I love my imagination. It keeps me from being bored, it helped me survive an impoverished childhood devoid of books and televisions, saved me from shyness, and has shaped my life into something better than a boring rut. But sometimes, just sometimes, it drives me nuts.
Case in point: We had to get our air conditioning system fixed in our house. All that was needed was to reattach the ventilation ducts under the house where they separated. It was fixed, no problem, the house cooled off, we were happy. The air conditioning unit is next to my bathroom door. My bedroom is across the hall. I ALWAYS hear the air conditioner when it is blowing air.
Ever since the repair job, I hear voices coming from the air conditioner. Sometimes they play music, that really irritating recorder music. It is just coherent enough to make me originally think I was listening to the television in the living room, but not enough to really tell what is being said. But it always sounds like several people having a conversation, or perhaps a news show.
The first time it happened I thought my sister was saying something while I was in the bathroom. As it continued, I realized it was the air conditioner, and I have yet to figure out the cause. The problem is listening to it at night. In the dark. All alone in my bedroom…
I don’t read horror novels (anymore) or watch horror movies (after a few deeply regretted ones). Normally, I have very few nightmares. I generally only dream of being overwhelmed when my calendar gets full. But if I have a hard time falling asleep and start hearing that murmuring coming through my door in the dark…uhhhh. Bad night ahead. I’m trying to see if I’ll get used to them. If I can’t, I’ll have to do something about some white noise or something. Maybe ear plugs? I’ll try something out.
Imagination can be a dangerous thing. When I was a child, my sisters and I would spend many happy hours with our youngest aunt at our grandparents’ rural home. We entertained ourselves during many summer days taking turns telling stories, or acting out various roles in an imaginary world. But one day our group imagination took a dark turn.
That was the summer of the Boston Strangler. We rarely saw the television stories, but we listened to the radio and read the newspapers and listened to our parents talk about it. The story was ripe fodder for our minds. One hot day, the air was still, our grandfather, the only one left at home to watch over us, fast asleep in the shade. The house was too cramped and hot to stay inside. We wandered about from garden to sheds, to barn, trying to decide how to occupy ourselves.
The story began as a slow, sporadic commentary on how quiet it was, progressed to an uneasy awareness of how creepy the silence was, and began to speed along on an uncomfortable awareness of how many hiding places there were and how close they were to us. We armed ourselves with sticks. We fed each others’ imaginations like a mob feeds on itself. In no time at all, we were clutching each other, darting eyes at one building after another, peering at shadows and straining our ears to hear any break in the silence.
The break came, of course, very loudly and suddenly. A loose shed door banged, whether from a solitary breeze, a passing chicken, or a cat rubbing itself on it. Who knows? Who cares? But suddenly we were several young girls screaming in sudden terror and running as fast as possible to our grandfather, the only available adult.
His natural and very normal irate commentary on being awakened from a comfortable nap by a bunch of silly noisy females calmed us down quickly. We realized how we had frightened ourselves and laughed weakly, determining to never do that again. But we stayed around Grandpa for the rest of the day.
That experience taught me a lot about letting my imagination control me. It taught me a lot about mob psychology. I don’t want to think what might have happened if we had access to weapons more dangerous than some big sticks. Fear can turn to the flight or fight syndrome and not everybody runs, not every time. This has become even more true the older I get.
I channel my imagination as much as possible nowadays into my writing. I don’t want to dwell on something until paranoia begins to build, becoming dangerous to people around me. Writing my imaginings helps to understand cause and effect, and the work of adrenaline on the mind. Working out reactions to fear, anxiety, paranoia, and rage in fictional stories help me deal with tense situations in real life. For someone who never goes looking for trouble, I’ve had to deal with a good bit.
Using my imagination in reading and writing has definitely helped me deal with real life. I think that is why teaching a child to read and providing a large library is one of the most important things we can do for our children. Television and movies can only do so much. We should always talk to our children as well, discussing the characters’ actions and reactions and deciding whether they were appropriate or not.
Helping a child imagine how they would react in a scary situation helps them avoid panic when they come up against one in real life. It also helps them avoid making bad decisions in less scary situations, like being pressured into sex, accepting a dare, or facing major changes in their lives.
God gave us our imaginations. Imagination fuels creativity and comes from the Master Creator Himself. But like every gift He gives us, it can be misused and twisted. Read. Write. Create. Work with your children. Don’t let them fall prey to a dangerous mind.