Claymania

Lately, my 8-year-old has been creating teeny-tiny horses out of Model Magic clay. She’s figured out that she can make it last a long time, as well as make horses that can stand up, if they’re light and small. Here they are, with a penny in the picture to give an idea of the scale:

Here’s their stable:

They might not look like much in the picture, but the detail is pretty remarkable, as is the fact that they all have names and histories. Some are embellished with cotton or yarn. Most have nostrils. All have stories.

She cannot seem to make or play with these tiny creatures in isolation. Even as I’m typing this, I’ve been interrupted probably 20 times with brief newsflashes about various characteristics they’ve been given, or various events in their tiny world. I can’t keep them all straight.

“She’s a creative mind going 90 miles an hour,” my husband reminds me. “How is that not a great thing?”

How, indeed? I thought about C.S. Lewis, who invented the mythological land of Boxen inhabited by talking animals with his brother when he was a child. I thought about Madeleine L’Engle, who wrote stories as an elementary student. I thought about Bill Peet, who drew compulsively in the margins of his notebooks when he was in school. I thought about Tolkien, the master myth-maker, who created Middle Earth with its elaborate language and history.

In making these tiny creations, she’s making stories, and stories must be told. There’s nothing wrong with trying to stem the tide of interruptions a bit. But I need to remember that this kind of creativity is a good thing. I come so close at times to squelching the very miracle I homeschool to encourage: the full-flowering of my children’s unique, God-given personalities.