A Snapshot of My Dream Life

For a job application, I had to submit a writing sample with the following prompt: describe a snapshot of your dream life, what does it look like? What does it feel like?

I tried to think hard about the dream life I truly wanted, but in my mind, I saw so many possibilities in a kaleidoscope. Some, more clear than others, and the more I thought, the more realistic they got. But ultimately I decided to put myself in a false reality that was so far from my life now just to get a glimpse of what it could look like. Here is what I wrote:

The darkness under my eyes begins to leak light as my eyelids faintly flicker. I start to feel the warm breeze dancing over me, lifting the edges of my dress, spinning the ends of my hair up and all around. My fingertips graze the soft yet coarse grass beneath me. My eyes let the sunlight pour into me, welcoming me back to earth. The sun, now settled on the right side of the skyline, alerts me to how long I dozed off. I slowly lift each vertebra off of mother nature’s cushion until I am standing on my feet. I survey my surroundings: short but stout trees enclose me, and I notice my worn wooden bucket is nearly full of plump green olives. Time for happy hour, I think. I make my way down the row, towards the house, picking a few more olives on my way. The leaves swish and rustle with each gust of wind. I let the blows twirl my hair and my dress, no one is around to see anyways. I reach the end of the row and the world opens up in front of me; Tuscany’s viridescent rolling hills pervade me. Despite all my years here, it still takes my breath away. The lush landscape, as green as an emerald but certainly livelier, frames the quaint stone house I call home. I swing the creaky wooden gate, clacking my sandals across the cobblestone. I set the bucket on the sun-stained table underneath the lemon tree, and notice the back door propped open. Upon entering the kitchen, the smell of flour and the soft sound of saxophone encompass me. Hangers topped with freshly rolled pasta dough hang on white wood cabinets and the chandelier above. A warm tight embrace from behind delights me, “it’s about time”, he whispers in my ear while spinning me around to face him. I return the love to my husband and follow him out to the veranda. We clink our glasses filled with orange heaven, “To life”, we both say. The sun sets slower here, allowing you to truly enjoy the beauty of it. The sky turns from orange to pink, to purple with the twirls of our forks. By the end of each day my cheeks hurt, and my eyes are sore. But the pain from being too happy doesn’t really hurt at all.

Each day brings the same sun but different adventures. Tandem bikes and intimate getaways to Lake Como become swimming lessons and beach trips for 3. The hum of the sax is replaced by high-pitched screams and endless giggles. But the happy pain remains. And in precious, seldomly quiet moments, I still find myself waking up in the field of trees, the sun drifting above me, and the world opening up in front of me.

I put myself in Northern Italy, and for those 15 minutes where I wrote, I could feel the wind blowing my hair, my feeling of the grass on my toes, I could tell you the exact way my imaginary house smelt. It’s important to note, I’ve never even been to Italy. Although I didn’t get the job, this exercise reminded me of something much more important: the power of writing. To write is to create anything you want with the small tool in your hand, it’s to escape or alter your reality, it can figuratively take you anywhere. And now, when I’m feeling uninspired or lost, I reread my writing sample and it takes me right back to this non-existent place I created one morning.

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