The Power of Imagination
The Crone is a symbol of inherent wisdom. Although the Crone is the harbinger death, she is also responsible for birth and new life. She is our archetypal midwife.
JULY 2017 . HALIFAX . REALIZING A DREAM
Dear Journal,
I am over the moon with excitement this evening. In September, I am attending a week-long writing retreat at Chateau Marcoux, in France. It will be led by Alison Wearing, a Canadian writer/performer that I had the pleasure of meeting many years ago when she performed her solo play, ‘Giving into Light’, in Halifax. When I met her, I had a knowing that I would attend one of her retreats. Well, it is happening. The bonus is, it will be a small group of women attending the retreat and there will be time for one-on-one guidance from Alison. There will also be opportunities to explore nearby villages and enjoy the French cuisine. I am so excited!
However, under the excitement lies a fear. I need to submit a piece of writing to Alison, a best-selling author, of a personal life altering experience.
Deep breath Katharina and another and another. You have faced big fears before and you will do it again. You know you are to be at this retreat. Look at how the opportunity presented itself. You know this energy. You know you are supported. You can do this.
Love
Katharina
AUGUST 2017 . HALIFAX . WRITTEN AND SUBMITTED
Dear Journal,
I did it! I wrote from my heart. It was actually cathartic to write about the most shame evoking experience of my life and to see little Karen through a lens of compassion and unconditional love.
I asked K to read it before I submitted it. I needed feel the safety in sharing with someone I trust before I submitted it to Alison. Now the next hurdle is that I need to read it aloud to the group on our first day. Fear is rising again. I am remembering being made fun of by my classmates for not reading well aloud. I remember the shame I felt. That memory is always there in the back of my mind when I need to perform such a task. I will embrace this as an opportunity to gain confidence as I read my own words aloud.
Love
Katharina
SEPTEMBER 2017 . CHATEAU MARCOUX, FRANCE . EMPOWERMENT
Dear Journal,
Day One.
I woke up this morning thinking that perhaps I was dreaming but no, I am here in this incredibly beautiful chateau. The front door was locked and I didn’t know where the key was kept and I was not going to miss the sunrise, so I quietly climbed out a window. I have to admit there was something freeing and empowering about climbing out the window. I stood in awe, still not quite believing where I was as I drank in the beauty of the magnificent sunrise and breathed the crisp morning mountain air. On my way back to the chateau I was attracted to a small stone church. It had a scallop shell as part of the handle on the door. Was this chateau on the French Camino? At breakfast, I learned that the chateau indeed has a Camino connection and I am excited to learn more about that. The owner of the chateau even has a key to the small stone church and there is a cave on the property where early pilgrims are believed to have slept.
Oh my…this is really happening…a week, a whole week in this glorious place.
This morning I volunteered to read my piece of writing first. I was ready to face my fear. I read from my heart with ease. The feedback nourished my soul. It was an empowering way to start this retreat. I look forward to getting to know these lovely women. Here I am, writing while surrounded by all this beauty with no responsibility to anyone but me and my writing. I am supported to be my best and I know I am going to leave here having more confidence in my ability to communicate through the written word.
Love
Katharina
The piece of writing I shared at the retreat in France.
No Teasing Allowed On My Playground
It was a lovely sunny day in early May. The lake in front of the farmhouse was ice-free, the buds on the trees were swelling more each day, the slough was abundant with frogs’ eggs, most of the birds had returned from their southern winter experience and large flocks of geese honked overhead as they winged their way north. I closed my eyes and felt the encouragement that was expressed in those honks. I thought about how far the geese had come and how far they had yet to go. My father had shown me on a map where they spent the summers in the far northern reaches of the vast Canadian landscape. I admired their strength and courage to press on. As my attention drifted earthward, I was captivated by the new growth on the forest floor. Seedlings were awakening and pushing forth from the dark earth reaching for the light. I admired the strength and the tenacity of those seedlings to push through not only the soil, but the layers of dead decaying leaves that lay on the forest floor. The energy of the birth of new life abounded, and in celebration, I skipped along the country lane to the school bus stop. My heart was filled with joy. I loved spring. There was so much freedom as the heavy winter jackets and boots that were so confining had been traded for much lighter clothing. Everywhere I looked, I was mesmerized by the beauty. The birds were singing their heartfelt songs and I joined in and laughed as the frogs participated in the chorus. Lack of perfect harmony didn’t seem to matter as we celebrated that glorious morning.
I usually didn’t like going to school. My family was considered poor. The children at school made fun of what I wore and the food in my lunch pail. My mother sewed all my clothes. She made them out of clothing what was donated to poor folk like us. My mother was an artist in her own right. There wasn’t money for patterns so she looked at pictures of the dresses in the Sears and Eatons’ mail order catalogues and designed her own patterns. She then did her best to coordinate the fabrics from the used clothing she had, to work with and create ‘new’ dresses. I had play dresses that were a variety of mismatched colours and patterns, school dresses that were less creative and then church dresses that were the prettiest. My family was very religious so the bible story of Joseph and his coat of many colours resonated deeply with me. I used to imagine that my mother stitched my dresses with love and my dresses were my protection.
For Easter Sunday that year my mother had sewn me a matching top and skirt. There must have been extra money as it was the first time of my nine years of life that I could choose fabric from the catalogue. There was so much choice. I didn’t know how to make a decision. What if I made the wrong choice? After much angst, I chose fabric with sunshine yellow as the background and a very small floral pattern in the foreground. When it was finished and I put it on, I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world.
My mother was very strict about me wearing my dresses for the appropriate occasions that they were made for. I remember feeling like a timid little mouse as I asked to wear my new pretty dress to school, fully expecting to be yelled at for not remembering the rules. For some unknown reason, I was granted permission. I didn’t stop to question as my imagination was going wild. This was going to be the best day of my life. The children would see my beauty and the girls would gather around me admiring my beautiful dress. My life was going to change and I proudly stepped on the bus. The bus ride seemed endless that morning.
My teacher complimented me on my dress. She also commented on how nice my hair looked. My mother had taken extra time with my braids that morning and had tied yellow ribbons on the ends. I admired myself in the mirror in the school bathroom. I couldn’t help but notice that there was a huge smile reflecting back at me. I had a hard time focusing my attention on my morning lessons. I was impatiently waiting for recess. I was so sure my dress would be noticed by the children. The long-awaited recess bell rang and I ran outdoors and straight to the swings. I loved to swing and had perfected going as high as possible. That morning was no different. I felt like a beautiful yellow bird soaring above the children waiting their turn on the swing. I decided to make my exit with a jump that would allow my skirt, which was tightly gathered at the waist, to flow in its fullness around me as I drifted slowly toward the ground. In my mind, it would be the most stunning exit from the swing and entrance into my new life. I had perfect timing. As the swing was about to reach its highest point, I let go of the chains and at the perfect moment, I jumped. I felt a tug, and then the sound of ripping fabric was like thunder in my ears. I landed gracefully on my feet in my underwear. The only part of the skirt that remained was the waistband. I looked back at the swing. Instead of flowing around my body, my skirt was flowing around the seat of the swing as it swung wildly to and fro. I wanted to be swallowed up by the earth just as she swallowed the seeds as they fell from the trees. The children formed a circle around me. They were pointing their fingers as they doubled over in laughter. The tears were flowing down my cheeks. This was not at all what I had imagined. I felt so vulnerable and humiliated. The shame that washed over me was almost unbearable. It seemed like an eternity and then a boy who I had adored since the first day of grade one, stepped forward. His eyes were filled with compassion. He wasn’t laughing or joining in the taunting. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around me. He ran to the swing to loosen the remnants of my skirt from its grasp. The teacher that was on playground duty came running with a coat. She wrapped it around me and led me into the school. She was very kind and held me close as I sobbed into her chest. How would I ever be able to find the courage to walk back into the class? A member of my extended family was called and she brought me an outfit of her daughter’s. Through my eyes, they were a wealthy family and it was most likely the only time such expensive clothes adorned my childhood body, but on that day, it meant nothing to me.
I knew that I would face my mother’s wrath when I returned home and that I knew I could handle, but thinking about walking into the classroom was causing me great anxiety. The teacher must have spoken to the children as they were all busy with their work when she came to get me. She walked into the class with her arm around my shoulders and she was very quiet. Some of the children snickered but as the yardstick hit the teacher’s wooden desk there was silence. I sat at my desk unable to focus on my work. I did not want the lunch bell to ring.
My mother was not a compassionate woman and that day she was no different. I listened to how foolish I was to jump from the swing—that was not how good girls behaved. The humiliation and shame that I experienced was well-deserved according to my mother. Her gratitude was for the fact that my underwear had been clean as that was what was of utmost importance to her. Clean underwear certainly had not been at the forefront of my mind.
It was weeks before the children let the skirt incident go and found something else about me to make fun of. The story of my skirt had spread through the entire community. Even some heartless adults joined in ‘the fun’ as they termed it. As all stories, it had become very exaggerated and held little truth. There certainly wasn’t any compassion for the little girl that had been wearing that skirt.
The moment that the sound of my skirt tearing thundered in my ears, my life forever changed. My mother used her sewing skill to repair the skirt but it hung on the hanger unworn. The memories were too painful to bear. I had begged my mother for pants but the wearing of pants in public was not allowed until I was much older. Instead of pants, my mother made me wear my play clothes to school until I learned to take better care of my clothing. That led to me experiencing more teasing at school. I never jumped from a swing again at school. In fact, I didn’t swing at all; I didn’t participate in any of the school yard games. I no longer felt safe in my dresses. They were not the cocoon of love and protection I had imagined them to be.
At recess and lunch times, I chose to sit on the school steps with my skirt tightly tucked around my legs with my nose buried in a book pretending not to hear the laughter of the children playing. Reading fed my imagination and my imagination became the playground where I was safe and free to laugh and play. Best of all, I was the master of that playground and there, there was no teasing allowed. It was a joyful playground where the children were kind and compassionate.
Katharina Reed (August 2017)
JULY 2022 . HALIFAX . THE POWER OF IMAGINATION
Dear Journal,
It feels like another lifetime when I shared that piece of writing at the retreat in France. Today I read this piece of writing from a different level of consciousness. Compassion, unconditional love and gratitude flood my body. The wound of shame that was fed by that childhood experience is now a faint scar. My child-self who just wanted to be accepted and loved is loved by me. I love her with abandon and now as I see her standing there, encircled by the children laughing at her, I see her radiant beauty, her true-self, her radiant Soul. This experience showed me the darkness of humanity. It showed me who I didn’t want to be. The young boy that wrapped his shirt around me, with his compassion and kindness, showed me the power of the Soul. He showed me who I wanted to be. That experience also deepened my relationship with my imagination. At that time, my imagination was my safe place where I could hide from the pain of shame and create my own safe world to be in. My imagination was my lifeline. Now, I no longer need my imagination for protection from pain. As a sovereign being, the darkness of humanity no longer has power over me as I once believed. My imagination now serves me to be open to possibility and to thrive in life versus survive. It supports me to live my Soul values and shine my light into the world in ways that are beyond what my human mind thinks possible. I am deeply grateful for the gift of imagination, its power, and how it has served my journey. As Albert Einstein said, “Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you anywhere.”
Love
Katharina
Alison and I silhouetted against the evening sky Chateau Marcoux
SELF-AWARENESS QUESTIONS
Everyone has been gifted an imagination. If you feel you don’t have an imagination, that is a story.
I meet people who assure me they don’t have any imagination and then in the next sentence they are imagining the worst-case scenario that is going to unfold for them. That is imagination but it is not being used in a way to support creating a life they desire.
1) How are you consciously or unconsciously using the power of your imagination?
2) Is your imagination serving you to create the life you desire for yourself? If not, what is the first step you are going to take to change your relationship with your imagination?