Starting Over...

Fantasy at Summer's End...

Okay, I'll admit it. I've got a fantasy addiction. I peruse the People magazine site daily and torture myself with images of beauty, wealth, and perfection. It doesn't feel good and I can't for the life of me explain why I do it. These images used to provide me with pleasant visages for the characters in my stories, which were, in turn an outlet for my own fantasies. A prettier, thinner version of myself wins the heart of someone who looks like an elf from LOTR before the backdrop of a story of my own creation. Anything to distract from the fact that I'm an overweight, socially awkward 32-year-old woman with no romantic prospects. It has been a long time since I've written though, and I'm starting to wonder what function fantasty is serving in my life. I might broach the question in group therapy but the last couple of times one of my issues took center stage, left feeling ashamed and picked apart.

I will say that my current field work is a fantasy come true. Since I was a child I wanted to be a warrior, Artemis incarnate. Now I'm winded and scorched most days. Sometimes the physical discomfort leaves me downtrodden, but I'm doing things that require strength I never knew I had. I face the searing heat I used to avoid to see bald eagles fledging their chicks as I drift in a canoe on the same river that bore my fondest childhood memories. On land, I plow through briars, chigger infested grasses, and swarms of biting flies to collect the samples I need to unlock a mystery. I guess this is a metaphor for life. Pain is an integral part of fulfillment and hiding from pain only robs you of the joy you are most entitled to. Even the handsome characters in my stories face constant adversity. It's what makes the fantasy exciting. As this summer fieldwork comes to an end, I hope I can continue to find wonder in reality.

Maybe I'll even take up archery...