A Garden of Imagination: Why Adults Should Read Children’s Literature—Audrey Fields
- Audrey Fields
- Jul 23
- 6 min read
by Audrey Fields
“She stopped and listened to [the robin] and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling—even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and the big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was ‘Mistress Mary Quite Contrary’ she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away . . . Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.” -The Secret Garden
Young Mary from The Secret Garden begins to transform into a curious and compassionate child through the help of a growing imagination and relationship with others. In our own lives imagination can, among many things, engage our senses, reveal longings, and help us connect to others. As we age, sadly, many adults lose the flexibility and curiosity that comes with imagination and play. Not only can this dull life, but it can make it harder to know our own hearts and remain open to those who are different from us, leading to many interactions (with others, the media, or the self) feeling threatening or dangerous. This can impede connection with others as well as our own reflection and growth.
Children’s literature is one powerful means of engaging our imagination and becoming curious about ourselves and others, opening us up to the possibility of transformation. The simplicity of children’s literature provides a helpful entryway into a life of imagination. Novels written for children often follow a classic narrative arc, have a wise and reliable narrator, focus on character and virtue development, and engage all five senses.
These novels invite the reader to enter into the world of the book and become enthralled with the characters in the story. The reader may begin to experience the gift of self-forgetfulness. Time slows down as we become invested in the world of another within a safe, confined environment, described for us through dialogue, plot, and literary devices. This sensory experience of children’s literature can remind us of the opportunities all around us for participating in care and delighting in beauty. A reader also develops the skills of curiosity and openness to consider their own self within the context of a story, providing perspective and developing virtues of humility and patience.
The safe environment of a novel gives room for exploration and rest. Questions and curiosities arise as we follow the narrative arc and wonder what will happen next. Children’s literature narrators are often involved in the unveiling of character’s hearts, providing wisdom or direction for the reader, and leaning into the role of a good parent. A wise and reliable narrator allows for a child (and, in this case, an adult) to submit to the text and lean into the aesthetic experience of reading. The editor's brain can be quieted, and the critic asking, “Do I agree with this?” can take a break; this is a narrator we can trust. Like a child who freely plays and explores in the safety of the limits of their backyard, with a parent checking out the back window, children’s literature provides a fence of protection and plenty of room for its reader to play.
Frances Hodgson Burnett’s children’s novel The Secret Garden takes the reader through the tragic beginning of two characters: Mary and Colin. They are both neglected and, in many ways, abandoned by their caregivers, resulting in “quite contrary” and miserable personalities in both.
Mary’s curiosity spikes first as she comes into contact with a kind servant girl, a grumpy gardener, and a friendly robin. She spends time outside in the gardens, imagining and playing with freedom. Mary is eventually led to “the secret garden” by the friendly robin. As her imagination ignites, curiosity peaks, and senses engage in her work reviving the long-forgotten garden, she undergoes her own springtime growth as seeds turn to shoots, shoots to buds, and buds to blooms.
Miserable Colin has been sick since he was a baby and believes, along with the adults who take care of him, that, soon enough, he will die. He grows afraid in the night that his back is growing bumps, bringing on fevers from heightened fear and hysteria. Through a serendipitous friendship with Mary, he is first invited through his imagination into a similar transformation as the former “Mistress Mary Quite Contrary.” As Mary describes in colorful detail a secret garden beginning to bloom, Colin becomes curious as to whether he might also grow strong and well in a place like that.
While Mary and Colin become absorbed in the work of cultivating creation, their imaginations are enthralled with the mysterious story of the long-forgotten garden. They become more open to one another and to the change in their own selves. Mary shares how she feels ever-so-much more pleasant and enjoys more people than ever before. Colin becomes so overwhelmed with his own healing, that one day he stands up from working in the dirt and cries out, “Just look at me! I am well! I am well!”—a declaration that leads the small group into singing the doxology.
As one reads The Secret Garden, a few things begin to happen. There is the simple aesthetic level of enjoyment in reading something clear and well-written, with lovely sensory elements. There is a deeper level of gleaning wisdom and a “way of life” through the transformation of the characters in the novel. And then there is the experience of submitting oneself to the text, trusting the structure and narrator of the story to submerge into its waters and float along, and at times, perhaps, sitting up to say, “What is going to happen next?” or “I have felt like Mary at times!” or “Isn’t Colin a bit annoying?” or “Perhaps I will go on a walk and see what I notice!”
While our imaginations bring us into the world of The Secret Garden and its array of characters, we also enter into their desires and find some of our own. Mary’s longings for belonging and Colin’s longings for wholeness can elicit those same longings in our own hearts. The transformation of a forgotten garden into a haven of healing may remind us of transformation we have experienced, or bring us into the grief of transformation not yet realized.
The character and virtue development of Mary and Colin can also draw the reader into a similar development. As we endure experiencing Mary’s sour personality and Colin’s entitlement, we are developing patience ourselves. As we wait for the change we expect to come in their characters through trials and blessings, we are gaining perspective and hope that can apply to our own lives (and the lives of others). We are reminded that our lives are also a story with trials and blessings that may be inviting us into growth in character and virtue, exposing needed change in us.
This work (for it is work, even if enjoyable) of reading and imagining is a risky act. It is a choice to engage and open ourselves to other people, other worlds, other pains, and other joys. We may begin to find it easier to walk through life in a posture of curiosity instead of rigidity, empathy instead of judgment, and endurance instead of fatigue. With senses kindled, we notice the robins and how they are fed and clothed. We notice the changing of seasons and the reminder that comes with it: that there is hope of life after death. We notice the behaviors of others and wonder about the pains and hunger that might drive it, slowing down our speech or stopping eye rolls. And we notice the need for trustworthy narrators, telling us the truth with a supportive hand on our back ushering us into a life of imagination, connection, and play.
Audrey Fields is a mental health therapist, owner of Fields Counseling LLC, and a big fan of walking and talking (especially when St. Louis’s Tower Grove Park and books are involved). She has recently taught on children’s literature and people’s stories at Covenant Theological Seminary, and seeks to share the value and importance of narratives.
For more resources on art and faith, sign up for our other newsletters: Poetry, Music, and Articles.
To support the work of the Rabbit Room, join us by becoming a member. Your membership helps fund everything from publishing new books to new podcasts, events, poetry, articles, theatre productions, conferences, and more. Membership is vital to our flourishing, and we’d love for you to participate. Click here to join or learn more.