Writing. Life.

Keeping My Promise

Well, I blogged earlier about not waiting for flashes of brilliance (don't hold your breath) or till I have time to craft and polish to post something and I'm nothing if not a woman of my word.

I went to film school with a woman who never cleaned her house. Ever. Yes, it was gross and, no, I never ate there. But she had a darling little girl who was Mia's schoolmate. She was also wonderfully witty and entertaining. When her home got to be so crammed, floor to ceiling, that she literally couldn't locate her own child one night, she simply moved. She did this a few times.

I thought of her today because I've been having an intense desire to do the same with my life. I'm not talking about garden variety anxiety attacks because you're a month behind on everything in life. I've had that happening for weeks - I actually bought my first super-size pack of Prilosec last week. I'm standing in line at Costco in a state of disbelief - me, the one with the cast iron stomach. I never had stomach trouble, I just gave everyone else ulcers.

Maybe it's turning fifty. Maybe it's being in a different time zone and/or bed every couple of weeks. Maybe it's three years of writing, promoting and publicizing events of several years ago, living in the past for a living. Maybe it's the fact that it's sinking in that my mother is serious about never talking to me again, leaving me effectively an orphan (no, it has nothing to do with the book.)

I can't find myself in the floor to ceiling piles of my own life. They're nice piles, really, and I'm blessed with friends, old and new. But, I find myself researching what other houses in my neighborhood are selling for and looking at anything in the house that isn't nailed down, thinking, "I bet that'd sell on ebay." Even my husband. "Good-natured, talented, occasionally passive-aggressive but otherwise in excellent condition."

I swear to God, I stayed up till the wee hours the other night looking at prices of vineyards in Hungary. France has so been done, Italy, old news, Spain's going up already. Hungary is affordable, I have a sister there, great place to write, time-honored viticulture.  And how about, Bucharest, there's another up-and-comer... 

I have dozens of emails I should have been answering, many from sweet young women, some who miss their moms who've passed or who are struggling with addiction and wish they could talk to Mia - AND I'M LOOKING AT VINEYARDS IN THE HUNGARIAN HINTERLANDS. There must be a name for this kind of pathetic, late night victimitivity.

Appropo of absolutely nothing, other than my current state of mind(lessness,) a few shots from downtown Budapest. I think that's Hungary's Dr. Phil flapping from a light pole. I have no idea what the Emotionstore sold. Szex Bolt, I think we can guess. No guessing needed for that last one.

Motherhood is Another Dimension

One of the greatest things to come out of writing our book has been all the moms I've met, whether in our travels or by email. Such incredibly inspiring, warm, strong women. I just love the connection mothers feel wth each other. I'll be walking arm in arm with Mia somewhere and another mom and her daughter will pass and our eyes will meet with a shared understanding, the delight of being with a daughter.

Nothing is the same once you have a child. It's not that it softens your heart, in my opinion, it's that it steels it, giving it strength and elasticity. Your heart grows big, it takes over, it spills into other organs, your eyes, your ears. You see, you hear, you make choices, all differently. Mia once told me she thinks becoming a mom means your life goes from one-dimensional to two. Oh, yes, and three and four and...

Happy Mother's Day to all of you with children. Whether or not you have children, may today be full of the kind of joy and freedom you had as a kid, when mom was waiting for you at the end of the day with cookies and boo boo kisess. And if you didn't have a mom that waited for you, or made you feel loved, I hope you have created a loving mother for yourself within you.