I have a trick I use when I’m sad or scared or anxious. (Actually, I hesitate to call it a “trick” because it comes to me entirely unbidden—I don’t perform it as an exercise, but I slip into it reflexively and without intention.)
Here’s what I do: I imagine myself inside a children’s book. Not just any book though: the sort that has a little town in it, beautifully rendered in images. There’s a library, full of shelves of books in jewel tones, and a friendly librarian who peeks over her half-moon glasses at you. There’s a candy shop with glass jars of brightly colored gumdrops and jumbo swirled lollipops and baskets of taffy twisted up in waxy pastel paper.
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