Let’s put some things on the table right now.

Yes, I spent almost three weeks in Europe.

Yes, this was very unlike me to blaze ahead in the midst of family chaos (aka The Move) and just make selfish choices.

And yes, this trip might very well have saved me.

The last night of our Lucca trip landed on a Saturday. You can not only hear but feel from the videos how charged with happiness the streets were that night.

Cinque Terre is not to be believed. Nothing this precious could possibly exist. I did not see cliff sides terraced with Italian gardens like green risers for angels to perch upon and sing. I could not possibly have heard opera’s melodic wailing bouncing across limestone faces, floating up into a piercing blue sky.

“Oh! Do you guys watch that show,” NY child psychiatrist said.

“Watch it? She has it memorized,” I laughed pointing at Jen.

“You’re so cool,” squealed the doctor.

And this was the moment the evening turned from Strangers in a Cooking Class to Generational Social Experiment of Americans in a Foreign Country.

Whether we know it or not, we absorb every place we travel (actually every place where we take up space) through the vibration of light and sound. Eighteen years ago I sat in Rome with a very jet lagged baby, past exhausted and ready to lose it, when the sun pushed out behind some rain clouds. If I had a spoon that could scoop light, I would have eaten past full.

This trip for me is about coming back to me. For the last month, I have been living in a city that I knew before I was a wife or a mother. We both have changed; new areas of growth, scars deposited by life and time. Gluten, dairy, wine, nights that last into the wee hours… all the things that I have avoided to maintain a balance, a composure. Control. It’s time for me to let Italy take the wheel for a while. Time to let go.

Our life in Southern California was lived in a spectacular bubble. Every day we woke up the sun was shining. Waves peeled along miles of pristine beaches, lined with stately homes positioned to view pods of dolphins and gasp worthy sunsets.

I’m typing this on the first desktop computer I’ve owned since the 90’s, on a desk stocked with Uni Ball pens and my glitter collection, in my very own office with my very own door. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for months.

For the second time in two weeks, I have accidentally super glued my fingers. The first was in trying to glue the handle back onto my rice cooker after the cord wrapped around my leg, dragging it off of the counter, causing it to smash on the floor.

I’m one of those people who finds a loose thread on my favorite shirt, the kind that dangles so seductively and yet threatens to destroy the item that I love, and I pull it. Maybe not all the way but definitely until the garment is irreparably damaged. This is exactly what I did with my own mental health the weekend they reversed Roe vs. Wade.

In my last post Pride, I noticed (after re-reading my work at least 25 times) that I had committed the crime of gender bias. This was truly an ironic piece of work given that Pride is an article that newly announced to the world my transgender son. I asked my readers if they too found the error. None of them did.

The bravest act I’ve ever witnessed was at a gas station off a highway in the middle of nowhere California.

Yesterday my kid got in the car, and before we were even a mile away from school, he was sobbing in the passenger seat.

For the past few weeks, while I’m driving back from dropping a kid at school or attending a final meeting, I find myself winding my way through the hills of Oak View and crying.

Sunday, I spent several hours sitting with a friend at a bar. And while that last sentence was my most used excuse in my 20’s for why I hadn’t called my mother in months, it happens to be a now rare event.