May my imagination meet my knowing

I recently spent several weeks back in Texas at the ranch. I was there to write, and to see family. Somewhere along the way, I hit a wall. I could feel myself shrinking away from my writing. Whatever I was working on—a poem, an essay, an assignment for the writing workshop I was taking—I feared writing something that wasn’t “good enough,” and so I wrote in fits and starts. (Separate post—or book??—to come on “good enough.”)

An Artist’s Way exercise prompted me to list the movies I used to love when I was younger. One night, I nestled into the tan couch in the ranch house and watched Alice in Wonderland. The 2010 version with Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter is my favorite. Like Alice, I felt I had lost my “muchness.” Two days later, I kept the marathon going and watched Christopher Robin (2018). Winnie the Pooh has always held a special place in my heart. Both movies remind us to return to wonder, and play. Remind us to hold onto ourselves in a world that demands we lose our selves to fit in. Remind us that when we are lost, our imagination can lead us forward.

I believe that our childhood selves know what we love, and I believe we love these particular things because they will serve us again and again as adults, if we only allow them. In the mornings now, when I sit down to write, I start with Six Impossible Things. Like Alice, I am willing to imagine my way forward.

Later that week, the following intention appeared on the page as I journaled:

May my imagination meet my knowing.

My younger self was wildly imaginative. I can trust her, because she has brought me here. And I need her—she is my imagination. Meanwhile, my future self knows the way, because she has walked it—she is my knowing. May they merge in me today and lead me forward.

Prompt: What did your childhood self love? What were your dreams? What would it look like to trust that to lead you forward? What are six impossible things you can do today?