As a little girl I had many lofty goals-- one of which was to convert the overgrown, underdeveloped land around my neighborhood into Disneyland. I remember my adorably naïve 6-year-old thought-process vividly:

"If Disneyland is the happiest place on earth, and people were able to live in Disneyland, those people would always be happy."

I grew up in Emerald Hills, California: a rural area about 45 minutes south of San Francisco whose real estate market hadn't erupted as quickly as the rest of Silicon Valley at the onset of the early dotcom bubble. Open fields of tall sticky grass and wild poppies swept the foothills around my house, and sweeping views of the Bay Area emerged around the narrow, winding roads. There were no sidewalks in our neighborhood, but no fences either; no other children to play with, but no limits to how far I could explore.

I remember the distinct feeling that relocating "Main Street USA" to our neighborhood would perk everyone up, but I cannot, for the life of me, recall why I felt like people needed a reason to be perked up. I lived across the street from 49er quarterback, Joe Montana, who we’d hear laughing as he tossed the ball around with his kids on late summer nights. Down the street lived an old man named Lee who would use the plums from our trees to make artisanal jams. The couple next door were both skilled surgeons, who, after years of sacrificing their dreams of parenthood for their career development, were finally adopting a beautiful baby boy. My father was a successful stockbroker who gleamed with pride over the life he was able to provide for his family. My mother was the consummate hostess-- always decorating for lavish parties, and making sure the house felt like “home.”

This was a neighborhood where people came to enjoy the next level of their success: a place where “I” became “we.” So why did I feel like I needed to bring happiness to a neighborhood that didn’t seem to evoke anything other than happiness?

Because I wasn’t happy. Despite the love and luxury, there was something about this place--these people--that didn’t feel like home.

But how can a 6-year-old possibly express that? And further, how can anyone find something whose very essence is elusive at best, imaginary at worst?

But today, 21 years later, it dawned on me: ‘Finding Disneyland’ isn’t about seeking a physical place; it’s about a spiritual journey that ultimately leads you home to that place of total abundance, divine, unconditional love, and radiant light.

Lying atop a blue-and-white-striped woven hammam towel in Washington Square Park, I surrendered myself to the moment. I focused on the cosmic kaleidoscope patterns shifting across my inner eyelids as the sunshine beat down on my skin. I tried to identify each instrument being played by the jazz band across the park. I felt the cool grass taunt my bare hands as I glided my palms over each blade.

Forget about psychedelics drugs, spaceships, and time machines… Somehow this hyper-focus, this intensive mindfulness, was all I needed to guide me home. This is how I found “Disneyland.”