Imagination is a wonderful thing, I suppose. For it allows
us to build things in our minds, out of absolutely nothing. Imagination leads
to fantasy, another wonderful thing, I suppose. Of the things that could be, of
the way we could be… it climbs over limitations, hops over adversities, ignores
problems…and… reality (?).
I suppose, imagination and fantasy are wonderful, so long as
they are grounded in reality. But again, would such grounding be limiting? Can
imagination soar over far sweeping horizons, if heavy shackles of reality pull
it down?
And where does creativity figure in this discussion? All
deep, profound thoughts. But you will never believe why this discussion first popped
into my head.
We chose a classic, Jane Eyre for our book club. A friend’s
email said, “…Can't wait to dissect the yummy Mr. Rochester with all of you, I have
added him to my list of 19th century hotties”. No we’re not a bunch of
bored moms, just very witty individuals. Hmm…That’s the story and we’re
sticking to it.
My witty friend’s words cracked me up. Interestingly, I had
been thinking on similar lines – yes, of course, of the “yummy Mr. Rochester”,
but of these 19th century writers who were single women (I really
don’t like the word, ‘spinster’), creating these delicious, enigmatic and
mysterious men, in the midst of their embroidery and Victorian etiquette.
I read recently, of how Jane Austen would put her writing
material away, as soon as she heard a certain door creak, and pick up her
embroidery – a more ‘suitable’ representation of herself and the reality of the
century – to receive guests.
And writing in secret, in the midst of the embroidery, she
created Mr. Darcy. Sigh… enough said.
The Bronte sisters, also single, living in somewhat
hardship, with personal sickness, and sickness and deaths in the family, wove beautiful
prose, developed passionate characters and created mysterious men. I had read a
little about their lives, and this time as I read Jane Eyre, I appreciated
their ability to create worlds with remarkable narratives and characters and of
course, give us the likes of Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff, despite their
reality and situation.
Now tell me, had these women been married, with a bunch of
kids, would such enigmatic and passionate characters have emerged from their
minds? Or is motherhood pretty much the
end to all mystery, other than the sticky something on the carpet? But I
digress…
The imagination and fantasy exists in our mind. So how do we
not lose its magic and continue to access it? How do we remain aware and enjoy
it, without leading to yearnings of sorts (and no I’m not referring to the Mr.
Darcys and Rocheters, even).
How do we see ourselves - in our mind, in our imagination;
how do we see ourselves in our reality, our reality of existence? How do we go
back and forth?
Are we only who we are in the reality of today? Maybe we see
ourselves that way. Purposeful and focused, setting goals, making plans… you
get the drift…
Yet, is that only who we imagine ourselves to be? Some days
when I feel like a deranged person repeating the same things over and over to
my family, following a certain nine-year-old – physically, or at times,
mentally, ahem… even to the shower (knowing there is a book in the bathroom,
that there is no sound of running water, and when I call out – a hurried whoosh
of water is heard… hmm… detective mom knows it all), I doubt there is anything
else to this existence. Yet, there is. And it takes some awareness and
imagination to access it.
So what I’m struggling to say that each has its own place
and worth. There really is no escaping the reality – and the imagination or
fantasy need not be an escape either. It is useful to see ourselves in a
different light, especially when we turn into the sometimes-robots. And we
really don’t need to be 19th century writers creating passionate
characters, to do so either. But my friend’s list, I should definitely try and
obtain…hmmm…
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