A Hard Day in Paris

Today has been hard.

As I sit on my bed, amazed that the babe is occupied and I can occupy this corner of bedspread, the rest of the expanse covered with clean clothes, newly folded or bundled or tossed into piles. Taking a few minutes for myself, I wonder:

Do I need to get up at 5 every day to have some sort of creative outlet time? Will my brain actually work then? No. The answer is No. My will says no. My everything about me says N-O. I will not do that. I cannot do that. Yes, the morning hours are magical and yes, it feels 1,000 times better when you’ve accomplished a little chisel toward your dreams. But? Mornings? So early? noooo, mama. No.

And I also wonder about Paris.

I’m thinking about turning this blog into a travel blog. The kind where I pretend I’m all the places I want to be; where my life is this grand adventure. This expanse. This greater wealth and full of vistas, of Europe, of nice clothes, of  Europe. Of heart. Of Europe. If I can’t travel like my soul longs for in real life, why not pretend to do it?

And do blogs really bring about change in your life?  For some bloggers, Yes. And does writing things down bring about change in your life?  Studies point to yes. Making lists. Making five year plans. Dreaming, imagining, directing energy and scheming thattaway. The real question is:

If I write about Paris, will I get to  Paris?

What’s your dream?

Mine is an apartment in Paris and/or Italy. I’m fortunate in that I’ve been to Europe a couple of times. Add feelings of privileged guilt here. But can we let those go? A couple of times. A work trip when I was out of high-school. Another work trip in college, this time nannying. A gift when I was eighteen from an extremely savvy woman in my life.  And then, when I was old enough, I would sell whatever I could and work as much as I could and take myself there. And do mostly nothing once arrived. But live.

Sometimes I dream that someone else would clean my house. Sometimes I dream that I have a chef, who works for me, and who’ll make delicious dinner so I don’t have to. Sometimes I dream about walking along the Seine with my baby and think, “I’ve made it.”

And if I can’t have that life really. Really, truly, at least, in the moment, then why not dream about it? Why not let my soul fly and pretend? And then, at least in part, in heart, I CAN have that life. I can be there. I can live it, picture it, imagine it. Isn’t that why people play video games? Why they read? Why they save to get away?

And so, I’m thinking that this blog can be a little fancy. A little get-away, too. A little escape for the soul. For mine and, if you’re reading this, then why not for yours? Come with me. Play and imagine and be. And then maybe one day we’ll all make it out of the hole and climb into our dreams, and they’ll be a reality and we’ll really be standing there and we’ll say, “I made it.”

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