An essay by Lou Sullivan and Alexa Wilding

My six-year-old son Lou is no stranger to isolation, which I can’t help but think is partly responsible for his wonderfully wild imagination. At one year old, he was diagnosed with a rare form of pediatric brain cancer. After four years in remission, Lou relapsed in the spring of 2019 and we spent the next year cooped up in a hospital room, gloved, gowned, and masked, so bored we were talking to the Purell dispensers. During the worst of it, when Lou could barely move and I couldn’t write a word, he came up with a game called Inside Seeing that saved us both.

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and tell me what you see!”

“Ugh, nothing?”

“No, Mama, really look. Inside!”

We lay together in the hospital bed closing our eyes until shapes and light flecks began to form behind our eyelids. “I see fireworks,” I said.

“I see a monster,” Lou said, “but he’s actually nice.”

After our journeying, Lou would draw what he saw, and I scribbled down ideas, amazed that my bald six-year-old was now my personal shaman and writing coach.

“What’s it called when stars make pictures?”

“Constellations?” I guessed.

“Yes! I see constellations. The lines are a jungle gym, and we’re going to climb all the way back home.”

A few months later, we did make it home, and eventually Lou joined his twin brother, West, back at school, only to have Covid-19 force us back to a way of life we know all too well. We played a lot of Inside Seeing to pass the time. Lou thinks you should try it, too.

This is your writing prompt: Okay, close your eyes. Maybe lie down so you’re cozy? A blanket is nice. Okay. What do you see? At first, it’s dark in there. But if you really look, you will start to see pictures. Maybe it’s a bear with claws, or an ice-cream cone, or a memory. Like, cuddling your mom. Maybe it’s words, like love or dancing. Sometimes it’s just tickly lights. Whatever you see, write about it. Really explain it until it becomes a story. I like to draw what I see, too.

Jaouad, Suleika. The Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life (p. 27). (Function). Kindle Edition.