I was that kid who climbed a tree one day with a pillow in one hand and a book in the other so I could sit on the branch more comfortably to read. I would lie–not jump–on my trampoline alone and stare at the sky and think whatever important thoughts I had at age nine. I had what my mom called “an active imagination” and I exercised this muscle often. I would catch myself daydreaming in class all the time. Listening to a sermon was nearly impossible. Over the course of those 20 minutes my head had been in so many different places I would worry I had been talking aloud during church.
I think an active imagination is a wonderful thing. Stories and characters and made up games and alternate universes – that’s the good stuff. It’s why fiction writers are my heroes. And there are moments when daydreaming is great and propels us forward in our lives, like when we take our dreams and write them down and figure out a way we could actually achieve them. But I don’t tend to be productive in my daydreaming, and I’ve realized once I return from my time in space, I’m less content.