The older I get, the less I imagine what life could be like. Writing those words, I feel a little uneasy. Because although my real life is just fine, perhaps I shouldn’t be content to settle for “fine” ~perhaps I should be reaching toward some far more fulfilling and creative life, setting my sights on the stars, like I did when I was a teenager.
Just recently, events have occurred that should have drawn me up short, should have sent warning bells resounding in my ears about the finite nature of my time on this world. Events that, by rights, should spur me into a frenzy of action to accomplish all the things I want/need/hope to do. You know all the sayings – life is short, here today, gone tomorrow, make hay while the sun shines. I should be busy pulling out all the stops to make my imaginary life a reality, now, while I still have the time.
Then again, why should I be presumptuous enough to even imagine a better life than the one I have? After all, I have a loving and healthy family, a safe home, plenty of food and water, cars and clothes, and luxuries far beyond what most of the worlds population could ever imagine. What right have I to yearn for more than this?
Ahh, but its human nature to want more than we have, isn’t it? Human of us to expect the world, to see the ever greener grass, to dream ever more fabulous dreams.
So, enough prevaricating. Here goes:
In my imaginary life, I always see myself living in an old, historic home out in the country, a home near enough to water that I can walk my dogs through the woods each day and listen to the sound of a babbling brook talking in my ear. I’m surrounded by books and music in this house, and I have plenty of time to indulge my love of words and notes each day. I will write – novels perhaps, or memoirs, even biographies. I will play – a chamber group, of friends and musicians, well known and very popular in the community and surrounding towns.
In this imaginary life, my family is all nearby, so I can see them whenever I want – in fact, they come in and out of the house at will, my grandchildren bringing me handfuls of flowers plucked right from my own garden. I see myself wandering the woods in well worn jeans and soft sweaters, coming in from walks to hot coffee in the winter and mint-sprigged iced tea in the summer. I picture Jim and I sitting on our porch at night, watching the fireflies twinkle over the meadow, sipping wine as the sun goes down.
It’s not a fancy imaginary life, is it? And, in fact, after all these rambling thoughts, I have come round to describing a life that’s not really all that diverse from the life I have right now. Does this signify a lack of imagination on my part? Does this mean I don’t dare to dream?
Probably not. It may be that I’ve simply already forged a good life into existence. Rather than spending time imagining something different, I would do well to enjoy and enhance all the good things about the life I already have.
~to read about others imaginary lives, visit Writer’s Island