It's always struck me as strange and absurd and bizarre that we escape "real life" by going away on vacation. That our lives should be so unlike vacations that we run away once or twice a year to finally relax and be with family and enjoy somewhere beautiful.

What is real life, then?

After a really lovely long weekend in Maine spent with my partner (think rolling mountains, beautiful sunsets, late nights with cocktails, a sweet little Airbnb, sleeping in and coffee in bed, walks on the beach), I'm letting all these thoughts tumble around in my head. How can it be, that Monday through Friday feels like living in a cave, and Saturday morning I wake and the sun is shining, only to disappear again on Sunday evening? Why shouldn't every day feel just as glorious?

I'm thinking about little ways I can make the "real world" feel more like vacation -- perhaps putting fresh flowers in the bedroom to feel like a hotel, trying a new tucked-away restaurant to feel like we're exploring a far-off city, carving out time for long hot showers and fluffy clean towels.

Because I refuse to believe that life is to be escaped. It can't possibly be. And so I will create it.