imagination

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly is based on the memoir of Jean-Dominque Bauby, editor-in-chief of Elle magazine. After suffering a massive stroke, Jean-Dominique lived with locked-in syndrome, meaning that though his mind was active and healthy, his body, except for his eyes and minor head movement, was paralyzed.

A speech therapist devised a system so that Jean-Dominique could communicate by blinking his left eye (his right eye had to be sewn closed because of problems--I can't stand watching anything related to surgery, needles, or sharp objects and eyes). She repeated each letter of the alphabet (arranged according to popularity rather than in alphabetical order), and he blinked at the correct letter to spell words.

After Jean-Dominique learned the system, he contacted the publisher that had recently signed a contract with him. He wanted to write his memoir.

This movie is some Swiss Family Robinson story. It doesn't gloss over the ugliness of the disease, making it some beautiful conduit without which Jean-Dominique would have never discovered himself. It is wonderfully acted, directed and filmed, often in a documentary style. When Jean-Dominique first wakes in the hospital after coming out of a coma (and for quite a bit after that), you see everything from his hazy perspective. My husband and I cringed at the blurry, vacillating objects. It's hard to watch, in other words, attempting to give you a taste of Jean-Dominique's adjustment.

Jean-Dominique is not suddenly some saint because of his stroke and syndrome. He feels sorry for himself; he doesn't always treat people well. In fact, at times, he can be an ass (at least in the movie--who knows what's fictionalized and what's true to form).

But here's what amazed me: even at this point, when his body betrays him, when he cannot function as he once did, he responds with creativity and culture. He chooses to use his imagination. This is how integral creating is to humanity. I found myself wondering if he, in fact, acted more fully human than I do watching TV on the couch every night (or in the office crammed together with my husband on the one overstuffed chair, since we no longer have cable and watch TV shows on the Internet). This shamed me. How can I complain about the difficulties of writing? He awoke early in the morning, considered what he wanted to write, memorized it, then dictated it by eye-blinks later that morning for four hours each day. No surprisingly, his book became a bookseller.

But he didn't have much time to enjoy that. He died ten days after it released.

Writing the book wasn't about acknowledgement. It was about creating itself and about communicating.

She arranged the six squares of construction paper--red, blue, and yellow on the top row, green, purple, and orange on the bottom. In a Modrian-esque way, she then selected smaller squares of tissue paper in colors that mimicked the construction paper blocks.

The other four-year-olds left the table, one by one, as if retreating from the ark. They found legos and kitchen sets and toy cars.

She undid some of her work in order to glue it down, every decision made after contemplation.

After that came the streamers--not dumped or thrown, not amassed like a shimmering mountain as the other children had applied their goodies. Her silvery streamers, each with hints of different colors, she smoothed, twisted, and swirled just so.

"Do you want glitter?" I asked. (Actually, Kim, the teacher I assisted in the Sunday school class may have asked her this.)

She considered her piece. "No, thank you." Then she signed her name.

A masterpiece.

It's a tricky thing convincing two boys you are a blue alien. Five- and six-year-olds ask a lot of questions.

Hiking through Palo Duro Canyon, I discovered blue marks on my hands and arms. Of course, I told the boys, "Look! My fake human skin is coming off. You can see my blue alien skin."

"You're not an alien," they insisted. After all, they've known me for most of their lives.

"How do you know?"

I'm up at the Tapestry blog today talking about how our imagination can spur us on toward missions, to sharing Christ's love with the world.

The other day, while having dinner with friends, the group talked business stuff. My gaze wandered to these small screen doors (bigger than dollhouse doors, but miniature all the same) leaning against the kitchen window.

What world lies beyond those doors?

There must be fairies and tree nymphs and water nymphs and flowers bigger than me and unicorns (there are always unicorns).

I was walking toward the bathroom. As I approached the front entryway, I heard a VROOOM! VROOOM! I peeked around the corner and outside the door. There, right in front of my door was the shadowy figure of a man!

My heart palpitated then hid in my throat.

He's got a chainsaw! He's going to chainsaw through my front door and kill me!* And with my new old cell phone** I can't get coverage in my house most of the time. I have no way to call 911! I'm going to die!

Christie at Whistling in the Dark is talking about her favorite character: Jo March. Jo March is my favorite second favorite character, second to, of course, Anne of Green Gables. Christie talks about stealing some of their magic, and I agree. We want part of their magic. That's why we dream, why we read, why we act, why we watch movies or plays or musicals.

Inspired by Debbie at Goodthoughts, who shares a little bit of her creative process, I started a discussion on Intersection about the creative process, especially the beginnings.

Why not share with each other how we get started, what brings brush to canvas, words to page, fingers to piano?

As I sit to write this, I don't know where it will go. I don't know how the threads of the story will weave. I admit, it'll be rough. But stick with me as we figure out from whence came this imaginative, female theologian who loves the arts and how she came to accept that.