Good News, Everyone!

It's been a wild week.

It started last week when I began apartment hunting. I must have seen two dozen apartments in three days until I found one I liked. I put down a deposit on a beautiful 1 bedroom on King George street. The big balcony looks out over a garden, and the kitchen/living space is flooded with natural light. I am so thrilled to have a place of my own, and can't wait to unleash my muse and see what I write while living there.

On top of that, on Monday I attended the Bar Ilan Creative Writing Conference in Tel Aviv. By Tuesday, I was too run down to hop onto the bus for day two, so instead I stayed home and got some work done. Glad I did, because I was feeling pretty inspired to start taking steps towards advancing my career. I applied to be a foreign correspondent for a Women's Travel Blog, Pink Pangea. Later that day, I decided to push myself even further, and applied for a blogging position at The Times of Israel.

In the days that followed I was busy with apartment contracts, school, and writing. I even published a flash fiction story, the first mini-chapter to my mini-e-series: "Captain Hook: The Hourglass" on amazon for kindle!

Yesterday I received the good news. You're looking at Pink Pangea's newest foreign correspondent AND, The Times of Israel's newest official blogger.

And THAT'S how you make life happen.

Over and out.

*drops mic*

We Are Here

My childhood Rabbi survived Auschwitz. I can still remember the day he showed me the number on his arm--a memory, etched in ink. A burning reminder of what he lost. He was a small man, but in my eyes he stood tall. I looked to him, and saw the definition of courage. The number that branded him, branded me. It was etched into my mind, and the impact it had on me would be as permenant as the ink itself. 

I promised him, and I promised myself that I would never forget.

Today is Yom HaShoah, and I find myself wondering once again whether I am living a life of honor, in memory of the Six Million. Growing up, there were never any special ceremonies to recognize the day. I always found my own way to observe the day. In my teens, I wrote a story called "Hannah," about a girl's life in the ghetto and camps; it won a short story contest for Jewish Education. In college, I organized a Name Reading Ceremony to commemorate Yom HaShoah. Unto every face, there is a name; I wanted to make sure each name was heard. A small group of friends and strangers read names with me for over an hour. After they left I kept reading, determined to finish the list. As I neared the end the skies opened up; sorrow burst through the clouds, and I let the rain fill my heavy heart. I wept, my tears mingling with raindrops. "We are still here," I cried. "Am Yisrael Chai."

This year, as I walked to school I could see the Old City on the horizon. I felt an overwhelming connection to the land, the people, the language--it was beautiful, but there was a heavy ache in my chest, a reminder of what the day represented. At 10:00 this morning, a siren wailed throughout Israel. Silence spread through the room, and as we stood the voices of the Six Million slayed echoed across the land in a single note. My body absorbed the sound as it became a part of me, pulling the ghosts of a slaughtered generation from deep within my soul. I felt pain, anger, frustration, despair, and confusion. The entire country stood, united, to recognize and remember. To weep together, and then continue living together. It was surreal. 

When I decided that the next big step of my life journey would be to go to Israel, I felt elated. My heart had been leading me there for years, and I finally decided to trust that little tug that said "go." I came up with a project--a story about the value of Shabbat in familial life--and got on the plane. I've been in Israel for nearly ten months, and sometimes I just want to quit and go home. But when I remember the child who sat with her Rabbi and asked "Why?", a flame erupts inside my soul. I didn't chose this story. It lives in my bones, and it's begging me to tell it. When something is so deeply a part of the fabric of your own existence, it belongs to you, and you belong to it. 

Our childhood experiences shape us into the adults that we become. From the moment I saw the numbers on my Rabbi's arm, I knew my future would involve Israel. I knew it would involve protecting the memory of the Six Million, and I knew that it would involve protecting future generations. Those numbers are etched in my memory, and have followed me in every stage of my life. Something inside of me cannot be stopped. 

All roads lead here. I will not let those numbers disappear from my mind. 

"I Will Never Forget"

April 2012

Please accept my apologies for the inadequate video quality. This was recorded two years ago. 

---

Never before have two words meant more, carried the weight of a nation, lifting us out of war.
Never again, we cry. We are the brothers and sisters, the daughters and sons of those who died.
WE are the echoes of silenced voices that scream to be heard-cries that yell: “I once lived!”
Can you hear them?
I do.
I hear them in the darkness of night, from the warmth of my bed.
I hear them-six million voices resonate in my head.
“Unto every person, there is a name.”
Tell me yours, child. Who were you when you were slain?
Tell me, so that we can share your pain.
What were your hopes? What were your dreams?
What was your life before the screams?
You need to be heard.
The world needs to know…
Tell me, child. How did you go?

"Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohainu, Adonai Echad.
Hear, Oh, Israel. The Lord is our G-d. The Lord is One.
Do not forget me.” She begs, as her prayer echoes in my head.
I swear to her that I will Never Forget.
Never forget.
I will Never Forget.
I will remember, every minute of every day.
I remember each time I pray.
I will teach it to my child, too.
Because I am proud to be a Jew.

Crossing the Bridge

I'm going to admit something. It's the reason I don't blog as often as I should, and the reason that when I do--it's solely based on my grand adventures. I'm homesick, and I don't like to talk about it.

I was disappointed to find that I am not the adventurer I thought I was. It takes a brave soul to leave home, set out into the world and put themselves at the will of the universe. But I came here for a reason: to be the globetrotting storyteller. I have a story to tell, and I am going to tell it.

This life is not for everyone. Surprisingly, it did not take me long to get used to the fact that I hardly ever know what people are saying around me. The cultural shock, (while yes, was quite a shock) did not scare me. I found it exciting, and still do. It's a challenge. I just never expected to miss home as much as I have, and it sinks in the most during the holidays. Needless to say, the past few weeks have not been easy. There is something about the smells and sounds of your own home that are irreplaceable. They blend into your consciousness with memories of childhood, of family gatherings, of dinners and brunches, of barbecues, birthdays, and holidays... Every Friday night, as the Sabbath sun sets over Jerusalem, I can hear "The Phantom of the Opera" playing from the worn out speakers of my parents old record player. I can see my mother in the kitchen; the gentle flicker of the Shabbat candles. The house smells of roast chicken, and my entire family is there. When your life has been built on a foundation of familial traditions, new experiences are difficult to compare. The every day events that you left behind, become the extraordinary ones--the ones you find yourself longing for. The grass is always greener.

I've always dreamed of traveling the world--of discovering strange, far-off places tucked away in hidden nooks and crannies across the globe. "The world is too big, and too beautiful to ignore." I'd say. Despite desperately missing the familiar, I have found that I thrive on the unpredictable. My creativity flourishes when the world unfolds before me like a pop-up map. Every morning as the sun climbs across the sky, I see the Old City on the horizon. The crisp mountain air is laced with hints of wild rosemary and sage, and everywhere I look there is beauty to be found. I remember how unhappy I was working in Manhattan. I can still see the gray skies, and the towering buildings whose enormous shadows blocked the warmth of the sun from my face. I can still hear the subway screeching to a stop as a gust of warm air rushes by. I don't miss that.

I do miss my family.

Every year Jews from all over the world sit down with their families to retell the story of the Exodus from Egypt, and every year we say "Next year in Jerusalem." Last year was different; when I said it - I meant it. I wished and prayed that my life would somehow lead me to Jerusalem; that I would find a way there, and spend my time exploring the city and land that I yearned to be a part of.

This year when I said it -- Jerusalem of Gold shone brightly in my eyes. It was everything I had wanted, but something was missing. I felt unsatisfied. I missed home. I've come to the conclusion that I cannot be the wandering gypsy I always thought I was. I need the comforts of home every once in a while. But on days like today, when the wind is wild and I feel the breath of freedom pulsing through my veins--anything is possible. There are endless adventures to be had. Millions of stories to be heard, waiting to be told.

I came to Jerusalem nearly ten months ago. In my mind, this was it. The game-changer. In Jerusalem, I would finally find the answers I'd been looking for. What I've realized is that everyone experiences fear. It comes to us right before we cross the bridge. We can see the path ahead--it is obscured by clouds of doubt, the bridge is unsteady. It would be so easy to turn back, but instead, we must inhale deeply and push on. We must move forward, if only to find out what lies on the other side of the quarry. Perhaps we will be met by another bridge. Perhaps not.

Sometimes, I find myself longing to be home. I want to turn back to where it's safe; where it's easy. But I came here to learn, explore, write and make good art...and I'm not giving up on myself. Not this time.

"Onward!!!"

PS: Today will be a double feature. 

Please check back later for my special Yom HaShoah piece--

"We Are Still Here: Remembering the Holocaust in Israel"

Exploring Mars

It's easy to forget how vast the world is.  I'd been feeling restless, which surprised me (I live in Jerusalem, after all). I wanted to get away from the city; from buses, trains, and loud parties. I was craving the wind in my hair, endless horizons, lush blue skies, and rich landscapes. I knew what I needed and decided a trip to the desert was in store. On Thursday afternoon, I piled onto a bus with a small group of friends to begin our journey. After three hours, one bus transfer, and the inevitable conversation in disjointed Hebrew, we were dropped off at a bus stop in Mitzpe Ramon. Dusk was settling in across the desert, and we still had to find our campsite.

Armed with headlamps, we made our way down the desert road. Dust kicked up, forming small traveling clouds at our feet. The stars flickered on and the moon hung high in the depths of the ocean blue sky. There was a peaceful eeriness to our walk. No cars, no trains, no buses. There was limited visibility due to the darkness, which had finally arrived. We followed our trail, and sure enough, eventually spotted what looked like a camp. As we approached, a dog's barking echoed through the empty land. We discussed the appropriate ways of entering a Bedouin camp (just in case), until a sign (in Hebrew) confirmed our arrival at Silent Arrow Campsite. We scampered up the path to camp. We were cold, hungry, and ready to settle in for the night.

"Welcome!" A warm voice greeted us as we approached the gate. It belonged to the owner, a small, unassuming man named Dror. He showed us to our tent, where we dropped our packs, and then led us on a tour of the campground. It was modest, only two large Bedouin style tents, two private dome tents, a shack with toilets and showers, and one toasty eclectic hut with couches and a kitchen. Pots and pans hung from the piped framing of the hut, and candles in glass vases cast a warm glow across the room. Yes, this place was perfect. A gentle silence spread through the camp once Dror left us, and we decided it was time to eat. By the time our comical attempt to get a fire started finally yielded any results, it began to rain. "To the kitchen!" We grabbed our food, ran into the welcoming warmth of the hut, and watched as the rain slowly extinguished our fire.

After some fumbling around, we had food simmering on the gas stove. New guests trickled in as we cooked. An hour later, our candlelight feast was ready. Grilled salami, sardines, potatoes, roasted garlic, and pita bread. Maybe it was the exhilarating freedom of where we were, the candles, the lack of electricity, or the sheer excitement of adventure...but everything was delicious. We turned in early, ready for the rest of our journey.

The night was cold, and the wind sneaked in from beneath the tarp walls of our tent, often causing them to flap noisily. Somewhere in the middle of the night, we woke to the sound of rain beating against the tarp covering. Concerns for the next days hike disappeared as I fell back asleep, hoping for the best.

We woke the next morning to hopeful skies, and I headed to the kitchen to start breakfast. One by one my friends trickled into the room, and it wasn't long before our mix of potatoes and salami was ready. The sun spilled into the hut as we ate, but there were dark clouds on the horizon. Within minutes the skies opened up and it began to rain, which turned to hail, which turned to snow. Yep, snow. In the desert.We grabbed a handful of garbage bags from the kitchen and ran for cover in our tent where we fashioned some fancy rain gear out of plastic bags and duct tape. By the time we were ready to leave the rain/hail/snow had stopped. We got a ride to the Mitzpe Ramon visitors center (despite Dror's persistent attempts to convince us to stay for tea and coffee).

Upon entering the visitor's center (in our homeless-style rain gear), the women at the desk burst into fits of laughter, snapping a few photos before we ventured out to the observation point of the world's largest erosion crater. I gazed out over the stretch of land before me and was transported to a Martian plain; the red landscape was endless, and large snake-like winding wadi's cut through the crater. The Martian wind threatened to run off with my hat, as my makeshift space-gear rustled noisily. As we walked along the top of the crater, the shadows below played tricks on our eyes making it impossible to tell how far we were, or how high up. Three men scampered down the face of the crater; moving swiftly like mountain goats, they soon became dots on the horizon and disappeared into Martian territory.

When we found the trailhead, we carefully descended the stairwell that had been carved out by nature. Inside the crater, we became specks on the scale of existence; here for a few brief, wonderful moments. The ever-changing landscape is the result of thousands of years of wind and water slowly morphing the stone walls.  It is a reminder that we too, are ever-changing. Something can always come along, carving our life out of the very walls we built to protect ourselves. Nothing is permanent. Everything is beautiful.

The skies looked as though they might erupt any minute.We absorbed the scenery one last time, and made our way back up the trail. As we reached the top a steady rain began to fall, and we watched as the wadi's cut through the earth. Sand was washed from beneath the stones, and the eternal process that had given us this geographic wonder continued.

On the way home, I watched the world pass me by through a foggy bus window. Lush landscapes with fields of green and yellow became a blur, and I admired how quickly my surroundings had changed. The crater restored me; whispered the secrets of time, and of patience.  The rains washed away my doubts, my fears; sent them away with the rushing waters of the wadi. The snow reminded me that there is beauty in the unexpected. When we arrived back in Jerusalem, I gazed at the old stone buildings with new eyes. The world felt infinite; I felt unlimited. My walls washed away, and I was free.

THON-ing from Jerusalem

Every February, something magical happens in the lush valleys of Central PA. In the world's largest student run philanthropy, thousands of Penn State students stand up in the fight against pediatric cancer during the Penn State Dance Marathon. THON is a year long fundraising effort by Penn State students which culminates in a 46 hour no-sitting, no-sleeping dance marathon. All funds raised go directly to The Four Diamonds Fund at Hershey Medical Center, and provides complete financial support for families fighting the battle against Pediatric Cancer. Last year THON raised $12,374,034.46. Yep. That's over $12 million dollars. All For The Kids.

My first THON was eight years ago. I still remember when the total was revealed: $5.2 million. I saw the captain from my committee weeping with joyous exhaustion. Bald children squirt water guns into the air, riding their dancers shoulders victoriously into battle. And I understood what I had devoted my year to. I understood what the past 46 hours had meant, and what it was for. I knew what I would spend the next three years doing, and that I would never give up on these kids: my superheroes.

In 2010, I took to the dance floor and stood for the full 46 hours. My memories of that year are a blur, coming back to me in snapshots of baby powder, balloons, high fives, hallucinations, massages, and the best vanilla tea I've ever had. I remember collecting toys, and attaching bags of goodies to my fanny pack. I remember my teddy bear (who had a southern accent) making a date with another teddy bear. I remember the incredible support from my friends, and family. As of THON 2013, Penn State Sudents have raised over $100 million for the fight. We have brought laughter and love into the lives of children, and their families who need to forget about being sick--even if it's just for a few hours, or for a weekend.

For the first time in eight years, it's THON, and I'm not there. But my heart is swelling with Penn State Pride for the incredible students who carry the torch. Every year, THON amazes me. This year, I'm glued to the webcast (which is set up + constantly playing in a corner of my apartment in Jerusalem.)

To experience THON is to witness the unstoppable courage, honesty, wisdom, and strength of humanity. It's love. The dancers inspire the children, and the children inspire the dancers. It's a beautiful cycle of inspiration and love. I keep THON close to my heart, and try to live my life by the four diamonds: Courage. Honesty. Wisdom. Strength. One day we will dance in celebration. Until then, we dance to find a cure.

To make a donation, and see what it's all about go to www.thon.org. Click to view the live webcast, or donate to this incredible cause. Additionally, 100% of proceeds from copies of my book, "The Gray Days", sold this weekend will be donated to THON. Read about it at Onward State.

ForTheKids, forever and always, no matter where in the world I live.

 

Throwing my diamonds to the sky, over Jerusalem.

 

 

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Thanksgiving in Israel

Thanksgiving morning: Israel.

I'm sitting in hebrew class learning a new category of future tense conjugations, but all I can think of is home. I did the math: if I left for Tel Aviv right after class, dropped my savings and took the next plane to New York, there was a chance that I could be home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. "Why not?" I thought, laughing as I imagined the chaos that would break out upon my arrival. Three dogs, and one Mom jumping and crying for hugs; Dad's profanity filled version of "You'll never guess who's at the door"; and my smirking brothers, because my accomplices would have known all along. (Hey, someone would have had to stall dinner in case I was late.) I could study on the plane, spend the next three days overeating with my family, and return in time for my midterm on monday.

"Oh right, my midterm is on monday." Responsibilities started to sink in and the prospect of a last minute, surprise trip home for the much anticipated "Thanksgivukkah" began to fade. Wiping out my savings didn't sound like a great idea either. I left class homesick, and a little heartbroken with the heavy realization that this would be my first Thanksgiving away from home.

So what's an American to do when they can't be home for the holidays? When the country they've chosen to call home doesn't collectively eat themselves into a tryptophan induced turkey-coma at the end of every November, kicking off an entire season devoted to food and family?

They make the best of it.

They hold on tightly to their family traditions, because that's all they've got. Tradition gives them a sense of home--a sense of belonging, and identity. It gives them a compass to navigate through the dark seas of loneliness, and find some source of light.

As I prepared to face the task of whipping up a chocolate cake and my first pot of stuffing, the music of my childhood filled my head and my heart, for my memories of holiday cooking are all accompanied by soundtracks. Whether it was Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, or some scratchy classic rock coming out of my parent's old turntable--it never mattered. My mother and I would chop vegetables, and dance through the kitchen while the dogs followed at our feet. Which is why, this year, I sang along shamelessly to the Tenth Anniversary Dream Cast recording of Les Miserables while I baked. In my tiny Jerusalem kitchen, with the window open and Colm Wilkinson hitting notes in the upper stratosphere, I began to feel better.

But the mind is a powerful thing, and smell of chocolate chip cookies mingling with the crisp air of late November lingered in the recesses of my memories. I used to wake up early to bake cookies with my mom, and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. We'd comment on the musical acts while trying to get as many cookies in the oven as possible before my Dad and brothers came out to ravage the dough. The warmth of these memories rushed through me as I began the stuffing, and the pangs of homesickness hit me even harder than before.

So, I made the best of it.

My brother has a fancy little device hooked up to the TV back home, which allows you to watch your home channels from anywhere in the world. I logged into his account, and turned on the parade. The camera panned over 34th street, over the massive crowds of cheering (freezing) families, the marching bands, and extravagant floats. Al Roker laughed his way through the crowds wearing a fedora and a smile, while the hosts discussed whether the wind would allow the balloons to fly. The music erupted, the marching bands came to life, the balloons lifted off, the parade started, and I was suddenly crying. My heart was heavy as I wondered what was going on back home. But tears quickly turned to laughter, as Broadways best sang and danced down 34th street. "Pippin! The Sound of Music! Matilda!" I texted my mom as each act came on. It wasn't home, but it was close. And then the channel changed.

Assuming it was a glitch in the system, I watched as the channels climbed and finally settled on my brother's favorite TV show. "Impossible..." I thought, as I switched it back to the parade. The cast of Pippin was still doing their thing, but not for long, because I was suddenly watching Toy Story 3. I laughed and quickly changed it, but in a matter of seconds Buzz Lightyear was back. My brother had declared war, and we were engaged in a full fledged Channel Battle from across world. After pleading my case, and thirty minutes of intense warfare, I finally won.

With my brother, and homesickness both defeated, I finished cooking and left for dinner where I found myself in a room full of expats, all looking for a taste of home. The smell of turkey lingered in the air, and I felt a rush of love for the friends and strangers gathered around me. We came from so many different backgrounds, and for some, this would be their first Thanksgiving. Our differences didn't matter though. We each longed to share a brick of the foundation that our families had given us, and a warm cloud of nostalgia settled in the room as we each shared our traditions. Some were quirky, some were routine, some were outright hilarious--but they represented home. One girl from China smiled as she said "This is my first Thanksgiving, and I've just come to eat all the turkey with you!" We cheered for the Newbies, laughed with the seasoned pros, and ate ourselves silly as we insisted to the non-Americans that it was Thanksgiving tradition to overeat. As the food hangovers began, the evening came to an end. We hugged, laughed, and sleepily rolled ourselves out the door. It sure felt like Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, my family was getting ready to celebrate their version of "Thanksgivukkah" (complete with Pilgrim + Indian yarmulkes) on the other side of the world. I began to feel that loneliness sinking in once again. I wanted to be home, plain and simple. I felt lost--and then my phone rang. For the next 89 minutes, I was passed around between my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmas, parents, brothers, and dogs. And then Skype was ringing. I was placed at the head of the table, so I could see everyone. They waved, shouted, ate, tossed turkey at the screen, held some beer up to the camera, and then sent me around the table. From over 5,000 miles away, I was still a part of my family's Thanksgiving dinner. And while nothing can quite beat being home for the holidays, as long as you have your traditions...your foundation...the roots of your life, you will never be too far to find a little taste of home.

 

Pilgrim and Indian yarmulkes

Family in New York

Friends in Jerusalem

 

 

 

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Outside The Box

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

--Albert Einstein

 

Your child's imagination is at risk. Their ability to think outside the box, or rather, climb inside a cardboard box and fly to the moon, is fading.

I'm a writer--not a teacher, not a parent. I live in an infinite number of imaginary towns, cities, and worlds; on an infinite number of planets, in an infinite universe. In the morning I swim from the depths of my mind to the surface, where light dances off the glistening waters as I discover where I will live for the day. As I wander through my new world I meet all kinds of bizarre creatures. They teach me about their world, and then suddenly there is a spark. It's scary at first, but I was taught to trust that instinct and follow it wherever it leads me.

Some children are not so lucky.

Today, children go through a rigorous course study in order to prepare them for state mandated tests. The materials they are given to read all serve a purpose. And with such an intense curriculum teachers can't make time for creativity-they barely have control over their lesson plans. It's all pre-written, by the state. We are not creating "thinkers." We are creating test takers, and workers. Some of the world's greatest thinkers lived in a time where there was no such thing as standardized testing. They had the freedom to live in their imaginations, and as a result, created incredible things. They read the classics, and learned about the world through literature. This generation will know how to study, but will they know how to listen to their own creativity? Will they be able to trust their spark, and follow it? Albert Einstein said "Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere."

At the 2012 Society of Children's Book Writer's and Illustrators Winter Conference, a panel member told a room of nearly one thousand writers and illustrators to adjust their material to fit the new core curriculum standards. I was appalled. I looked around the room to see if anyone else had actually just HEARD what this woman had said, and watched in horror as attendees nodded their heads, scribbling furiously as though she had just given them some secret formula to becoming a successful writer.

I will NEVER adjust my writing to meet the needs of state mandated materials. When we talk about making "adjustments" to our writing to fit the needs of the state curriculum, we are walking on a very thin, very dangerous line. "Authors, write what Big Brother tells you to write." Once we cross that line, we create a generation of children who don't know how to read for pleasure. They read, wondering what material in the story they will be tested on. We are depriving them of the glorious freedom of roaming the endless shelves of libraries, selecting a book and falling into a new world.

I spent last year touring elementary schools reading my book, "The Gray Days", and leading imagination workshops with students. I asked students to close their eyes, and listen to my words as I led them through a visualization exercise. The exercise brought them from familiar territory, their bedroom, into an unfamiliar realm as they were asked to to imagine a staircase appearing in their bedroom. It could go in any direction, be made of any material, and lead them anywhere. They would then spend a few minutes living in the land their staircase had brought them, before returning to their bedroom, opening their eyes, and rediscovering reality.

Upon opening their eyes, I asked them to write or draw whatever they saw. A handful of kids began immediately. Others hesitated. Some sat, looking at me, their eyes wide with terror. One child whispered to me, "I think I did it wrong." After assuring the class that there was no right or wrong answer, a few children picked up their pencils and bowed into their notebooks. But one boy stands out in my mind. After five minutes of watching everyone else write and draw, he looked at me, afraid. With his eyes on the floor, he explained that he had not seen anything in his imagination. He had been afraid that it would be wrong, and therefore did not allow it to take him on a journey. He didn't trust his instinct, and was afraid of the creative spark. I worked with him for ten minutes, guiding him through his own imagination. What we finally came up with was a description of his bedroom, and the sounds of what was going on downstairs. "Progress." I thought. At least he was able to see, and hear something.

As children shared their stories with me, I found that most of them could not step out of their realities. The staircase they described led to their attic, where they found boxes of stuff. When I asked them to climb inside a box to see where it would bring them, most described a box of old stuff. They were wrestling with themselves, struggling with the need for approval and the need to imagine. I continued to assure them that there was no wrong answer, and this prompted some more daring stories. A handful of kids wound up in the ocean, or in space. One bright-eyed girl told me about her upside-down staircase that had a trapdoor which opened to the sea, where she swam with lions. But I will never forget the boy who told me he was afraid of his imagination because it was wrong.

J.M. Barrie said "The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it." We must encourage children to fly in the realm of imagination. We must teach them to trust their own creativity. Imagination is an endangered species. If we continue down this path of education, it may become extinct. What does that world look like? Let's save imagination, before it's too late.

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