Mealtimes with Megan are my favorite. Once we’re finished eating — this takes about 20 minutes for me and 45 minutes to 3 hours for her — we usually sit and stare at each other until they kick us out of the restaurant. After that, we talk.
We talk about how sad we still are about you-know-who on Downton (I know I bring this up a lot but, really, was that necessary?), fight over the names of our future children (I’m not sure we’ll ever agree), and dream about our future. We’re big dreamers.
I don’t think any of my dreams have been fulfilled the way I would’ve done it — you know, if I had a magic wand and glittery but still masculine fairy-godfather wings (is this possible?). If you would’ve asked me two years ago — okay, let’s be real, even six months ago — where we’d be today, my answer would’ve been totally, completely off the mark. And I’m starting to see that maybe this is for the best.
Whether or not I end up a Tony Award-winning Olympian with a pied-à-terre in Paris and a classy but whimsical coffee shop in San Francisco is beside the point. The self-created end-points of my dreams are just that: mine. But the journey — the everyday, walking-it-out, in-the-momentness living — that belongs to the Fulfiller of Dreams, the Poet behind the rhyme of each and every day of my life.
And I want to eat, sleep, and dream all for Him.