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My imagination resides in my hands, eyes and ears. When I enter my imagination I literally just fall in. I can't try to be imaginative. It either happens or it doesn't. My imagination is an old kitchen, right out of the west in the 1910s. There are bright colors and lots of activity that stimulate me. There is an old water pump outside, and a big pot full of shimmering dreams on the fire. Ideas zip past in the form of wind. The air aromas change every second. I smell lavender, lilac, cinnamon, and sea breeze. The sounds of bird songs and babbling brook water embrace me. No shapes are the same, or perfect (like leaves). Textures are soft, hard, pebbly and feathery. The air is so clear you actually can taste it. It is the taste of fresh bread and sweetness in my mouth. When I am inside my imagination, I act. Everything there is about theatre and writing. But you can also engage in sports (kayaking, canoeing, baseball), reading, crafts and laughter. My imagination. This is home. My Spirit, My Declaration - Where the wind goes, so too I turn to flee from the world...- Adelaine |
