My childhood days were spent immersed in an imaginary world, much like I suppose most of yours were spent as a child. I could never think enough on Little House on the Prairie. Nothing was better than exploring the creek, donning a handmade dress and bonnet, being “Laura,” and cooking with rice and flour (and water) in a play iron kettle, all with a best friend who loved it as much as I did.
My parents, God bless them, and my sweet grandmother encouraged the imagination (and trips to old-fashioned stores and towns) which grew…and grew…and grew…within my soul. And I mean soul. My love for the frontier has never died and has never grown old.
IT NEVER WILL.
These ever-burgeoning memories in my heart propel me to write. Now that we’ve had Dances with Wolves, Open Range, and Last of the Mohicans, my ideas for stories have ignited. The hope to write a book blossomed. The idea became concrete a couple years ago, although in unpublished, unqueried form. The craft is more refined every day.
But has a very, very long way to go.
The PASSION for the frontier pleases my soul. It didn’t stop at aged seven or eight, or even twelve. It delights my writer’s heart now. I see how, even eighteen years ago, when history met nature met a young teen girl on hikes with her father…met a simple, green journal. Armed with this sketchbook, I traveled Beaver Creek State Park with my father and captured the nuances of NATURE and the beauty of God’s creation. Why?
It is what I love.
These treasures, after all these years…
Pressed, molded into my mind for another day. Captured. Threads creating a tapestry of ideas.
Portraits and places to go, even if only visited in a book.
Eighteen years ago, these things were the way I saw God’s handiwork, in the world around me and in my own life. They were my hopes and dreams, a defining of Amy.
A standard of thought. A stretch of the imagination. A bonding with my like-minded father.
An exploration of light and shadow, pencil and color, prose and prayer…
I miss doing this, but perhaps I’ve accomplished these things in another way as I teach my children, pray with not a soul in sight, or walk my children to church.
What are the untold stories of these lands?
Eighteen years later, I still don’t know them all but I am still inspired to pen a few ideas of my own.
These pages, recorded in my teen years, were a simple girl’s dreams but they’ve become a dreaming mother’s treasures.
Tell me, do you still hold on to dreams of a time gone by? Are you fulfilling them? Have you been given new hopes? I’d love to hear about them!