Emily Hoffman

    I woke up early on Tuesday morning to what I was convinced was the sound of someone shoveling a sidewalk.
     "It snowed," I said to myself, digging deeper under the covers. I had no doubt it snowed. I'd talked to two people the night before that had received a few inches, and were expecting more. It didn't matter that one person lived in another state. Snow is snow.
     When I finally pulled myself from my bed, warmed by two comforters, I peeked out the window into the pre-dawn light, and sure enough, saw a dusting of snow on the ground sparkling by the light of the street lamps. I started to ponder if it was worth the fight to make the kids wear boots to school. Maybe it was light enough that I could just have them put on their old tennis shoes.
     I hoped the amount was insignificant enough so that I could sweep, not shovel.
     After the first cup of coffee sped though my veins, I turned to watch the sunrise from my living room windows. It was at that moment I realized that there was no snow on the ground.
     How could that be? I saw snow. I heard shoveling. I know I did. After enduring some teasing from my children, whom I had already instructed to wear old tennis shoes, I reprimanded my imagination and got ready for work.
     My imagination is one of my biggest blessings, and one of the ongoing trials in my life.
     I'm not certain I would have made it through grade school, even junior high and high school without a window and my imagination.
     During those times when life has gotten too great for me to bear I turned to prayers, and my imagination. When I would crawl into bed at the end of a painful day, I could turn my thoughts to Paris, to swimming in the Olympics, to singing on Broadway, or better yet, into a science fiction world of my own creation.
     When I started writing for children over 10 years ago, my imagination became invaluable. All of those what ifs and how comes were finally put to good use and didn't exasperate anyone. I could ask myself questions to my heart's content. It even made me some money.
     I still use my imagination. During times of extreme boredom, long car trips, and during lectures I don't want to hear, when I tell stories, write stories, or play with the cat, it's essential. I wouldn't trade my imagination for a truckload of gold; it's intertwined in my soul.
     I have found my imagination, which is usually a comfort to me, a trial as well. One summer when I was the only adult in the house, I had a love affair with aliens. I checked out books and books, spent hours on Web sites, and put the imagination into high gear. I began seeing odd lights in the sky, strange marks on people, and found stretches of my childhood memories to be missing. I caught a couple of old episodes of "X Files" and could relate. I felt connections with auras in the sky. When strange events happened around the world, I attributed it to aliens. I scared myself into insomnia with my thoughts.
     I saw things that weren't there. Just like snow on dry gravel.
     The aliens were harmless in the scheme of things. What I do with my imagination that's unwise is to paint future scenarios with such detail that I end up planning my own funeral I'm so certain of imminent demise. I imagine huge tragedy. I lay out unreachable success. I set myself up for disappointment. Sometimes I ruin something perfectly wonderful by worrying over something that will, most likely, never happen. I'm aware I'm not the only one in the world who does this. There are others of you out there, just like me.
     Since I realized how powerful my imagination can be, I've worked at reining it in, taming it like a lion in a circus. Most of the time it behaves, and I can train it to sit on its hind legs and jump through a hoop. Sometimes, though, it gets hungry and growls. It breaks loose and terrifies the crowd. I find at those times it leaves one or two of the spectators bloody, and me, its tamer, in shreds.
     I expect when I'm 80 I'll have that old beast in a cage, locked secure, sedated and content. Until then, I'll do my best to keep it in check, and come around with the first aid kit when I can't.
    
    Emily Hoffman is a staff writer at the Breeze. She can be reached at emily@emilyallenhoffman.com