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The world of tomorrow, as seen through today’s lens.
To daydream. Today dream. Today…dream.
I wake up around 7. I come back from the dream world naturally, without panic or stress. A few years ago I moved on from the incessant buzzing and ringing that I would reset every 8 minutes for 1.5 hours until I felt worthless and lazy. No use starting the day with disappointment. Now I listen to my body like my wife listens to Taylor Swift.
I leave a kiss on the forehead that is gently laid across my chest. I slowly move her head to the pillow while she asks me, “Where are you going?” as if this didn’t happen every day. I still answer like it’s the first time.
I walk to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. The floor is cold on my feet as I walk without the cushion of socks. My senses slowly stretch their arms as they awaken to a new day. I make my way to the couch, grab a blanket and pillow for unneeded security, and take a peek out the window to enjoy that day’s weather with the light switch still in the ‘off’ position. There’s an intimacy and peace watching nature go through its existence simultaneously awake and asleep.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Sometimes I forget.
—
I get off the couch, turn the warm glow of the kitchen lights on very dim, just enough to see. I have a bite to eat because I always wake up hungry. Probably some granola, oat milk, and fresh blueberries. I walk to the cupboard, open it up, and grab the bag of coffee beans that I bought in Mexico City because I liked the label. I’m a coffee convert since the pandemic in 2020. I open the bag and take a whiff. Then another. Sometimes I’ll take a third just for good luck. I like the smell. Sue me. I pour the beans in the grinder, dump them in the french press creating a faint echo as I tap the side bing bing bing bing bing. I slowly pour the water in circles while trying to act like I know what I’m doing, even though I have literally no clue and I’m the only one in the room. My imposter syndrome seeps into my barista identity. I like the ritual.
Around 11:00, I walk 5 minutes from my home to my art studio that I share with 4 creative and energetic friends. I sit on the couch with my coffee from home, still full in the thermos that somehow seems to make liquids hotter by the minute so that I can only touch it to my lips for the next 3 hours taking caution to avoid a scalding sip. My friends might already be on the couch, or I’ll just wait for them to arrive while I read a book. Before dropping into work we all come to the couch for 30 minutes to catch up on our lives, share stories, and be present with each other. I used to thoughtlessly jump from bed to work without any human interaction. No more. You’d be surprised how fulfillment finds you when you find time for others.
I then go into my section of the studio. I’ve partitioned it enough to provide privacy and quiet while still inviting air, light, and friends to flow if they so desire. I put my headphones on, most of the time with no music, and begin to create. Each day may be a different project: writing, music, painting, art installation, investments, business. I sit here uninterrupted for about 2 hours before I break. I wander the studio and take a look at what others are working on. We chat and I tell them about what I’ve been doing. We might decide to keep collaborating, or we might go our separate ways again after just 10 seconds.
I leave the studio, hop on the Vespa and ride 9 minutes down the street to the boutique hotel my wife owns. She’s usually in the lobby lounge talking to guests, vendors, or staff. You can hear her laugh from down the street. It makes me smile without even realizing it. I walk inside and try my best not to interrupt the intimate bond that my wife can form in minutes, turning a first interaction into a best friend as if they had known each other since birth. She peels away, promising her new best friend she’ll see them again soon. She won’t break the promise. We walk back home to grab some lunch and catch up on our days so far. Good, bad, struggles, wins.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Sometimes we forget.
—
I live on a multi-unit collective with four of my closest friends, their partners, and their newly forming families. A strong foundation is forming for our version of “extended family”. We are far enough from the city so that the fact we have a “yard” isn’t seen as pretentious. Still close enough that a late night Uber is tempting, but not mandatory. We each have our own separate spaces but share a kitchen, lounge, garden, and common chores. Everything we “have” doesn’t need to be kept for ourselves. If our living situation can be just a fraction of what you hear small villages are like in the Italian countryside, then it will be a life well lived.
A few years ago we all tired of our apartment buildings full of people and amenities, yet empty of spontaneous human interaction. We were putting more effort into avoiding an elevator ride with a neighbor than in calling our grandmother to say hello. A knock on the front door used to be an invitation to hide until the intrusive knuckle pounder gave up and left. The millennial version of a knock knock joke just stops at the “Knock knock”. We’d rather not know, “Who’s there?”
Life was beginning to feel like those times when you’ve been doom scrolling for 1 hour and to get over the shock and disappointment of how long you’ve been on social media, you have to doom scroll for 1 more hour because stopping to accomplish just 50% of a daily task is worse that not even starting it. At least if you didn’t start it you can’t fail. Right? Finally, the hole you’ve purposely dug is getting so deep that the sunlight is getting harder and harder to see. I’ve been climbing out ever since. Slipping too. But mostly climbing. It’s easier to climb when you have a hand to pull you up on the tough parts. A hand that’s not yours. A hand that expects nothing but your hand in return.
Tuesday nights are Listening Hours. The community gathers for our version of an open mic. It’s not a pitch competition or a plea for Instagram followers. Just listen. There are no expectations other than to share you as you are today. Perform your songs that only have 20 seconds completed. Pass around the sculpture of a hummingbird that is just a rectangular block of clay you bought earlier that day. Put forth a plan for letting go of “only I can do it,” so your startup team can grow from 1 to 2. Preview the rough cut of your new documentary trailer. Present the life lessons that were shared by the stray cat you met on the street near the laundromat. Just listen. And support. And rejoice. Your confidence in sharing adds another layer to each of the listener’s defense against, “I’m not good enough”. Perfection is its current form.
When I lay down to sleep, I’m not even worried if I have dreams or not. I’ll wake up to my dream.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Goodnight.
love you. Quinn 