On maps and things.

My week with my mother was so far beyond everything I could have asked from it. Afirming and encouraging and reassuring and challenging and plain old fun, and timely beyond all possible description. The only hard part of the whole week was forcing myself on to that train to Brussels by alone again.

Mom, ever prepared, came with a new book she wanted to read during her trip, and we decided to read it out loud to eachother. What followed turned out to be an introduction to my Map for this trip. Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. I'm going to sum it up, badly, as a non-fiction story/diary/semi-memoir of a woman who's life falls apart in multiple ways and so she goes off to spend a year travelling, trying to figure out herself. That rather droll sentance does absolutely nothing to describe the absolute joy and pleasure and loveliness and profoundity and just plain fun of this book. This woman writes like everything I've always wanted to write like, and thinks (even admits to thinking) all of the thoughts I constantly struggle with. It's weird, but I've felt so inspired and encouraged and known as I've been reading about this woman working through a lot of the same thoughts and coming to many of the same conclusions as I am in this time.

I'm mentioning this now so that you'll be warned when I quote it. :)