If only.

If you could take a year off from your current life and do anything in the world, what would you do?

At the end of summer, I'd buy a one-way ticket to Dublin, Ireland.

I'd set up residence in a little apartment with a fireplace, hardwood floors, and a beautiful and brightly painted front door. Yellow perhaps, or green.  I'd stroll along the bustling streets of the city centre, popping in and out of shops, coffee in hand.  On Sunday afternoons, I'd grab fresh cut flowers from Grafton Street to cheer up my kitchen table for the week. I'd eat freshly baked chocolate croissants for five out of the seven breakfasts, and maple pecan porridge from Bewley's the other two.  I'd take the train to Howth at least once a month for candied almonds from the farmer's market and to admire the sailboats in the harbor.  I'd make contact with the Irish friends I made the last time I was there, and we'd catch up over drinks in one of the dark, cozy pubs that make Dublin what it is.

Maybe on a day with no particular significance, while sitting in a cafe to avoid the rain or wandering through Trinity's campus, I'd catch a handsome man's eye, and just maybe we'd fall in love.

Every night, with the cool air rolling in, I'd wrap up in a heavy knit blanket, sit in front of a crackling fire, and I'd write. I'd write about everything I saw and heard and felt.  I'd write without any doubts or question that the words were good enough.  And it would be here, in my little apartment with the brightly painted door, typing away at my keyboard, that I'd discover who I am.