Imagination That Is Restored—Imagination That Is Honored

A reflection

I used to think I was a slow reader.
That belief quietly pulled me away from reading for a long time.

I realize now that I wasn’t slow—I was a meaning reader. When I read, especially in high school, I gravitated toward philosophical, metaphorical, and lyrical prose: The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland, Hamlet, As I Lay Dying, Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe. I wasn’t reading for plot or speed. I wanted to understand what the author was feeling beneath the surface—how the words came into being at all.

At the time, I mistook that curiosity for inadequacy. I thought I was simply bad at reading.

As an adult, I can see that imagination is what has carried me through life. To some, that may seem childish. But perhaps imagination is not something we outgrow—perhaps it is something that heals us at our core.

I have always loved film, and I deeply appreciate the era when graphics and animatronics were imperfect. There was something honest about it. Somehow, despite it being entirely within my genre, I had never experienced The Neverending Story. We watched it over winter break, and I felt an immediate pull—a sense that there was far more being said beneath the surface than the film could convey.

That pull led me to Michael Ende’s writing.

What I found there was both enlightening and far exceeded my expectations.

What happens when we lose our imagination?

To see the world through the eyes of a child—and to remember that world in adulthood—is not only a gift, but a necessity. Wonder. Possibility. Courage in spite of fear. Love in spite of hurt. These are what I felt while reading The Neverending Story. Not a harsh warning about what becomes of us when we forget, but a humble reminder of who we can be when we remember.

Then there is The Nothing.

Perhaps we are experiencing it now, collectively. The Nothing is described as a darkness with an incredible pull, especially in large, densely populated places. Fantastica can only be saved by a child willing to move forward despite grief, loss of hope, indifference, pain, and doubt.

As adults, imagining what is possible becomes harder. We get busy. We forget how to be still. We lose our discernment in favor of convenience. We stop questioning. Life becomes routine—checklists, schedules, clocks ticking quietly beneath everything. We lose ourselves in expectation and, sometimes, in our own disbelief. We accumulate things instead of meaning, becoming collectors of an internal, unspoken suffering.

It wasn’t difficult to believe that the savior of Fantastica was both a child within and a child without.

One who could walk the journey despite all odds—and another who watched from the outside, cheering him on, until he was finally willing to step inward and give a name to the Childlike Empress.

What happens when imagination is restored, but not honored?

This is probably the most important question we could ask ourselves. I feel it is the most uncomfortable part of the book and that is the point. We see real humanity in how we deal with problems in life. We impose our beliefs on others, when we ourselves lack understanding, or feel uncomfortable. The only thing in our control is our influence. 

Imagination must be used beneficially and not to exploit or control others. 

When imagination is restored but not honored, it begins to serve the self instead of the whole.

Wishes are granted, but at a cost. Each act of creation pulls something else away—not from the world, but from the one doing the wishing. Memory erodes quietly. Identity thins. What was once wonder becomes indulgence, then entitlement. Power replaces curiosity.

This is not a condemnation of imagination. It is a warning about forgetting why we imagined in the first place.

When imagination is no longer grounded in relationship, discernment, and love, it stops being a bridge and becomes an escape. We begin to reshape the world to soothe ourselves rather than to understand it. We change what makes us uncomfortable instead of listening to what it is trying to teach us.

In Ende’s world, Fantastica does not need to be saved again from The Nothing—it needs to be protected from meaninglessness born of excess. From creation without care. From a child given infinite possibility without guidance, remembrance, or restraint.

The danger is not imagination.

The danger is imagination severed from responsibility.

As adults, we often celebrate creativity while dismissing its consequences. We encourage dreaming, but not integration. We praise innovation, but not reflection. We restore imagination as a tool—for productivity, success, distraction—without honoring it as a moral force.

And so we repeat the cycle.

We rebuild worlds quickly, but forget to ask whether they are livable. We generate ideas endlessly, but lose sight of what they cost us. We chase novelty and call it freedom, while quietly surrendering depth, memory, and meaning.

Restored imagination must be held—not exploited.

It must be guided by humility. Anchored in love. Tempered by discernment. Remembered not as power, but as relationship.

Otherwise, even the most beautiful worlds will eventually empty themselves out.

So what now?

Perhaps the work before us is not to create more, but to remember more carefully. To ask ourselves not only what can I imagine, but what am I responsible for once I do. To slow down enough to notice when imagination begins to drift toward convenience instead of care.

Maybe honoring imagination looks like listening longer. Holding possibility gently. Letting wonder ask something of us in return.

And perhaps the most important question is not whether imagination can save us—but whether we are willing to be changed by it.