On this day, two years ago, I was walking the streets of Venice, trying on carnival masks, riding gondolas, and feeding pigeons, when I came across a beautiful little stationary shop. A longtime collector of notebooks, I bought a handmade one bound in antique staff paper. Of course, such a specimen was too good for my run-of-the-mill journaling, and as such I deemed it my Book of Imagination. In it, I would write about my day as if everything I wished would happen actually had, transforming my humdrum life into a fantastic dream.
I wrote only three pages before giving up in the face of the great gap that was the disparity between my real and imagined life. So much for dreaming! Since then it has sat, abandoned in the corner gathering real-world dust.
The only reason I mention this, is that while my little Venetian notebook is somewhere over the Atlantic ocean right now, along with the rest of our household goods, I’ve started mentally writing in it again. This time, going out on an imaginary limb, I decided to imagine my perfect morning: waking refreshed after a full night’s rest to a room awash in sunlight; no need for an alarm because the day’s work, exciting and meaningful work, is calling, and I can hardly wait to get started.
Why this sudden far-fetched reverie? It turns out it may not be so impossible. Continue reading