Every now and then I have some off-the-wall dreams.

Years ago, I dreamt (several times) that my friend Cynthia and I knew the people from The West Wing. Sometimes we were characters and sometimes we were actors and sometimes we were just part of the group.

Last summer I dreamt I was with the television writing crew for Flashpoint when one of the actors came up and instead of me being awestruck by him (although secretly I really was!), he just complimented me on my butter recipe and said, “You make great toast.”

There’s the one where I was a character in a crime drama, that when I wrote it out actually read more like a Heavenly visit. (You can read that sappy story here.)

About a month ago, I had a great dream about Johnny Depp falling in love with my ratatouille and endorsing my cookbook.

But on this New Year’s morning, I woke up right after dreaming of George. Clooney, to be exact. I was a few years older, living in a large apartment back east that was also where I worked as a Writer (note the Capital “W”, very exciting!).

I had people coming in and out constantly: family, friends, business associates. I came out of the Kitchen area and turned a corner into the foyer and literally ran into George Clooney. There. In my apartment. Something about meeting my business manager for whatever reasons. Even in my dream, I couldn’t pay attention because my brains scrambled like the eggs I had just cooked. We sat down and apparently I got a little too close to him because he looked at me a little strangely as I muttered something about the gods hearing my prayers…

But then the dream turned. It flash-forwarded as dreams do, and the next moment we were sitting in the same room across a coffee table laden with open notebooks and coffee cups (He complimented my coffee, by the way. That’s 3 for the celebrity chef status I’m going for!).

The notebooks were all kinds of information and ideas on how to help the children of Darfur. He educated me on the political climate, and I offered some serious fund-raising advice for feeding the people.

Together we sat for what must have been hours ~ too bad the actual dream didn’t last that long. But what did last was that feeling of urgency. That feeling of necessity to help others in need. Not just locally or federally, but globally.

Ever since I woke from that dream, I can’t – don’t want to – shake those feelings. It was so real. So authentic. So desperate. But I don’t have any notebooks filled with how-to-help information and ideas. I don’t have any news clippings and personal experiences in this realm.

And while one of my New Year’s Resolutions is to not make resolutions I know I can’t keep, I think this is one I should strive for. Even if I can’t accomplish anything, I need to at least try on this one. I need to find a way to bring attention to those in need, and I need to find a way to actually help them. No matter how little it seems.

But what can I do? I’m just a blogger, a chef, a mom. George doesn’t know me. I don’t know any political leaders. And I don’t know how to reach across oceans.

What can I do, George? Are you listening? Is anyone?

Because I am.

And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!

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