top of page

The Creator Behind
A Look into the World of the Child

Elements of Life

Colours of Life Anne C Evans.jpg

Elements of Life

The  Seed is Sown

Long before writing stories, came imagining them. Well, not exactly stories but pictures, happenings, and scenes of people and places, like little movies in my mind. Where they could have possibly originated from, at the ripe old age of four, is a mystery. One such image that is vivid in my mind, even to this day, came while sitting at the kitchen dining table. I was looking closely at the straight black line between the two pieces of laminate that met perfectly to form the striking, red tabletop.

As I gazed at the black line, it was as though I could see right through it, into a world beyond the kitchen where I sat. The scene was that of an indoor swimming pool, with several adults bobbing up and down with rubber swim caps on, jumping up out of the pool, and diving back in again. Above them on the wall was a large rectangular-shaped window made of small glass squares. You know the ones, that let the light in but prevent you from seeing anything specific, inside or out.


This scene captivated my attention and fascinated me. After all, this was the first time I had ever seen anything like it. On the one hand, I was aware that it was somewhere else, but on the other, I was at the kitchen table, yet what I could see was so totally alive and real!  

I know that I revisited the black line on the table several times after that, but nothing stuck in my mind the way the swimming pool scene did. As such, I had become aware of something greater than my little body. An imaginative faculty that was able to conjure up impressions (past life?) that were as real as the happenings around me. 

The only other thing that came close to this experience was my own father's story-telling and singing.

You see, it had become somewhat of a ritual for mummy to bath me and put me to bed. Tucking me in like 'a bug in a rug' she would switch the light out, leaving the door open so I could see the light shining in from the hallway.


There was another reason the door was left open, and that was for my dear daddy. He would walk quietly in and sit down on a chair next to my cot (complete with wooden rails that stopped me from rolling out onto the floor). There, with both of us enfolded in the vast blackness of the night, daddy would then start telling me a story. Not any old story, but an original story that came from the depths of his soul. 

My father's voice was deep, calm, and soothing. It conjured up images in my mind that took on a life of their own, images that my dear daddy was imagining too. It was a special, dare I say spiritual experience, topped off with a song to lull me to sleep.


Little did daddy know that I wasn't really asleep. I would watch for him to reach the doorway, and gaze at his black silhouette against the light, and then, for the light from the hallway to be snuffed out by his closing of the door. I was now in total pitch darkness, but I was not afraid. My heart was warm and glad, filled with adventures and happy endings. Feeling calm and still, I slipped blissfully off into sleep......                                            

With deep thanks and gratitude to my dear father, for

all of his creativity, imagination, and above all, love.

Forever with us in the Spirit of Storytelling.

                                                          ~ Anne C. Evans


bottom of page