I WAS sad to hear of the death of the author Sir Terry Pratchett. In typical style he announced his own death on Twitter.

The feed said: “AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER.”

In his Discworld novels, Death is personified and always speaks in capital letters.

We are told that he died at home with his cat on his bed, in the company of his family.

I cannot imagine a better way to die (except for me it would be a dog on the bed).

I have relished Terry Pratchett’s incredible gift of imagination.

I think one of his best books is Nation.

The writing is set in a parallel world, very similar to ours, in the southern oceans.

It starts with Mau, who is living temporarily on a tiny island close to his own, being tested so that he can become a man.

As he returns home, expecting to take part in the ritual of entering manhood, his canoe is almost overturned by a huge tsunami.

He returns to find that his family and the whole community have been destroyed by the wave.

At the same time a young English girl called Ermintrude is the sole survivor of a schooner which is washed up on the island.

The story is about civilisation being slowly restored to the island, as Mau assumes the role of chief.

One wonders whether for Terry Pratchett the story was an imaginative way of processing his diagnosis with Alzheimer’s, and his struggle to maintain a rich life in spite of the disease, while continuing to write.

Imagination can be an underused gift.

After all, we are very good at imagining worst case scenarios rather than best case ones.

In the hospice, images of painful deaths are conjured up all too easily. I tell people: “It’s thinking about it that is often the worst thing. When we are actually in it, living it, it is usually much better than we expect.”

Allowing the imagination free rein can be liberating.

When I was on a retreat once up near Whitby, the person who was guiding me suggested a certain way of praying with the imagination.

You might like to follow this in your own mind and see where it takes you: You are going down a staircase with a key in your hand. What is it like? How far do you go down?

At the bottom you come out into a corridor and walk along it. There are doors on either side.

Do you see anyone else? What is the colour of the walls? Is the corridor airless or can you breathe easily?

At last you find the door which you know intuitively is the right one.

You put your key in the lock and it turns easily. You step inside a room.

This is your very own room. Nobody else can come in here unless you invite them.

How is it decorated? What is the furniture? Take a good look around. Are there any special objects or photographs here? What is the view from the window?

Make yourself a drink and simply enjoy being in your own space. There is now a knock at the door.

You have a choice. Don’t answer it unless you want to. You might need to be here by yourself.

If you do answer it you find Jesus, or a wise friend, on the doorstep.

You may decide to invite this person in. If you do, what happens next?

Do you make them a drink too? Imagine the conversation you would have. You can tell them anything you like.

When it is time, your guest leaves, and in time you leave too and make the reverse journey.

But your inner room remains there, waiting for the next time you make a visit.