Think back to a moment in your childhood when your imagination opened like a door and you walked through without hesitation.
Where were you?
What were you doing?
Who stood nearby while you disappeared into your own world?
Just let the memory arrive,
The way a dream does,
Without forcing it.
Notice how real it felt.
How the world you were weaving in your mind held weight,
Texture,
Gravity.
For a moment,
That imagined world was not less real,
It was simply invisible to others.
And as children,
We lived this way naturally,
We crossed between worlds with ease,
We did not ask how imagination worked,
We just trusted it,
The way birds trust the air.
And somewhere along the way,
We were told to come back down.
To call this crossing pretend,
To believe imagination was a place we should outgrow.
But imagination was never meant to be abandoned,
It was meant to become quieter,
Deeper,
More deliberate.
Imagination is not fantasy,
It is a signal.
It is the language you use when you speak beyond words.
Imagine the universe as a vast,
Listening field.
A loom in a way,
Always in motion,
Weaving threads in response to what you hold within.
Like a genie,
Yes,
But not one waiting for commands.
The genie listens the way water listens to gravity,
The way iron listens to magnetism.
It responds to coherence,
To the inner world you return to again and again.
To the image you cradle,
To the feeling that you feed.
When the signal is clear,
The weave begins to rearrange itself.
People cross your path as if on cue.
Opportunities surface like stones in a river.
Resources gather,
Places call to you.
Support appears where there was once silence.
Not because you pulled the strings,
But because you tuned the instrument.
You see,
The universe does not rush,
It reorganizes.
It moves pieces quietly behind the curtain of your noticing.
And no,
This does not mean you never move.
But the movement that follows is not forced.
It is in the way a tide moves the shore,
The way breath follows sleep,
The way a green shoot knows when to break through the soil.
An email you feel gently nudged to send,
A place you feel drawn to without explanation.
A yes that feels like relief,
And a no that closes a door cleanly.
The imagination leads,
The body follows.
You imagine not to escape this world,
But to inform it.
And the universe listens,
The way a field listens to a seed.
This is where the weave begins.
