As a child, hours were spent outdoors inventing games with each new discovery of simple objects. The large sticks my dad kept to stabilize his tomato plants were procured in order to have sword fights with friends.

Snowbanks were invitations to build bases, burrowing into their formidable mass by hand clawing tunnels. After an acceptable hole had been carved, an amassing of snowballs occurred to prepare for battle. There didn’t even have to be another person to engage with the fight as an entire afternoon was lost to preparation.

Blankets and pillows were thrown on the floor as games resembling Calvinball were invented with a constant shifting of the rules. When one particular rule did not suit the situation, it was immediately cast aside for another. By the end, nobody really knew what the rules were anymore, but nobody was keeping track either.

A piece of paper and a pencil were a canvas to write stories that didn’t have to make sense. Characters could be talking animals, super athletes, or young children who possessed special powers to do anything. There was no such thing as writer’s block.

Without the worry of life, getting lost in someone else’s through the endless books at the library was easy to do. All it took was opening up one and I was living in a new world until I closed its pages.

I didn’t have to analyze its themes, connect it to personal experience or write a book report about its characters. I could simply enjoy it.

A bike ride could last the entire day, visiting endless destinations. There was no endpoint in mind, just the pleasure of keeping my feet pedaling while gathering friends along the way. The streetlights coming on meant it was time to head home for dinner.

A playground was a challenge arena with each subsequent dare more ridiculous than the last. It would get to the point of becoming a game of who could create the most outrageous stunt for someone to do, without anyone ever having the gall to attempt it.

Everything I encountered was an opportunity to play.

Then the imagination left in lieu of security. I watch other children play on the playground and become jealous of the season of life they are in. I want to tell them to ignore adults who tell them to grow up and pack as much fun as possible in their days.

I want to tell my students the classroom isn’t a place where creativity should go to die, but flourish. I want to tell them this, but then I have to give them a grade based on some expectation from a group of people they’ve never met. Society tells them this number is valued more than their imagination and my plea to them will go on deaf ears.

I used to have an imagination… but then I lost it and I’m not even sure when it happened.

All I know is I want it back.