In Step into Nature I consider the imagination’s shape, I mean if it had one. Does yours? If your imagination had an actual, physical form, what would it be? Sand-grain small or world’s tallest redwood tree tall? Is it heavy to lift, requiring several sumo wrestlers to carry it home to you? Might it be a spiral surprise found on the ground?
Or flicker feather light? Where do you carry it—in a tight back pocket, in a room of your heart, or balanced on the top of your heart?
What of your imagination’s color? Zinnia red, perhaps? Wisp of cloud white?
Is it entirely silent or does it make sound—that of mockingbird, that of rushing wind, the sound of bricks falling down? When your imagination calls to you how do you respond? Do you put your hands to your ears and say, “No, no, no” or do you drop your silverware and let your napkin slip to the floor, running quick as you can? No better thing to do today than follow the call that whispers only your name.