© Remigiusz Oprzadek | Dreamstime.com

In my imagination, I am the ahtangi who practices at dawn, no matter what, for a full two hours, after coffee, after bathing, and feels refreshed for the rest of the day.  In my imagination, I am the writer who after yoga, hits the shower, changes in comfortable, well-fitting clothes, eats breakfast, and sits at the laptop for a good four-hour stretch of work.  I am not a perfectionist in my ambition.  I am satisfied if in my imagination I sit in front of the laptop without writing x amount of words, y amount of pages.  Even one paragraph would suffice.  Three pages would be lovely, as long as it connects to yesterday’s work and tomorrow’s.  Then, I make my own sandwich, take a walk, and return like a happy country mistress to read and write correspondence.  In my imagination, that would mean that social media including email is regulated, and I use the hours between two and six for the discourse.  In my imagination, could I live in the city and do the same?  The walk would extend longer, of course, the correspondence time grow shorter, or after dinner, in lieu of nighttime television.

But reality has stepped in already, and I see my own disappointment that what I have written thus far is only a paragraph.  Reality allows me ease with my habit of dinner at six, TV from seven to nine, then bed to read until ten, or eating in front of the TV, and snacking past seven, and watching for three hours at a time.   Reality knows I do not roll out my yoga mat for daily practice, even weekly practice; reality knows I spend hours I used to devote to television to social media and commercial online window shopping, compulsively looking for things I have no intention of buying.  I spend my money easily enough, on food, on books, sometimes music, and if the opportunity arises, yoga.

My blog is already to long.  How I long to write the truth and not be shattered by it, to lose interest in myself the way a natural narcissist does not, and instead write sparkling fiction that causes general acclaim and dinner invitations. I wish in my imagination to turn back the clock so I can do it all again, yet with more humility, more wisdom.   I am lucky.  I found my job when I did, though I may not profit from it.  I found my yoga.  I found my place in my family, content being an aunt.  Europe and the world still await.  If I travel in the next thirty years, that is fine.  Ten more books, ten more major trips.  I still want to live abroad.  I still want to find sustaining work and write.  I want to pay my bills, vote, and be in good health, live among my friends and family, family and friends, and integrate both sides.  My life under construction, and in construction.