Saturday, March 26, 2011

Eat, Pray, Love

I have been voraciously reading "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. It is honestly a struggle for me to put the book down, which leads to moral debates in which I weigh the pros and cons of not doing homework. This book is constantly near me, in my backpack, on my desk, but most of all, in my hands. A memoir of the author's journey in finding herself after enduring a trying divorce creates the structure for one of the most captivating books I have ever had the pleasure to read. It is through these moments that I can be fully grateful for being a literate soul. Gilbert writes as if she were in your living room, her feet propped up on the coffee table, like she were your closest confidant. A style of writing that I only pray that one far off day I could capture for just a moment, what I would do with that moment.

Not only is this book pleasurable to the creative mind, fanciful words and captivating visual imagery flirting with your mind, but this book also whets my desire to travel. There is so much of the world to see, so much that God intended me to see. At this very moment, I am saving precious paychecks and birthday money for a trip to the most magnificent place that I have been graced to know existed. Paris. The city of lights. The holder of the Eiffel Tower and the keeper of the Louvre. French cuisine in which I would only fantasize about creating with my two feeble hands. There are so many lovely dishes that it is difficult to fathom how each separate one would taste. The flavorful food dancing around my tongue, kissing each taste bud with the blessing of a culinary God, allowing you to experience heaven for just a breath. 

I expose my ears to wonderfully crafted French music and a beautiful minute Eiffel Tower dangles around my neck. This necklace was one of my most prized Christmas gifts. Given to me by my mother with the notion that while she could not give me Paris, she could give me a little piece of the land of love to keep close to my heart. The most adoring aspect of my mother is that she believes in me. There is no doubt in my dogmatic mind, I will make it to Paris in the coming year. Yes I, the girl who has her nose stuck in a book and her head in the clouds, will make it to Paris. For now though, it is just a far off dream. I, myself, never have difficulty in lulling into slumber, for the dreams I hold are precious visions that one day will be a reality. I rest my worrisome heart on this promise.

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