In a waiting room, I saw a boy of five or so playing with his dinosaurs – he explains to his dad who each one is and why two are fighting. He explains that, “this one Dad, this one is Manny” (perhaps he is a fan of the melancholy wooly mammoth from Ice Age). The dad, distracted, must have forgotten this tidbit because as the boy was puppeteering a duel between the two enemies, he calls for help from Manny. Manny, however, stays firmly in the grip of Dad, completely oblivious that his ally is in peril.
“Dad, Manny needs to help” brought Dad back to the imagined battle.
The boy’s fervor in his imagined endeavors far outweighed the enthusiasm of his dad, and it was quite clear as to why: Dad was simply moving plastic; whereas, the kid was the dino. This kid is in a jungle, the dinosaurs are in life and death stand-offs. You can just see it in his eyes. He. Is. There. And, though his dad plays along, he is still in a waiting room.
A simple scene that illustrates how, somewhere along the way, we lose our ability to completely engulf ourselves in make believe. Well, most of us anyway. (Some may “make believe” in that they delude themselves about, well, themselves.) This is not to say we do not dream. Dreaming is vital to being a healthy individual, in fact. But as essential as dreaming is, it is not the same kind of magic as make believe, is it?
When do we lose our “make believe,” and where, exactly, does it go?
I LOVE this post. Put it in the bank for a novel!
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