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I often catch myself vacillating between the tangible world and a world of limitless imagination. One is concrete, full of tasks, routines, and responsibilities; the other is weightless, shaped entirely by possibility. As the years race by, I find myself drifting more often into that imagined world — not as an escape, but as a return to something essential. It’s quieter there, far more intriguing.
To see beyond what is to what could be is simply a matter of flexing my creativity — the way a painter looks at a blank canvas and doesn’t see emptiness, but potential. Not a void, but a whisper asking to become a field of color. I too, look at the ordinary and feel the tug of what might be — a flicker of a story at the edge of a pond, or a symphony found in the fog. In imagination, nothing is static. The mundane stretches, reshapes, blooms.
To see beyond what is to what could be is simply a matter of flexing my creativity — the way a painter looks at a blank canvas and doesn’t see emptiness, but potential. Not a void, but a whisper asking to become a field of color. I too, look at the ordinary and feel the tug of what might be — a flicker of a story at the edge of a pond, or a symphony found in the fog. In imagination, nothing is static. The mundane stretches, reshapes, blooms.
And perhaps that’s the gift — not to flee from reality, but to reframe it. To live with one foot in the known and one in the imagined is to walk a different kind of path, which I know a thing or two about: one where possibility doesn’t just reside on the edges, but colors everything I see. More and more, I find myself lingering longer on that path. Not because the real-world lacks wonder, but because wonder multiplies when I allow myself to dream.
Live in Color,
Abby
Abby