Close your eyes. What do you see?

When I was a little girl, I played “make believe” with stuffed animals. There was an entire Animal Kingdom, with Queen Bernice the Bunny as the reigning sovereign over all the townsanimals. A group of rogue adventurers — a fox called Foxy, a turtle called Tortle, and a Dratini called Dratini, two beanie baby birds called Early and Rocket— traveled the lands and seas, keeping the peace.

I don’t know when, but one day, I stopped playing “make believe.”

I think that is when the blank page became my worst enemy. Every word that I spoke was, before I could allow it some space to live and grow, killed by inner critic.

Instead, I grew up a fierce skeptic, hesitant to call anything significant if it were not objectively True: measurable, rational, observable. Make-believe was sentimental, silly, and stupid.

Depending on what you do, there can be very little use for your imagination as an Adult. I haven’t flexed mine in many years. Sure, there is creativity when it comes to algorithms or problem-solving — but I no longer conjured and played with the unreal.

Then, in May of 2017, I rediscovered my imagination.

It turns out that it was there all along, waiting to come out. We are becoming better friends, now, and I am glad for it.

I do wish it didn’t have to come out quite how it did, because it felt like a bit of a dire situation to meet again.

You see, imagination is what got me out of a very dark place.

In May of 2017, I encountered what I like to call “Tears with No Reason Nor End.” They are, I am told, a symptom of depression. I was never diagnosed formally by a doctor. I do remember, however, sitting on my yoga mat, engulfed by a depth of sorrow that I did not understand, half laughing and thinking, This must be what they call depression. I felt like there was a swirling, dark vortex in the middle of my torso, and felt a little bit like a bathtub without a plug.

At the time, I didn’t know what to do, because I didn’t know what that was. For the past year, I had been experiencing what I call “Tears of Release,” which feel wonderful — it is the type of crying you do when you have an honest conversation with your parents for the first time, or when you see a therapist and talk deeply about the skeletons in your closet. Besides, I am convinced that crying is good for you because the bodily mechanism feels similar to orgasm, laughter, and poops — which are all satisfying and good, I’m sure we can agree.

When I first encountered “Tears With No Reason Nor End,” I was confused. What were these? Later, I made this comparison to a friend: therapeutic tears felt like massaging out an old scar. These tears, however, felt like you were trying to massage an open wound, except that you have no recollection of injury.

In May, my first reaction was to run away and hide until I was better. That, and I tried to reason it away. That didn’t work so well. I noticed it getting deeper. I then turned to others and found support amongst friends who suggested many great things: therapy, friends, distractions. All of these things helped. I have many theories on why, though those will be for another day.

I was feeling particularly bottomed out and drained, when I spoke to a friend from a dance class who is energy healer, empath, and psychic (In another lifetime, I would’ve outwardly nodded while being inwardly skeptical of all three descriptives. Nowadays, I like to think I am all three).

This friend asked me if I’d like to do a “Landscape.”

What’s that? I asked.

It goes like this, she said.

Close your eyes. Imagine yourself at the top of a hill, holding whatever troubles are in your mind. Maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s depression, maybe it’s anger. Feel it in your body.

Look down. What do you see?

At first, it felt stupid.

Why am I wasting time making things up that aren’t objectively right?

I guess I saw…a bear? Is that okay? I don’t know if I’m making that up.

I don’t see anything I don’t see anything I don’t see anything

This doesn’t work This doesn’t work I’m broken I have no imagination I’m not creative I’m no good at this

Then, when I finally gave myself permission, I began to see many things.

I don’t know how to describe them all to you, so perhaps I’ll share the notes.

I saw a little girl in pigtails and barettes, holding the keys to a floodgate between two trees in a forest. The gate was crystalline and half-real, and beyond it, were waterfalls of what I knew were tears.

I burst out into tears when I saw her, and wondered out loud, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m keeping it locked and dammed for you,” she said.

We unlocked the floodgates together and the forest became a lake. It was sparkling and clear, clean. We swam across with a sea otter friend.

On the other side of the lake, inside a small wooden house, we found a white journal with the words, “I feel as though I am high on life.” I remember those words because I wrote them in a journal in 2016. Now, I add to the journal: “when the floodgates are open, I will feel both the highs and lows.”

We flew across the hill to a place of white sands. It is a place that only happens after centuries of waves from the sea. It is pretty, and not broken.

Wearing all black

A dark wood with a single fluorescent lamp post in the center

The space echoes of loneliness

A bench and a lamp post, and a little girl, waiting

She’s waiting for help

I tell her, with tears in my eyes, that the way this world works is that you help yourself.

Don’t you want to try your own hand at helping yourself? I ask

We hold hands and leave, riding a horse. She steers the reins.

We see a lone tower, and climb the staircase

There is a journal of a princess — it says, “on to the next adventure”

We jump out with a snowy ermine, onto a black dragon

The little girl rides in front

We land in a bright, sunny wood. It is quiet. Peaceful.

We climb into a treehouse. The little girl takes a pen to write that she is an adventurer, and that she will not wait for someone to rescue her

There is some wisdom in Dreams and Imagination, I think. Especially when the Thinking Mind is either busy being a bully or trying her best to solve a problem that she doesn’t know how to solve.