Was taken out for an absolutely lovely bon voyage dinner last night and began talking about the luxury of having dreams. I remembered having a conversation with a friend (the same friend who pushed me over the tipping point to actually go on this trip). She said that I was lucky to have a dream. That she longed for a clear sense of purpose and focused desire like that. The sentiment was echoed by my dinner companions and the more I think about it, the more I've heard versions of it quite a lot.
There are many manifestations of dream anorexia. Some of us choose more socially acceptable versions of what we'd really like to do. Like becoming an editor when we'd really like to write. Some just follow life's "Shoulds" and get jobs that our parents would approve of. Sometimes our own psychological injuries lead us to a life's work of overcompensating for them. Like growing up poor and becoming obsessed with money.
I've said for years that my career has run parallel to my dreams. Close enough to touch them, but millions of miles away. I've always wanted to be a writer and a performer. When I was a kid, I'd play dress up every day, creating worlds and characters and stories and acting them out. But, I got scared. There is no prescribed path for creative people. Even my well-meaning parents couldn't offer much guidance. As doctors, their path was pretty cut and dried. Undergrad science, med school, residency and ten years later, you're a doctor. You'll make several hundred grand a year and have the respect of the entire world. Lucky bastards.
I often joke about how my father was born knowing what he wanted to do. I lamented my drifting from job to job, lost and completely lacking in direction. I, too, wanted the focus and drive that comes from knowing exactly what you want and doing what it takes to get it.
The thing is, I already knew. And I'll go out on a limb here and say this: so do you. You already know exactly what you want to do. Your dreams are already there, waiting for you. You just don't know it.
Don't worry. I won't go all woo woo on you just yet (that comes later), but consider this: you intuitively know exactly what it is you are supposed to be doing, but the chatter in your head is drowning it out. Your mind works overtime processing and analyzing and judging and commenting. It compares every bit of information to what it already knows to be "true" and evaluates it based on a filter of past experience, imposed morals and beliefs.
What if you just asked it politely to be quiet? If you got out of your own way and allowed your intuition to speak up.
Listening to your gut is a surefire way to discovering and living your dreams.
Sound too easy? I suppose it is. Once you get the mind-chatter to quiet down. Up until this point, you've probably been trusting your mind. Your thoughts and emotions (sneaky buggers) have been bossing you around. They are convincing, I'll give them that. But they're operating on fear and what other people will think and beliefs that have formed over time. Beliefs like 'Money equals security' or 'I have to be responsible.'
Trusting and listening to one's gut takes some practice. Especially if your little intuition has been sitting silent for a while. Its voice will be rusty and it may not trust that it's okay to speak. The mind has been the boss: loud, judgmental, commenting and trying to control everything that happens. Bossypants may not want to take a breather and back off. It likes being in control.
So be gentle. Allow your mind to just take 'er easy. Do some deep breathing. Listen to a meditation podcast (my new favourite thing in the world). Do some exercise to tire her out. And then listen. And listen some more. It may take a while, but if you keep quieting the mind, eventually your gut will speak up.
It's okay to ask for guidance. It's okay to begin a conversation with your intuition, the same way we converse with our minds. Ask your intuition to speak to you. See what it says. It might be just a whisper at first, but it will get stronger and louder the more you give it permission to speak. The more you get out of your own way.
Messages from our intuition can be nebulous and seemingly pointless. Or they can be fully formed and crystal clear. They all have value. An example of each. I had the opportunity for a promotion from being the editor of a magazine to being the publisher of a magazine. A status-filled, ego-satisfying societal upgrade in many people's eyes. My salary would have doubled. I would have been the youngest publisher in this company's history. My parents would be so proud.
I was flown to Toronto for an interview with the VP of the third-largest publishing company in the country. I got the job. I accepted the job. Five days later, sitting in the Vancouver airport, my gut spoke up. It's. Not. Right. Three words. Undeniably clear. Straight from my stomach. The words seemed to float in the air in front of my face. I stared at them, half willing them to disappear, half desperately relieved they had finally shown up. Of course it wasn't right! Being publisher meant selling advertising all day and every day. I was a writer for God's sake. I quit the job and have never looked back.
So, that one was crystal clear and unmistakable. The other example, not so much. I had, like millions of others, joined Facebook and was in the process of reconnecting with people from university, high school, grade school, etc. Much of the early stages of Facebook involves semi-sincere offers to 'get together sometime and catch up.' Most of these come to naught.
But I was compelled to get together with a certain young lady I knew in university. We went for green tea smoothies and the conversation was incredible. She told me about a play series that was accepting submissions and it twigged with me. I put together an application, which got accepted to my surprise. And the result was my one-woman show and on a larger scale reconnecting with my dreams.
The point here is that if you follow the instructions from your intuition, no matter how small and tangential they seem to you, you cannot go wrong.
How can you tell the difference between the voice in your head and the voice in your gut? Messages from your intuition are usually very simple. Do this. Go here. Call him. There is no circuitous reasoning or analysis: call him and ask him about this and maybe he'll say that and then you'll do this. No. That's your head.
Your intuition will say something like, "Guitar." And you'll be perplexed. The next day, you'll notice a music shop down the street and there will be a sign in the window that says 'Guitar Lessons.' You see how this works? It's an inner guidance system. Trust it. Follow it.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Three Sleeps
There comes a point when you've said YES to your dreams and you've walked through the door that has opened and they're happening. And you want to crawl back into bed and never come out.
It's like the first day of school. You peacocked around for days beforehand, all puffed up about being a 'big girl now' and you were all decked out in your new back to school outfit and your first day of school hairdo. And all of a sudden you have to get on that bus for the first time and all you could think was, "Mommy!"
But you had to get on the bus. I have to get on the plane. Who knows what awaits me there? What gifts? What challenges (which is to say, which wrong Metro stop will I get off at and wander around for hours dragging my dead body of a duffel bag, choking back the tears)?
I have not traveled a lot, but I travel observantly when I do and have come to the following conclusion: any trouble you run into while traveling (unless of course you choose to carry an unidentified package out of Thailand) only costs you money or time. Yes, both are precious and you can get your knickers in a twist about your budget (which everyone knows is going right out the window anyhow) or you can relax and realize that it's only money and it's only time. An extra 20 Euro and two hours is nothing in the grand scheme of your grand adventure.
We'd be well served to think the same about fear too. It's only fear.
Lately, when fear comes a-knocking, I've begun striking up a conversation with it. "Oh, hello Fear. Haven't seen you in a few days. How's tricks?" Etc.
Fear, incidentally, isn't much of a conversationalist. It prefers the non-verbal, intimidation style of communication. Like a bouncer or a mafia goon. It just shows up and stares at you and you start blubbering and crying and you practically take your own kneecaps out because, really, all it did is just stand there. So, the best bet is not to be intimidated.
"Hey Fear, nice boots. So spiky! And where did you get those brass knuckles? I've been looking for a pair myself. I figure you have a good gig with this intimidation business. Looks fun. Is it fun? And how are the benefits? Do you get dental? I'm dying for dental coverage right now."
You see my point.
Reminds me of the end of the movie Labyrinth when a very young Jennifer Connolly realizes that a very drag queen David Bowie actually has no physical power over her. He's just been rocking the intimidation factor (and the magenta eye shadow). And she throws the shiny ball-thing up in the air and he looks like 'Aw shit, the gig is up' and the ball-thing probably smashes into millions of pieces. Omigod...just like the illusion David Bowie created! So much wisdom in movies from the mid-80s, yes?
So, yeah, Fear. Small talk helps, sure, but there's something bigger that helps as well. Trust. Trust in yourself. Trust in the universe, God, Allah...whatever Higher Power you are working with. Wait, you are working with a Higher Power, aren't you? Oh dear. Here we go...
It's like the first day of school. You peacocked around for days beforehand, all puffed up about being a 'big girl now' and you were all decked out in your new back to school outfit and your first day of school hairdo. And all of a sudden you have to get on that bus for the first time and all you could think was, "Mommy!"
But you had to get on the bus. I have to get on the plane. Who knows what awaits me there? What gifts? What challenges (which is to say, which wrong Metro stop will I get off at and wander around for hours dragging my dead body of a duffel bag, choking back the tears)?
I have not traveled a lot, but I travel observantly when I do and have come to the following conclusion: any trouble you run into while traveling (unless of course you choose to carry an unidentified package out of Thailand) only costs you money or time. Yes, both are precious and you can get your knickers in a twist about your budget (which everyone knows is going right out the window anyhow) or you can relax and realize that it's only money and it's only time. An extra 20 Euro and two hours is nothing in the grand scheme of your grand adventure.
We'd be well served to think the same about fear too. It's only fear.
Lately, when fear comes a-knocking, I've begun striking up a conversation with it. "Oh, hello Fear. Haven't seen you in a few days. How's tricks?" Etc.
Fear, incidentally, isn't much of a conversationalist. It prefers the non-verbal, intimidation style of communication. Like a bouncer or a mafia goon. It just shows up and stares at you and you start blubbering and crying and you practically take your own kneecaps out because, really, all it did is just stand there. So, the best bet is not to be intimidated.
"Hey Fear, nice boots. So spiky! And where did you get those brass knuckles? I've been looking for a pair myself. I figure you have a good gig with this intimidation business. Looks fun. Is it fun? And how are the benefits? Do you get dental? I'm dying for dental coverage right now."
You see my point.
Reminds me of the end of the movie Labyrinth when a very young Jennifer Connolly realizes that a very drag queen David Bowie actually has no physical power over her. He's just been rocking the intimidation factor (and the magenta eye shadow). And she throws the shiny ball-thing up in the air and he looks like 'Aw shit, the gig is up' and the ball-thing probably smashes into millions of pieces. Omigod...just like the illusion David Bowie created! So much wisdom in movies from the mid-80s, yes?
So, yeah, Fear. Small talk helps, sure, but there's something bigger that helps as well. Trust. Trust in yourself. Trust in the universe, God, Allah...whatever Higher Power you are working with. Wait, you are working with a Higher Power, aren't you? Oh dear. Here we go...
Friday, March 28, 2008
How To Live Your Dream: Part Deux
And so, the psychological/spiritual/emotional side of things. Perhaps I should have titled this post: Fear Management And You. That's all it is, friends. Fear. What holds you back from everything you've ever wanted to do, be, see, say, have...
From a macro perspective, one's life should be a systematic dismantling of fear – which has probably been building up since you were around three years old. From a micro perspective, it's more about being scared shitless and doing it anyway. You can do a lot of reading on fear and its various and creative manifestations in people's psyches and actions. You could spend your whole life researching it or trying to dodge it, but when it comes right down to it, the only way out is through.
I won't sugar-coat things though. There is a distinct possibility that you could actually fail. But I have a feeling fear's impressions and interpretations of how failure will feel are way worse than how failure actually feels.
A small case study. I was once married. I was desperately afraid of my husband leaving. I felt that if he left, I would die. (Let's not even start with how ridiculous these beliefs are. One of the points of this exercise is to understand that most beliefs are actually ridiculous when under the harsh light of scrutiny.) So, my belief was that if my marriage failed, I would die.
Then, my husband left. I remember the day quite well. It was our second wedding anniversary and he told me he was leaving. He got a massive nosebleed, which I helped clean up and then I went to my parents house. I told them what was going on and I went to bed. I woke up the next day and gave notice on our apartment. I was not dead. Far from it, actually, I was functioning. I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Don't get me wrong, it felt terrible. Hurt and sadness, the whole nine yards.
And although it sounds like a beauty pageant thing to say, it really was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I got a new beginning. I got to rebuild my life exactly the way I wanted it. I got to rebuild myself, my identity, my self-esteem, exactly the way I wanted it. In fact, one could say that my husband leaving was one of the catalysts for me living my Paris dream now.
During my almost-five-year relationship with him, I systematically moved away from my own dreams. During the five years since he left, I've been systematically moving toward them. It sometimes irritates me that it's taken so damn long. That I've "wasted" ten years of my life on this there-and-back-again journey.
But, as Julia Cameron writes in 'The Artist's Way' (a highly, highly recommended read):
"But do you know how old I will be by the time I learn to really play the piano/act/paint/write a decent play?"
Yes...the same age you will be if you don't.
So let's start.
The notions of wasted time and it being 'too late' are irrelevant. And although we can mourn the loss of our innocence, wallowing too far is only doing that which we are worried about in the first place: wasting time. There will always be a million reasons not to. I've been known to say that your mind can talk you into or out of anything.
Your brilliant brain is not to be trusted. Your brain is a control freak and a pain in the ass. Think of the office where you work. Your brain is that irritating know-it-all you work with. The one who can't let anything go without comment, judgment and most likely condemnation. She's pear-shaped and dresses like it's 1986 and has a she-mullet and stuff stuck in her teeth. This is your mind on fear.
So, the first step is to feel the fear and do it anyway – whatever 'it' is. 'It' doesn't have to be jumping on a plane to write in Paris. Perhaps 'it' is simply allowing yourself to think that this full-time career you've donated years and years of your life to is not your higher calling, no matter what pay scale you are at or what Assistant Regional Director title they tack onto it. Or that you always secretly wanted to be a rock star, pastry chef, poet, film director, writer, painter, photographer, astrophysicist.
The second step is to begin. Now. There will always be reasons why not. There will always be excuses. Trust me, I became a master of excuses: I can't go to Paris now, because I have a big project coming up. Because I only get two weeks' holiday. Because I'm buying a condo.
Don't think that your excuses are better or more justified than anyone else's. That's a load of crap. Everyone has to pay bills and be responsible. Everyone has expectations and pressures. There is no prize for having the best, most self-limiting excuse. You got yourself into this mess. You don't get a gold star for being a martyr and staying in it.
Begin by observing how your crafty little mind creates blocks and excuses to keep you right where you are in your own status quo. I can't focus on my photography until I retire. I can't quit my job because I said I'd stick it out for two years. I can't go to art school because I just graduated from engineering school. I can't be an interior designer because being a doctor is more respected. I can't be an artist because I won't be able to pay my mortgage. I can't go to the beach until I lose ten pounds.
These probably sound familiar. And they probably sound like the truth. Are they really? Do you really have to lose ten pounds before you go to a beach? Or do you need to accept and love yourself before you allow yourself to do the things you truly desire? Before you feel worthy of living the life you imagined?
Let me ask you this: when does your real life begin? When does this trial-run, rehearsal, safety-first, holding pattern life end and the exciting, passion and purpose-filled vision of your life start? Why can't that be now?
From a macro perspective, one's life should be a systematic dismantling of fear – which has probably been building up since you were around three years old. From a micro perspective, it's more about being scared shitless and doing it anyway. You can do a lot of reading on fear and its various and creative manifestations in people's psyches and actions. You could spend your whole life researching it or trying to dodge it, but when it comes right down to it, the only way out is through.
I won't sugar-coat things though. There is a distinct possibility that you could actually fail. But I have a feeling fear's impressions and interpretations of how failure will feel are way worse than how failure actually feels.
A small case study. I was once married. I was desperately afraid of my husband leaving. I felt that if he left, I would die. (Let's not even start with how ridiculous these beliefs are. One of the points of this exercise is to understand that most beliefs are actually ridiculous when under the harsh light of scrutiny.) So, my belief was that if my marriage failed, I would die.
Then, my husband left. I remember the day quite well. It was our second wedding anniversary and he told me he was leaving. He got a massive nosebleed, which I helped clean up and then I went to my parents house. I told them what was going on and I went to bed. I woke up the next day and gave notice on our apartment. I was not dead. Far from it, actually, I was functioning. I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Don't get me wrong, it felt terrible. Hurt and sadness, the whole nine yards.
And although it sounds like a beauty pageant thing to say, it really was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I got a new beginning. I got to rebuild my life exactly the way I wanted it. I got to rebuild myself, my identity, my self-esteem, exactly the way I wanted it. In fact, one could say that my husband leaving was one of the catalysts for me living my Paris dream now.
During my almost-five-year relationship with him, I systematically moved away from my own dreams. During the five years since he left, I've been systematically moving toward them. It sometimes irritates me that it's taken so damn long. That I've "wasted" ten years of my life on this there-and-back-again journey.
But, as Julia Cameron writes in 'The Artist's Way' (a highly, highly recommended read):
"But do you know how old I will be by the time I learn to really play the piano/act/paint/write a decent play?"
Yes...the same age you will be if you don't.
So let's start.
The notions of wasted time and it being 'too late' are irrelevant. And although we can mourn the loss of our innocence, wallowing too far is only doing that which we are worried about in the first place: wasting time. There will always be a million reasons not to. I've been known to say that your mind can talk you into or out of anything.
Your brilliant brain is not to be trusted. Your brain is a control freak and a pain in the ass. Think of the office where you work. Your brain is that irritating know-it-all you work with. The one who can't let anything go without comment, judgment and most likely condemnation. She's pear-shaped and dresses like it's 1986 and has a she-mullet and stuff stuck in her teeth. This is your mind on fear.
So, the first step is to feel the fear and do it anyway – whatever 'it' is. 'It' doesn't have to be jumping on a plane to write in Paris. Perhaps 'it' is simply allowing yourself to think that this full-time career you've donated years and years of your life to is not your higher calling, no matter what pay scale you are at or what Assistant Regional Director title they tack onto it. Or that you always secretly wanted to be a rock star, pastry chef, poet, film director, writer, painter, photographer, astrophysicist.
The second step is to begin. Now. There will always be reasons why not. There will always be excuses. Trust me, I became a master of excuses: I can't go to Paris now, because I have a big project coming up. Because I only get two weeks' holiday. Because I'm buying a condo.
Don't think that your excuses are better or more justified than anyone else's. That's a load of crap. Everyone has to pay bills and be responsible. Everyone has expectations and pressures. There is no prize for having the best, most self-limiting excuse. You got yourself into this mess. You don't get a gold star for being a martyr and staying in it.
Begin by observing how your crafty little mind creates blocks and excuses to keep you right where you are in your own status quo. I can't focus on my photography until I retire. I can't quit my job because I said I'd stick it out for two years. I can't go to art school because I just graduated from engineering school. I can't be an interior designer because being a doctor is more respected. I can't be an artist because I won't be able to pay my mortgage. I can't go to the beach until I lose ten pounds.
These probably sound familiar. And they probably sound like the truth. Are they really? Do you really have to lose ten pounds before you go to a beach? Or do you need to accept and love yourself before you allow yourself to do the things you truly desire? Before you feel worthy of living the life you imagined?
Let me ask you this: when does your real life begin? When does this trial-run, rehearsal, safety-first, holding pattern life end and the exciting, passion and purpose-filled vision of your life start? Why can't that be now?
Monday, March 24, 2008
How To Live Your Dream: Part One
Last week, a new friend of mine asked, "Would you mind if I asked how it all came together?" Of course I didn't mind, but I wasn't sure if she meant practically or spiritually. Because, although they're connected, they are two very different things. There's the nuts and bolts of the thing and then there's the 'daring to dream' thing.
Practically speaking, it's ridiculously simple. It's pretty much like when you were 10 and you wanted a new shiny red bike. You save your pennies and then get what you want. To live in Paris for a month you need a plane ticket, an apartment and a bit of cash to eat with. I worked on a large-ish project last summer, which I knew would garner a substantial chunk of change. Not millions, by any stretch, but enough to tell me that I could indeed pay for Paris.
My flight cost $900. I stalked the rates for weeks and weeks and on the day I booked, the fares had dropped $200. Way after the fact, I found out about Zoom airlines and realized I probably could have gotten an even better deal. Also, I'm going in April, which is before high season.
I budgeted around $2000 for my apartment. Here's where you can definitely choose your own adventure. I saw 100 sq. ft. places for 700 Euro a month and penthouses for 3-4000 Euro. In my case, I just set my budget and went about fitting it. Someone I know is French and he offered to help me find a place. His one-year-old daughter and two businesses, however, had other plans, so I was on my own. Enter Google. So easy. I searched for long-term rentals and there are approximately 75 bazillion people subletting their apartments in Paris. Mm hmm. It's just that simple.
Some sites charge you ridiculous commission fees, which I refused to pay. I found a free site (and I'm so sorry, but I searched so many, I can't recall the URL) and sent a total of three emails. All three were booked, but two offered alternatives. One alt was blech – just think about 100 sq. ft. of living space for a moment. Yeah. The other was my dream flat. Positively palatial at 350 sq. ft. the place is cute and cozy and had a creative feel (full bookshelves! hot pink duvet cover! real bedroom - as in NOT a futon in the living room!) and a signing bonus: it's owned by an Italian film producer.
Excuse me? No, seriously, what did you say? It's true. Italian film producer. I immediately began joking about "accidentally" leaving a screenplay I'd written on the kitchen table. And the cynics in my life began joking about me staying in an Italian porn producer's pad. (He does not, for the record, made porn. Unless you consider wacky artsy experimental film a kind of porn. Wanking, maybe, but porn? Nah.)
There was another signing bonus incidentally. I am Senor Producer's first tenant and I got a deal. He wanted to charge me 2-300 Euro more than I'm paying (1500 E), but the manager convinced him to take my offer. Love her. Love him. Love it all.
So. There's the plane ticket. And the flat. Now all I had to do was get a month off work. Here's where I'll admit that the first incarnation of this dream was me in Paris for a year. But that was back in the Idealistic Early 20s. 'Member those? When you railed against capitalism and stuff? And life was so, like, complicated? Good times.
Whatever. Life happens and BOOM, you're over 30 and your biological clock is ticking and your RRSPs are nowhere near being maxed and the concept of Footloose and Fancy Free is fading and that's when you stop thinking and Pull. The. Trigger.
But this is veering dangerously into the Psycho/Spiritual version of the 'How'd you pull this off?' question, so we'll just say, practically speaking that negotiation is the key. I started a part-time contract at an ad agency a few months before I booked my flight. They offered me a bit of a crap deal on the salary end of things, so I negotiated more time off. Four weeks to be exact. Hmm, sounds a lot like a month in Paris, don't it? Got a raise coming up? Why not opt for time instead of their pitiful 2%? It's your money or your life.
I actually ended up leaving that job and going freelance at the end of January this year. So I can theoretically take as much time off as I want. I could also work and get paid the entire time I'm away. But that would take away from the delicious gift of one precious month in Paris. So, I'm taking a bit of a risk. There is a chance that my 30-day absence will lead to all my clients forgetting that I exist and I'll die poor and sad and alone. Man, life is hard, yeah? Chances are, I'll be okay.
So, plane ticket, apartment, month off work. Um, besides a power converter thingy which I borrowed from my mom, that's about it. But it must be said that if it was that easy everyone would be off and living their dreams, now wouldn't they? Which is why the psycho/spiritual piece is the key to the case. More on this soon.
Practically speaking, it's ridiculously simple. It's pretty much like when you were 10 and you wanted a new shiny red bike. You save your pennies and then get what you want. To live in Paris for a month you need a plane ticket, an apartment and a bit of cash to eat with. I worked on a large-ish project last summer, which I knew would garner a substantial chunk of change. Not millions, by any stretch, but enough to tell me that I could indeed pay for Paris.
My flight cost $900. I stalked the rates for weeks and weeks and on the day I booked, the fares had dropped $200. Way after the fact, I found out about Zoom airlines and realized I probably could have gotten an even better deal. Also, I'm going in April, which is before high season.
I budgeted around $2000 for my apartment. Here's where you can definitely choose your own adventure. I saw 100 sq. ft. places for 700 Euro a month and penthouses for 3-4000 Euro. In my case, I just set my budget and went about fitting it. Someone I know is French and he offered to help me find a place. His one-year-old daughter and two businesses, however, had other plans, so I was on my own. Enter Google. So easy. I searched for long-term rentals and there are approximately 75 bazillion people subletting their apartments in Paris. Mm hmm. It's just that simple.
Some sites charge you ridiculous commission fees, which I refused to pay. I found a free site (and I'm so sorry, but I searched so many, I can't recall the URL) and sent a total of three emails. All three were booked, but two offered alternatives. One alt was blech – just think about 100 sq. ft. of living space for a moment. Yeah. The other was my dream flat. Positively palatial at 350 sq. ft. the place is cute and cozy and had a creative feel (full bookshelves! hot pink duvet cover! real bedroom - as in NOT a futon in the living room!) and a signing bonus: it's owned by an Italian film producer.
Excuse me? No, seriously, what did you say? It's true. Italian film producer. I immediately began joking about "accidentally" leaving a screenplay I'd written on the kitchen table. And the cynics in my life began joking about me staying in an Italian porn producer's pad. (He does not, for the record, made porn. Unless you consider wacky artsy experimental film a kind of porn. Wanking, maybe, but porn? Nah.)
There was another signing bonus incidentally. I am Senor Producer's first tenant and I got a deal. He wanted to charge me 2-300 Euro more than I'm paying (1500 E), but the manager convinced him to take my offer. Love her. Love him. Love it all.
So. There's the plane ticket. And the flat. Now all I had to do was get a month off work. Here's where I'll admit that the first incarnation of this dream was me in Paris for a year. But that was back in the Idealistic Early 20s. 'Member those? When you railed against capitalism and stuff? And life was so, like, complicated? Good times.
Whatever. Life happens and BOOM, you're over 30 and your biological clock is ticking and your RRSPs are nowhere near being maxed and the concept of Footloose and Fancy Free is fading and that's when you stop thinking and Pull. The. Trigger.
But this is veering dangerously into the Psycho/Spiritual version of the 'How'd you pull this off?' question, so we'll just say, practically speaking that negotiation is the key. I started a part-time contract at an ad agency a few months before I booked my flight. They offered me a bit of a crap deal on the salary end of things, so I negotiated more time off. Four weeks to be exact. Hmm, sounds a lot like a month in Paris, don't it? Got a raise coming up? Why not opt for time instead of their pitiful 2%? It's your money or your life.
I actually ended up leaving that job and going freelance at the end of January this year. So I can theoretically take as much time off as I want. I could also work and get paid the entire time I'm away. But that would take away from the delicious gift of one precious month in Paris. So, I'm taking a bit of a risk. There is a chance that my 30-day absence will lead to all my clients forgetting that I exist and I'll die poor and sad and alone. Man, life is hard, yeah? Chances are, I'll be okay.
So, plane ticket, apartment, month off work. Um, besides a power converter thingy which I borrowed from my mom, that's about it. But it must be said that if it was that easy everyone would be off and living their dreams, now wouldn't they? Which is why the psycho/spiritual piece is the key to the case. More on this soon.
T-Minus One Week
Or rather one week and one day. I leave April 1, 2008 for one month in Paris. It is a dream I've had – to write in Paris – for well over a decade. A dream that I've talked about (and talked about and talked about) until one day last year. When a friend of mine said two things.
The first thing I'd heard before: "God, you talk about this a lot. When are you going to stop talking and just do it already so we can talk about something else?" It was the second thing she said that really got me. "Um, Mel," she said. "It could suck, you know." [Cue earthquake and epic Wagnerian score.]
It's true. It could suck. And that had never occurred to me before. I had built up The Paris Experience to be the pinnacle of my entire life. The high point of existence. The thing against which everything else would be measured. And yeah, it could suck.
That was the tipping point. If I was indeed basing my entire life's worth on an experience that was going to suck, I had better get it over with and see what was on the other side. I booked my ticket in October, saved a bunch of money and here we are, a week out from me living the dream. My dream.
I will say this, achieving dreams comes with its fair share of gutwrenching fear. This isn't a Parisian holiday, my friends. This is an epic creative journey. And for anyone who has two-stepped with their own creativity, it's no walk in the park. (Hmm, mixing dancing and walking metaphors. Oh well, at least they are both some kind of movement.)
Aha! The Editor has reared her judgmental head. Note the smarty-pants tone. Won't be the last we hear of her methinks.
The Editor has chosen an appropriate time to make an entrance. The Editor, a.k.a. The Censor, has figured prominently in my life as a creative person. This is the voice that tells you you're too old, it's too late, you're not talented enough, you should have taken Creative Writing in University or (if you really wanted to make it) you should have dropped everything and high-tailed it to New York when you were eighteen. Censor, meet everybody. Everybody, meet Censor.
This sweetheart of an inner demon also echoes with well-meaning but misguided parental messages about Security and Sensible Choices. The SS. The Creativity Gestapo. They come in the night, put a bag over your head and make you swear allegiance to things like Full-Time Jobs, Health Benefits and Mortgages. The pluses of a regular paycheque aside, the threat of getting the crap beaten out of you in the middle of the night makes it hard to write a poem with any sense of innocence or joy.
And so, welcome to my journey back home. The journey takes me to Paris, yes, but it is a homecoming to my creative self. A self that, for the past ten years, has been biding its time. Waiting and watching as I make "safe" choices, trading paycheques for mortgage payments, trading dreams for stability. A self that has patiently tolerated watered-down iterations of my dream from working as a magazine editor to writing ad copy. A self that stroked my hair as I quit job after job wondering if it's me – if I'm simply not cut out for the 9-to-5 world. A self that finally looked me in the eye and said, "Darling, it's time."
Like most things, this story begins long before I actually board the plane. Perhaps I'll tell you about it sometime.
The first thing I'd heard before: "God, you talk about this a lot. When are you going to stop talking and just do it already so we can talk about something else?" It was the second thing she said that really got me. "Um, Mel," she said. "It could suck, you know." [Cue earthquake and epic Wagnerian score.]
It's true. It could suck. And that had never occurred to me before. I had built up The Paris Experience to be the pinnacle of my entire life. The high point of existence. The thing against which everything else would be measured. And yeah, it could suck.
That was the tipping point. If I was indeed basing my entire life's worth on an experience that was going to suck, I had better get it over with and see what was on the other side. I booked my ticket in October, saved a bunch of money and here we are, a week out from me living the dream. My dream.
I will say this, achieving dreams comes with its fair share of gutwrenching fear. This isn't a Parisian holiday, my friends. This is an epic creative journey. And for anyone who has two-stepped with their own creativity, it's no walk in the park. (Hmm, mixing dancing and walking metaphors. Oh well, at least they are both some kind of movement.)
Aha! The Editor has reared her judgmental head. Note the smarty-pants tone. Won't be the last we hear of her methinks.
The Editor has chosen an appropriate time to make an entrance. The Editor, a.k.a. The Censor, has figured prominently in my life as a creative person. This is the voice that tells you you're too old, it's too late, you're not talented enough, you should have taken Creative Writing in University or (if you really wanted to make it) you should have dropped everything and high-tailed it to New York when you were eighteen. Censor, meet everybody. Everybody, meet Censor.
This sweetheart of an inner demon also echoes with well-meaning but misguided parental messages about Security and Sensible Choices. The SS. The Creativity Gestapo. They come in the night, put a bag over your head and make you swear allegiance to things like Full-Time Jobs, Health Benefits and Mortgages. The pluses of a regular paycheque aside, the threat of getting the crap beaten out of you in the middle of the night makes it hard to write a poem with any sense of innocence or joy.
And so, welcome to my journey back home. The journey takes me to Paris, yes, but it is a homecoming to my creative self. A self that, for the past ten years, has been biding its time. Waiting and watching as I make "safe" choices, trading paycheques for mortgage payments, trading dreams for stability. A self that has patiently tolerated watered-down iterations of my dream from working as a magazine editor to writing ad copy. A self that stroked my hair as I quit job after job wondering if it's me – if I'm simply not cut out for the 9-to-5 world. A self that finally looked me in the eye and said, "Darling, it's time."
Like most things, this story begins long before I actually board the plane. Perhaps I'll tell you about it sometime.
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