Maurice Sendak, best
known as the author and illustrator of the beloved children’s book, Where The
Wild Things Are, died today at age 83.
If, like me, you were born after 1960, chances are good that
Where The Wild Things Are was part of your childhood. If you have children of
your own, you’ve likely made it part of theirs too.
As a child I had a vivid imagination and would get
absolutely lost in worlds I had invented, so it’s no surprise that I related so
easily to the adventure that begins, “The night that Max wore his wolf suit and
made mischief of one kind or another.”
Like Max, forests would sometimes grow and grow in my room after
I had leaped into my bed to avoid the wild things hiding beneath and covered my
head with my blankets to protect me from the creatures that lurked in the
darkness.
I dreamed of travelling in and out of weeks and almost over
a year to jungles filled with dinosaurs and other strange beasts where I was
forced to conquer my fears before I could land safely back in my bed.
Sometimes, before nodding off, I would imagine my bed was a
jet airplane and my blankets would hold me tight as I shot through my window,
out into the open sky, to circle the earth at dizzying speeds.
Some nights, I imagined I was a wild thing myself, powerful,
brave, unafraid of anything.
Whatever it was, I was constantly dreaming and Where The
Wild Things Are told me that was okay. It told me that little boys and girls
were expected to imagine things. The book confirmed what I already knew - that
the world was full of possibilities and that nothing was too wonderful to
imagine if you tried.
It told me too that there are times that all boys and girls
get in trouble with their parents, but after a while, the anger passes and you
realize that they never stopped loving you. Not even long enough for your
supper to get cold.
The story captured so perfectly the magic of imagining
yourself in a thrilling adventure that often defied all logic and the comfort
of the most magical place of all – your own bed.
When they were smaller, I read Where The Wild Things Are to both
my children and today, I watch them as they play make-believe games in their
rooms with dolls, cars and other things. I hope they never lose the wonder of
using their imaginations. I know I never did.
If you haven’t read Where The Wild Things Are in a while, you
should. If you’ve never read it to your children, make sure that you do. And
most of all, no matter what your situation, remember to sometimes let your
imagination run wild and explore worlds and times that challenge and scare us.
Let the wild rumpus start. Go to where the wild things are.
RIP Maurice Sendak
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