I have a rich fantasy life. No, not that kind (well, not JUST that kind). I used to, for example, imagine that family yard work could be a kind of magazine spread of wonderfulness, all of us in fisherman sweaters, laughing among the brilliant fall leaves as we raked and played in the swirling sunlight. Reality quickly set in on that one and I’ll spare you the description of the actual scene since it is early in the morning and all.

One of my non-abandoned fantasies is that if I just try enough techniques and systems for self-improvement, eventually I will be transformed into a combination of Wonder Woman, Miss America, and Virginia Woolf without the skimpy costumes, the talent competition, and the depression, respectively. Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it isn’t going to.

Anyway, one of my adventures in transformation brought me a book of mindfulness questions. I’m all over mindfulness, except when I forget all about it because I’m distracted. This morning, one of the questions was about where I find inspiration. A ten-watt bulb in my brain lit up. Since, they say, it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness, I will share my glimmer.

What I often seek is not inspiration at all, but comfort. I choose things to soothe. Perhaps if I chose to look for the inspiring instead, I wouldn’t feel the pull of the comfy bed and the pints of ice cream.

Now, in the life insurance commercial version of this, the next scene would be me starting up a CD of powerful music and, covered in flattering paint splatters, creating a masterpiece in the spotless and bright interior of my elegant and spacious home. I’m hoping the reality doesn’t turn out like the raking…