We have been back from San Diego for four days now. While I was talking to a friend about the trip yesterday, I found myself romanticizing San Diego. Not that there isn’t anything to romanticize-gorgeous beaches, delectable food, picturesque views and a vibrant arts scene. Plenty of material, right?
However, I believe I was crushing on the freedom of living there if I wanted to. When we were walking hand in hand in Little Italy, hubby peered up at an apartment and said “I could live right there.” As we walked through the harbor afterwards, I started to feel the same way.
As a writer, I know my imagination has a life of its own. It will pack up a suitcase, book a flight and go on its merry way. Even as I am writing this, I know it’s the freedom I crave–freedom to travel as we please, live where we want when we want with the stability we need. Since I am well aware we are not there yet, those romantic notions are put on hold-not forever or even indefinitely but until all of our goals are met.
I know this will take being more with steadfast with my efforts with my writing and wellness goals. When I see the rest of my life, I not only envision this level of freedom but a healthy person exercising it.
I think San Diego gave me the gift of this vision and an extra incentive to see it fully realized.
When I was at the Summit of Greatness in September, psychotherapist Esther Perel gave advice to a man seeking to repair a romantic relationship: Send her a handwritten note.
Outside of the obvious things anyone should be doing to win someone back, maintain a friendship or romantic relationship, that was one of the best pieces of advice I had ever heard. I was sure I was not the only one because the whole theater was buzzing right after she said it.
It also caused me to think about two things: The last time I received a hand-written note and the last time I sent one. I write extra notes on greeting cards to my mother and father (my husband and I do not exchange gifts/cards..we plan experiences with each other for our birthdays/holidays). Outside of those occasions, everything is typed or texted.
And since then, a co-worker and a good friend from my writing group have given me cards with handwritten notes on it. Even opening them immediately lit me up inside. It also conjured up memories of a small poem my husband wrote me when we were first married and my participation for a short time in moreloveletters.com which encourages people to leave anonymous uplifting letters tucked away in public spaces. The content almost never matters. For me, it is the time taken.
Because it’s the one thing we can’t get back.