There can be advantages to living a fully imagined life inside the confines of your head.
To get to the small family owned winery we visited this weekend, we drove ten miles or so west of Charlottesville to a little town called Crozet. The winding roads led us past rolling farm land, past rambling old farmhouses with wrap around porches and views to die for, past breathtaking scenic vistas provided courtesy of the Blue Ridge Mountains. When we came upon a sign for Folly Farm, located just across the road from the hard packed dirt trail of Tucked Away Lane, I wanted nothing more than to abandon life as I know it and move there immediately. If not sooner.
The likelihood that my dreams of living in a place like that will ever come true are slim, at best. But there's no reason they can't come alive on paper, now is there?
I lost the better part of yesterday afternoon transcribing the contents of my mind. Sketching intricate doodles of the cinderblock VFW hall on the corner, and the Tonka trucks, inflatible pools and bicycles scattered in the yards of the houses by the school. Scribbling copious notes, about the how-to's of wine making and the grapes that make up Virginia vineyards, about the articles I'd read in the eight-page upstart Crozet Gazette, about the personality and dynamics of a community comprised of fewer than 3000 people.
Imagining what life might be like were it lived down a winding dirt road, aptly named Tucked Away Lane, in a little town called Crozet.
Sixty-two pages worth of imagining, to be exact.
Where it all came from, I couldn't say.
I'm either one very inspired or one woefully lame human being.
It's hard to know the difference sometimes.