First day of February

It's the First of February and true to form, the sun is lingering longer in the sky, according to my mother, who says she can see the way it has moved over the Chilterns since the shortest day. And the sun shone in England all day long, a minor miracle.

The Trevi Fountain

My mother says that she knew she was pregnant because she abruptly lost her taste for alcohol. ("And peanuts and coffee.") I've lost my taste for alcohol because I've been throwing up for two days after catching a bug on the plane back to LA. There is something physically rather amazing about projectile vomiting. One marvels at it mid-stream. Inside the pristine, marbled loo at UTA, after a rather fascinating meeting with a potential client, I felt the need to apologize to the sweet girl in the stall next to me as the sound of it echoed through the hallowed bathroom halls (imagine the Trevi fountain). I blame lactose intolerance after wolfing down an enormous bowl of Cornflakes, although my son points out that I come from two genetic lines (Norwegian and British) that have the most tolerance for dairy. But that clean, purged, serene, smug feeling you get from not eating and not drinking for a couple of days, is hard to beat. I'm now eating a slightly old, green apple, that reminds me of Norway, where we always have a few Granny Smith lying around in the fruit bowl getting a bit greasy on the skin.

After two days in bed, half way through Middlemarch, after Dr. Zhivago, Casino Royale, a medley of Michael Keaton movies (Mr Mom, My Life, Clean & Sober), a faux sweat-lodge created by three dogs in way-too-close proximity and about as much social media as any girl can take, I'm up and about and ready to run and leap and breathe in some cold, clean air.

I'm reminded to seize the day, to waste not a minute, to choose to fill every moment with something you love. I mean, why not?

Dinesen

And love, as we know, is like the sea.

“Then you must tell 'em dat love ain't somethin' lak uh grindstone dat's de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch. Love is lak de sea. It's uh movin' thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from de shore it meets, and it's different with every shore.”

― Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God