“If money wasn’t an issue, how would you live your life?”
Asks, Ryan Justin, medium writer.
I wrote something similar last week as a writing prompt for those who follow me on social media. It went like this:
“Without limits, no holding back, money isn’t an issue, and love isn’t a want, but already a genuine given. Then ask yourself:
What is your wildest dream? Where are you? How would you look and feel and wonder & wander? Who is inside of you that longs to be seen?”
In answer to ⭐ Ryan Justin’s question, it would be very simple.
In addition to my current career as a therapist, and my role as a mom to two young adults and a large ginger cat, I’d have a small place by the ocean where I could go several times a year and write.
Maybe I could rent it out when I’m not there. Something in me needs to remain practical. It is who I am.
However, my genesis is, I love to write. I mean so much so I would die without the ability to clickety-click all that spirals up inside. Pencils and pens and paper gather next to me. Lists hear me. Poetry heals me. Research fills me. Books are a wellspring of companionship.
Yet life gets busy and writing rarely pays the bills.
What writing does though is it lets me grow and in that growing teaches me.
Since I’m allowed to dream into this query, I find myself reaching out to the great writers:
“[I’d] take a few nouns, and a few pronouns, and adverbs and adjectives, and put them together, ball them up, and throw them against the wall to make them bounce. That’s what Norman Mailer did. That’s what James Baldwin did, and Joan Didion did, and that’s what I do — that’s what I mean to do.”
— Maya Angelou
I want to do that too. My dream is writing. Writing is a dialogue with my soul, as I wrote before. When someone reads and feels it there is a chemistry that goes beyond you and me. How incredible is that? Maybe a little quantum physics is involved much like synchronicities parallel us. Much like how Ryan Justin’s blog came along to remind me our dreams are real.
I’ll be at my beach house.