purple1 AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif


Allow an image of your soul

To echo through the chambers

Of your heart.

Let it take form

So your budding spirit can

Take root and unfurl

Your self

Into full bloom.




For The Daily Post

It is Time!

Time is Now


It is time to be a listener.

It is time to look

And see.

It is time to know the difference

Between opinion

Fact or


Yet it’s also time to tell some stories.

Time to let the mind roam free.

Time to open hearts

To conversation

To let imagination


And it is past all time

To hold compassion.

It is time for patience, too.

Time for kindness

For remembering

The essentiality

Of holding


As well as




For The Daily Post



“My Eyes Forgot!”



The room looked as if a tornado had gone through it: Toys of every size and color dotted the floor, a scatter of crayons peaked from under the bookcase, bits of paper snow-flaked the rug, a shirt’s sleeve and a lonely sock used an open drawer for recliner.

“Rachel!” the mother’s arms climbed to her waist in indignation. She’d cleaned this room that very morning.

The little girl lifted her face from the doll in her hands. Her visage was the epitome of innocence.

“Look at this room!” her mom exasperated.

The girl rotated her head obediently but without conviction.

“The mess!” the mom repeated when the child said nothing.

“Oh,” the child shrugged. One ponytail holder bobbed deeper than the other–it was hanging by a hair. “My eyes forgot to see it.”



For The Daily Post

Pictures on Pavement

Shirley Baker children draw on pavement France 1960

Shirley Baker children draw on pavement France 1960


Find time for drawing


On the pavement of your mind.


The dry feel of chalk on fingers

The odd satisfaction in


Merging in the rain.

Put aside the rush of feet

The soles of to-do lists

The pressures of perfection.

Pavement pictures do not require


Other than imagination and

A bit of emptiness,

A soft rock,

A hand.

Make room for pavement pictures

On the pace-space

Of your mind.

Let the squiggles free

So the sketch

You never knew was there

Could stretch

A doodle

To the sun.

Survival Imagination

“For children who depend on mentally escaping into their minds to survive, imagination can become both refuge and desert island.”

(Na’ama Yehuda, Communicating Trauma, p. 148)



door to sea

Open a door to imagination.

Re-visit forgotten times of untethered awe still left of childhood. Do not worry–your spirit does and always knew exactly how. Just go.

Open a door to imagination.

Let what isn’t, could not, would not be–become. In your mind’s eye, make reality.

Open a door to imagination. Fret not. You can’t get lost. You are already home.

Think of wonder. Fathom fairies. Fly aboard an eagle. Cradle soft onto the foaming sea. There are no rules to conjuring. No timeline. No bonds of gravity, age, physics. Relativity folds time onto itself. Explore.

Open wide the door.

For a moment or an hour. For a blink or afternoon, reshape yourself along the creases you never saw were possible new vistas. Find magic in the corners of your heart. It is there. It never left.

Open a door to imagination.

Breathe in light. Discover open spaces beyond air, beyond even what you believed could be imagined. Understand. Expand.

There are worlds out there. Awaiting your inspiration.

And more doors await. Beyond. Right here. Keen to open. You.

To imagination.

What box?!

Think outside the box!

Life’s too short to be too serious.

Be playful. Find a point of laughter. Create smiles.

Even the most functional place can tolerate some spunk, a bit of daring, a little imaginary pun.

Forget the ‘way it has to be done’–there are all manners of possibilities to explore, to reach the goal, to make it work–the journey’s just began!

Have fun!

outside box1




outside box3

Be a lady in a shoe!


outside box5

Potted house! (Korea)


outside box2



outside box4

Toasty fun!




When I Grow Up


“When I grow up, I will be a bird.”

The little girl is adamant. She has made up her mind. It is final. This is what she’ll be. She’s even wearing training-wings.

It lasts about a day.

“I’ll be a batgirl fire-fightress (sic),” she announces.

“Not a bird?”

A look that shows just how impossibly slow adults can get is followed by: “No, I won’t be a bird anymore. I will be a fire-fightress.”

She is deeply disappointed with me that I did not notice the colors of her clothing all in red and yellow or the swirly bracelet around her wrist that’s meant to be the hose. She’s completely done with birds and fully involved in counting fire-hydrants, yellow helmets at the dinner-table, and nighttime fire-drills.

The next time she comes she is in a tutu. I feel confident for all of five seconds that I know what she is now going to be when she grows. I should have known better. She sets me straight.

“Not a ballet dancer!” she intones dismissively, noting my apparent limitations in assessing the meaning of her chosen dress. “I’m going to be a fairy. Can’t you see this is a fairy skirt?”

She’s a skier the following week. A princess the one after. A “limpic” skateboarder (a la TV competitions she watched over the weekend). A zoo-keeper. A dentist (her mother crosses fingers for that one!).

For one moment she even considers being a speech-pathologist. Then she decides that she can do better and just use stickers and markers as the president, too. “I need them for signs so they will see me,” she lisps decidedly. “And for presents. Presidents need lots of presents because it is in their name.”

She considers a plumbing career (after their bathtub floods). Becomes a pianist when she spots a broken piano on the sidewalk and bangs a (thankfully) brief concert. She’s going to be an astronaut. A doctor, too (“to fix the aliens if they get sick and to give me medicine from tummy ache”).

There is a passing mention of a police officer or maybe a model, undecided who.

She’s a whirlwind of professions. One day she’s “for sure” one thing, and the next day for sure “not THAT!” but surely just the same another.

Her parents hold on tight and let her fly. Oh, yeah, there is a pilot era, too, complete with airplanes spinning in the park and an insistence on perching on the monkey-bars’ “top top one where pilots are.”

The jury’s out on what she’ll be when she grows up. What we know in almost certainty is that it could well be what she declared today, or yesterday, or in three different periods during the past week, or will introduce in full high drama sometime tomorrow or next month.

For now, she’s a rolodex of pure anticipation. Dress-up, here she comes!