As someone in the communication industry, who routinely asks questions or offers direction to colleagues through email, I still sometimes find myself responding to their emails with “I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear.”

One of my granddaughter’s favorite words is “imagine.” It prefaces much of her playtime with her sister and often revolves around dragons or horses or family scenarios. One of her favorite imaginings when she plays with Pop is being a baby horse hatching out of an egg.

When I was a child, I had a special outdoor place that was all mine, a hide-away place where I could make-believe, dream or read my favorite Nancy Drew books beneath the thick cover of weeping willow branches stretched to reach the ground. It was a magical place, made more so by the frequent visits from lady bugs or grasshoppers or the one-eyed squirrel my mom fed every day, and where the only music I heard was bird songs. It was my version of a tree house which never got off the ground, but I loved it.

During a visit to a religious education class some years ago, I sat in a circle with 15 kindergarten children as their teacher engaged them in a discussion about the 10 Commandments and obeying the rules. I imagined she heard one of her charges say emphatically, “You’re not the boss of me!” and decided to talk about the idea of bosses.