The Source Is Somewhere Else
Where does the imagination come from? I don’t know. I bet you don’t either (and if you say you do, I won’t disabuse you of that notion, but I will kindly choose not to believe you).
I bet, too, that you’ve had the same kind of dream I had last night. Mine was very vivid: it was a classroom, of sorts, but one whole wall was open to the world, and the world was an Ansel-Adams-y landscape. Breathtaking. There was a bracing chill to it. Sculpted, hulking clouds navigated their way across the gray-ish sky. And all of us — I didn’t know who all of us were exactly — were looking out at it. The teacher was a woman, salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes; contemplative, reverent. She, too, stared out.
Then she said something and I didn’t hear her. Or I almost heard her and what I almost heard — it’s lost now to the ether of dreams — was profound. I needed her to repeat it, so I asked her to, and she did. But I still couldn’t make it out. This seer-woman was saying something important in my dream and I couldn’t access it.
Something beyond my mind — some other kind of intelligence that is and is definitely not me — knows something important. And it says it sotto voce. In my general vicinity. Just loud enough for me to know I don’t know what she’s saying.
It’s for her to know and me to find out.