Monday, May 11, 2009
Growing up, I told stories using Barbie dolls. They were like Barbie soap operas, told by nightlight as my sister slept (or listened) from across the room. The dolls weren't dressed-up or primped, some had hair cut down to their scalps. Before I could write, they were means to an end, a way to tell a story without paper or pen.
Recently, I've seen this happening with my daughter. Long after the door has been closed on nap-time, I can hear her, turning pages in storybooks and using the pictures to inspire her own tales. She knows the stories by heart, but instead of reciting what she remembers, I hear her dreaming up her own new adventures on every page - culminating with a loud and definite, The End.
And instead of going in and telling her to lay down, to close her eyes and get the rest that her growing body needs, I leave her be, let her imagination grow and even envy a little, how far it will take her.