I’m on a bus in downtown Seattle. It’s mid afternoon on a chilly, sunny day in the city where I grew up, and which, thirteen or fourteen years ago, I thought I would never call home again. I picture myself writing the following words in my journal: Perhaps I’ve been searching for my childhood in the wrong place.
The bus has left downtown and is moving uphill into my neighborhood. Maybe the right place to discover or rediscover my childhood is here in my imagination.
I imagine the bus making an unscheduled stop. A tall elderly man dressed in a dark suit stands on the sidewalk waving a book at those of us on board. My intuition suggests that he’s waving it at me. These images feel so real that I remind myself that this psychological thinker and author died in 2011. Seconds or minutes pass in my imagination. He’s seated alongside me. The images that follow don’t show how his book ends up in my hands.
His spoken words feel as if I’m reading them in his book. “How do you know you’re not dreaming and seated alongside a god?” I don’t utter the words that come to mind: You don’t look like a god to me.
I see the words myth and image in the title of the book, but I can’t see the whole title. The word childhood comes to me, alone, as if it were too important to be confined to a sentence or clause. “Don’t search for childhood,” the author says in a soft voice, as if he can read my thoughts. “Read and imagine and you’ll find what’s looking for you.”