Imagine That
Notes on imagination, early spring, and six months of SLOWING.
“How do you keep going?” an artist friend muses as we wander Prospect Park. I squint thoughtfully under the late morning sun and share a few generalizations until she stops me. “I mean, how do you keep going?”
In so many words, I tell her that obligation and responsibility keep me going. There is no other choice day to day, which is the case for most of us. But what I don’t say is that imagination keeps me going, too—that it’s something I’ll always choose to value even if it’s deemed frivolous or “distracting.”
Think about what you have to focus on versus what you naturally daydream about. Then go one step further: What is imagination? What does it demand creatively—energetically? It takes a different kind of stamina to endure life’s physicality—making money, cultivating a home, maintaining our health—versus the space for imagining something bigger than ourselves. Some people call it art; others call it love.
A season synonymous with renewal, spring is the time to pay attention to and follow these imaginative threads. But isn’t its arrival always a little tiring? That sudden rush of life we have to get used to again. Over the years, I’ve found beauty in the exhaustion—a reminder that blooming doesn’t (need to) happen all at once.
I appreciate how Katherine May described spring’s nuances in one of her recent letters:
“Most of all, spring feels like a season of immanence, like held breath. I spend the whole time waiting for something to happen.”
Lately, many of us are waiting for something to happen, both good and bad. In art and life. And with each disquieting feeling that we’re not doing enough to meet the moment, Mother Nature shows her hand: We need spring’s damp, temperamental days to remind us of all we can withstand—because it’s only going to get harder. Yet that hardness is a testament to our strength. It offers a firm foundation to stand strong and imagine a better world.
On our way out of the park, my friend and I spot a small, vibrant flower amid the earthen palette. Its home looks tough and moist and alive. It looks out of place, yet it’s right where it belongs. “I’m so glad you notice these things,” she says after a moment. And I smile because I can’t imagine not acknowledging these small bursts of life.
Neither of us touches the flower, though it touches something inside us, and I suppose that is one thing that keeps me going.
In honor of six months of Slowing (more below), I spent the first week of the season taking a page from the book…
Imagine that time or seasons don’t exist in the context that we know today. How would you define a beginning, middle, and ending?
A beginning would be a feeling. A middle would be a question. An ending would be a color palette—hues and tones that make sense for the circumstances someone has endured and can only be understood or seen by them.
Imagine that you can understand nature. What would you say or do?
I would listen to nature—really listen—even while fighting the urge to ask every question imaginable. What does it feel like to be you? Is there a hierarchy between trees and flowers? How does feeling manifest in your body—stem, trunk, leaf? I know nature would have a lot to say, and it would be an honor to understand its language just as much as to speak it.
Imagine that your idol is your next-door neighbor. How would you approach them?
Coming of age in the digital landscape shaped my perception of “idols” through early adulthood (especially where social media, reality television, and general accessibility to people’s lives reign supreme). With time and experience, I’ve started understanding the difference between fascination and respect. Now, I’m not so sure I have idols, rather people I admire whose work resonates with me. So, if any of them lived next door, I would smile and maybe tell them that—but more often than not, I’d leave them be.
Imagine that more life—driving, walking, sitting—takes place in the sky. What would you look for down below first?
I would keep looking up, up, up. What’s beyond? How high can I go? Or, as I write in the essay accompanying this prompt: What would we find if we dreamed toward the sky? But if we’re talking about slowing, then I would also look at where I am and enjoy the moment for as long as it lasts.
Imagine that creativity is a concrete cure. What would you want your art to heal first?
Something inside of us. The word that immediately comes to mind is pain. The kind of pain that seems to be permeating every corner of the world and our sense of humanity.
Imagine that the first day of spring grants you an opportunity to live out your dreams for twenty-four hours. How would you spend the day?
Writing Slowing continued to help me reimagine how dreams take up space in all aspects of our lives. Professionally, I would get a call that my debut novel is being published, then go out for coffee to celebrate, followed by a long reflective walk in Prospect Park.
A personal dream day wouldn’t look much different: Maybe I’d be in a new city I’ve always wanted to travel to. Locale aside, I would put myself in the company of creativity and narrative. Reading, writing, wearing, sharing—it all ladders back to what we love. To who we are. To the stories of our lives.
I invite you to share your responses to these prompts in the comments section. 👋 You can also order a copy of Slowing here.
Six Months of Slowing…
I knew it would go fast. The “moment”—her moment. Here and then gone. But if we’re talking about reimagining time and pace, then a moment can take on a life of its own. And every moment of Slowing has meant more than I can say.
March marks six months of this quiet little book in the world. She’s made her way around the globe, from Brazil to Belgium. I just wanted to thank you for it all: reading, sharing, and capturing her in your homes and hearts. I hope Slowing continues to reach you long after the last page.
If you enjoyed your time with Slowing, the best thing you can do is leave a review—whether on Goodreads, your social media channels, or the retailer of your choice—to ensure the book keeps reaching new readers! You can also order a copy here. 🐌🌱🌞💙
For Your Next Chapter
If you enjoyed this Slowing diary, check out the previous installments…
Beautiful sentiments about this time of year. I was walking in the botanic gardens recently and noticed how slow it felt before the rush of spring was in full force. It was lovely.
Love seeing your (incredible) work finding homes around the world. Congrats to you, friend!