’d get it right. Maybe I needed to tilt my chin a bit more. After all, I was Mary Poppins, which meant that I was, unquestionably, “practically perfect in every way.”
My father and mother firmly believed in the power of the imagination. I was allowed to only watch one movie a week, and television was banned. Instead, they gave me books…good books. Classics like “A Tale of Two Cities” transported me to the dungeons of the Bastille during the French Revolution. I became Nancy Drew in her ever-lengthening quest to rid the world of shady characters and villains…all the while fending off boys and sporting beautiful dresses and latest sports convertible. I, as the beautiful Rebecca cried out to Ivanhoe for rescue when the evil Knight Templar tied me to the stake to be burned for witchcraft. I was the first girl to become a Musketeer, and fought the Mexican army alongside Davy Crockett at the Alamo. I was Anne of Green Gables, unrepentant after breaking my slate over Gilbert’s head for calling me “Carrots”. I was Lucy, weeping at the Stone Table over the death of Aslan and rejoicing as he breathed life back into Mr. Tumnus in the castle of the White Witch. Books, not a magical wardrobe, were my door to other worlds; worlds of wonder and excitement and mystery.
My sisters and I became the inseparable trio of Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty…and had many escapades whilst evading the “Quicked Ween”, ravenous crocodiles and hazards of all shapes and size. We were the scourge of the Wild West in our cowboy hats and riding the hobby horses that our mother made for us one Christmas. We were Robin Hood and his Merry Men (and Merry Girls); much to my mother’s distress when we demonstrated that tights were most definitely not practical woodsmen’s attire. We were scolded amidst gales of laughter for “borrowing” her eyeliner to turn ourselves into scurvy sea dogs that were the terror of the seas and had untold treasures…represented by vast quantities of acorns. We slew the Giant Goliath, journeyed with the enigmatic Captain Nemo one hundred and twenty thousand leagues under the sea. We joined forces with Harriet Tubman in operating the Underground Railroad and with Clara Barton, Angel of the Battlefield, to give aid to wounded Civil War soldiers. We were the angels singing to the shepherds about the news of the birth of the Christ Child. We defiantly shook our fists in the face of King George as we cast chests of tea over the side at the Boston Tea Party, just like the immortal Sons and Daughters of Liberty. “Let’s make believe that we…” were mystical words…a spell…an incantation that we could cast over ourselves to escape the confines of our backyard (or our house on a rainy day) and see…and more often than not…save the world from tyranny, hunger, pain, and pesky villains of all description…all before dinner. Pablo Picasso said, “Everything you can imagine is real.” And, it was to us. It was our reality.
I submit to you that the imagination is the single link that we have to our childhood as adults. It is a precious gift, but it must be used often and cultivated, or it withers and dies like a flower in a desert. We so often forget the wonder of using our imaginations in the ever-present day-to-day rush. Its cry for use is drowned in the mundane tasks set before us, stifled by our own unwillingness to slow ourselves down long enough to ponder the beauty and mystery of that star on the horizon. We’ve forgotten what it feels like to soar above the clouds with Peter Pan, and what it feels like to save the world with a plastic sword and a green felt bonnet with a dashing feather sweeping from the brim and curling around our ear.

As for myself, I plan to spend a good amount of time up a gnarled old tree, barefoot, waiting with my bow to shoot a deer to feed my family who’s starving because Prince John has taxed the Saxons so harshly. Or, maybe I’ll be luring the rascally Captain Hook to the lair of the crocodile with Peter Pan. Or, maybe I’ll be once again trying to perfect my landing while using my umbrella to aid in my descent from the roof of my garden shed. After all, I’m Mary Poppins, and I’m “practically perfect in every way.”