Why Imagine Anything?
Essay
Adrift and Legend-less
Fight me, but I believe that one of the sadder things that you could say of someone is that they have lost their history. Almost as bad would be to say that they have lost their legends. Without our histories and legends, we find ourselves cast adrift in a sea of influences that tug at us as we wallow helplessly in cultural currents, unable to steer or shape our own direction.
For, you see, our stories shape us. Moreover, they ground us and define who we are.
Making Myself At Home
J. R. R. Tolkien, living in England in the early 1900’s, saw a poverty of myths for his own culture. Inspired by the works of others, and lacking anyone to tell him not to, he wrote his own stories. In part, they would be a home for his ideas and languages. In part, they would become a mythology for the English, laced with his much-admired qualities of “northerness”.
When I was a young boy, I stumbled into Tolkien’s world of Middle Earth. Quickly, it became my playground, even as his stories, characters, and themes fired my imagination and my longing to join him in sub-creation, as I dreamed of bringing my own worlds to life.
I longed to fly once again to worlds never before seen, except by the eye of my imagination.
Unguarded Gardens
Years later, as a young parent, I saw my girls growing up in a world crammed with stories. Storybook princesses and pop stars competed for their attention with eye-catching glitter, magic, and – of course – the pretty dresses. These stories blew on the winds and dropped their seeds into the fertile soil of young minds everywhere.
But I knew that many of these ideas were invasive species. If left unguarded, my daughter’s minds could easily become untended gardens and jungles, filled with dreams that would seek to leech the life from their young souls. Rather than provide them with food for their thought-lives, these stories threatened to poison them and turn their attention inward instead of upward. If I did nothing, they would be caught for certain in our collective cultural drift, circling that drain that threatens to spiral ever-inward.
Yet how to resist these oh-so-immersive and ever-present currents?
Roots and Anchors
This was what I asked myself. You see, I wanted better for them. Rather than cast them adrift to fend for themselves, I wanted to give them roots that would anchor them. I wanted them to be planted deeply in the stories and legends and tales of our family, our culture, and our faith. I wanted these roots to be strong, tough, and deep, so that when their surrounding world tried to redefine them, they could withstand, and say with confidence, “No. I already know who I am.”
This desire – which I believe is a good and natural desire – flowed from my own experience with the protective power of a strong foundation of identity-shaping stories. My family – the Somervilles – grew up hearing (and maybe even believing) the stories of our ancestor who slew a Scottish dragon. Yes. I’m not kidding. Look it up. The Linton Worm. It’s a great story.
Besides that, I grew up knowing and loving the stories of the Bible, which shaped my understanding of myself and the people that I see around me. We are God’s immortal image bearers who have fallen under a curse of our own making. I grew up learning and loving the stories of our country’s history, recognizing both the successes and failures as important to my understanding of who I was and what my responsibilities are as a citizen, entrusted with the grand experiment of self-government. I could go on.
But the most important story that I learned was the one about the baby who was born in a manger and who would grow up to become the king who died to save his people from our curse. I learned that because he lives again, so will I. As the end of the story says, “Grave, where is your victory? Death, where is your sting? Death has been swallowed up in victory!”
Giving the Giver’s Gifts
So I – even though I too am cursed by my own failings – wanted to give these good gifts to my children. In this, I am acting as my father acted, and his, and so on. I am acting as my Heavenly Father acts. Knowing this, and wanting good things for my girls, I told them the stories. I sang them the old songs.
But we didn’t stop there. We made up new ones. All of this was done from love, not fear. At the same time, we enjoyed the world in which we lived, with its showy princesses and the pop-star magic and – of course – the pretty dresses. Yet we pointed out the stage-craft, and we also spent time learning and retelling our own stories.
Over time, my daughters have grown roots. They’ve learned to love the old things. They’ve discovered that they too have a place in the old stories and, even more wonderfully, they’ve come to know the King. In the future, when they are transplanted to whatever field they are to bloom in, I feel sure that they are ready to flourish in that new soil, having been strengthened by the old fertilizer that my wife and I were able to give them.
Wings and Sails
But that’s not enough. More than roots, I wanted to give them wings. I wanted their ships to have sails.
I wanted to fill their hands with first-class tickets aboard magical ships that sail the straight path to undying lands. I wanted to give them the keys to mysterious wardrobes that open doors into winter woods in the middle of summer. I wanted to set their feet upon rabbit-trails that lead deep into the Mended Wood. I wanted to teach them to fly.
The imagination was made to soar, and I wanted theirs to soar to worlds that I have never known, myself. Longing for this, I did what any parent might do. I shared what I had been given. And I kept looking for more that I could share. As they stretched their young wings, I enjoyed flying along with them, and I made indulging our imaginations something that we did together.
My elbows are still sore from hours lying propped up on the floor in the playroom building Lego worlds and acting as the groom in innumerable play-weddings. But, even now, I remember the delight I felt when they started making their own stories, art, and – of course – pretty dresses.
Looking to the Far Horizon
Our journey isn’t over yet, and I doubt that it ever will be. You see, in the great story, his story, the King that I follow has promised that no eye can see, no ear can hear, and no mind can imagine what he has prepared for those who love him.
But nothing says I can’t try to guess! Whatever I come up with, true reality will be better still.
So, let’s fly to worlds unknown, all the while rooted in the old, old story that has promised that our curse has been broken and that one day, it will trouble us no more.
Michael Somerville is the author of several short stories, as well as an in-progress high-fantasy series called the Tales of the Broken Realm. He loves telling stories of hope about ordinary characters doing their small part to help heal a broken world. By day, he pays the bills as a hands-on storyteller and project manager, leading and envisioning professional teams in the "real-world", even as he is busily building and illustrating imaginary worlds in his evenings and on the weekends.
Outside of work and writing, he enjoys a wide range of hobbies, including playing music with his family and friends on keyboard or guitar, drawing, sculpting, painting, sewing, and blacksmithing, or walking the length of the Appalachian Trail in his home neighborhood in the Shenandoah Valley, where he serves as a Board member on his local civic association.
Most important to Michael are his family and his church. Michael and Jessica celebrate their 20th anniversary in 2026 and are happily raising three wonderful daughters. He serves actively in his local church, playing music on Sunday, teaching the older elementary kids, and leading a small group of wonderful saints. He hopes to hear "Well done" one day, and plans to keep serving his true King until then.
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