...one must have a lively power of imagination, for-I seem to be telling you stupid things, but it is quite true -there is a world in which you are the supreme maker of forms: that is your own particular vital world. You are the supreme fashioner and you can make a marvel of your world if you know how to use it. If you have an artistic or poetic consciousness, if you love harmony, beauty, you will build there something marvellous which will tend to spring up into the material manifestation.
     When I was small I used to call this "telling stories to oneself". It is not at all a telling with words, in one's head: it is a going away to this place which is fresh and pure, and.. building up a wonderful story there. And if you know how to tell yourself a story in this way, and if it is truly beautiful, truly harmonious, truly powerful and well co-ordinated, this story will be realised in your life -perhaps not exactly in the form in which you created it, but as a more or less changed physical expression of what you made.
     That may take years, perhaps, but your story will tend to organise your life.

     But there are very few people who know how to tell a beautiful story; and then they always mix horrors in it, which they regret later.
     If one could create a magnificent story without any horror in it, nothing but beauty, it would have a considerable influence on everyone's life. And this is what people don't know.
     If one knew how to use this power, this creative power in the world of vital forms, if one knew how to use this while yet a child, a very small child.. for it is then that one fashions his material destiny. But usually people around you, sometimes even your own little friends, but mostly parents and teachers, dabble in it and spoil everything for you, so well that very seldom does the thing succeed completely.
     But otherwise, if it were done like that, with the spontaneous candour of a child, you could organise a wonderful life for yourself- I am speaking of the physical world.
     The dreams of childhood are the realities of mature age.

 The Mother