After talking about it for years, we finally did it.  We bought a home in Italy.

Actually, it is more of a rock pile than a home right now.  But if we can find a way to rearrange all those rocks and add a roof and some landscaping, we will have a home in what is just about the prettiest place I have ever seen.

The road to Roddino.

The Piedmont is, as the name suggests, at the “foot of the mountains,” those mountains being The Alps.  It is in the northwestern part of Italy, the area we fell in love with on our honeymoon two years ago.  We went there again this fall and confirmed that we love it today just as much.  The town of Monforte d’Alba is the perfect Italian hill town, old and cobblestoned, small but with four or five incredible restaurants.  The people are wonderfully sweet and gracious with us awkward Americans.  And the entire area is focussed on wine and food, as are we!  A mile or two outside of town is the tiny hamlet of Roddino, which is where we found our rock pile, surrounded by vineyards, overlooking a valley full of truffles, looking out towards the distant Alps.

Still, we have a gargantuan journey ahead of us. We don’t have the money we need to do what we want, our Italian is still at the learning-to-count-to-100 stage, and we live 5,000 miles away.  But we’ve been boring our friends for years with talk about the home we might find in Italy someday, and we finally realized that if we don’t at least try for it now, we never will.

I don’t know where this winding Italian road will take us.  Our dream home may turn out to be better as a dream than a reality. But it will certainly be fodder for some good stories along the way.

There was one moment that changed the course of my life forever.  I remember it perfectly. It was spring quarter of my freshman year in college, and I was taking English from the one of the toughest teachers in the school, Dr. Cooke.  We had all turned in our first assignment and would be getting them back that day.  He had asked us to write two essays; one from the subjective point of view, and one from the objective point of view. I had written objectively about the function of the heart, and subjectively about my father’s hands.

At the beginning of class, Dr. Cooke began by saying he was going to read an essay to the class, one that he thought was good.  He began reading, and was a few words into it before I realized he was reading mine.

I was never the smartest kid in the class.  I was never the best athlete, the best musician, or the prettiest girl.  I was never exceptional.  But at that moment, for the first time in my life, I felt amazing.  I felt electric.  My whole body was buzzing.  It was the best feeling I had ever had.

There were other times that my writing defined me.  Once, in first or second or third grade, I forget which, I wrote a story about Sally the Seal.  It was all in rhyme and I had great fun writing it.  I used to write for fun, during the summer, or on weekends.  I had written this for fun and brought it in for show and tell. The teacher called my mother and accused me of plagiarizing it.  I didn’t even understand the concept of taking another person’s words.  Why would someone ever do that, I wondered?  What fun would that be?

Whenever life has been tricky or confusing, I have written in a diary, and tried to write my way clear, trying to make sense of what was happening to me by putting it down on paper.

And when it came time to choose a career, I made up a series of “ads,” put them in my “portfolio,” and took them around to ad agencies until someone finally hired me.

Now, out of advertising, I have turned to this blog.  You have been kind enough to check in with me and my ramblings, and I love that.  I love your comments and feedback.  You, and writing, have helped me find my bearings.

A few weeks ago, I started writing a book.  Who knows where it will take me, if anywhere, but I have to try.  I have the first chapter written, and it feels strange but pretty cool. What it means, though, is that the time I have to write will almost always go to the book. If I have something  urgent or big to say here, I will, but the posts, which have become increasingly less frequent, will probably become less frequent still.  I hope you understand.

I will still check in and see if anyone has “comments” for me, which I love, and I will still let you know how it is all going, from time to time.  And if I ever finish it, (or abandon it!) you can bet I will be right back here blogging a couple times a week again.

In the meantime, thank you so much for all your support these past several months. And please do continue to check in from time to time.

I will need all the readers I can get.

I am trying to think of reasons why I can’t volunteer today.  I signed up for it weeks ago because I really like the other women who will be volunteering with me.  And it is a good thing to do.  And I like to think of myself as someone who likes to try and make the world a better place when I can, even if I don’t really do it all that much.

But this is outside of my comfort zone.  I am getting pretty darn used to floating through the day as I wish; waking up when I am ready, exercising at my leisure, writing when I feel like it, shopping, cooking or taking a nap, as I see fit.  And I am used to being around people like me, who are healthy and comfortable and have a roof over their heads. Today I will be outside of that cushy box and try to not get in the way of everyone else as I do my best to help.

And I am more than a little nervous about it.

When did I get so sheltered and spoiled?  Was it in New York where everything was either at my fingertips or could be delivered in a New York minute with just a phone call? I remember when I first started the Ray of Light Foundation that I felt very awkward and uncomfortable going alone up to visit the Harlem School of the Arts, or ask friends for help with our auctions, or money for our foundation. But then, there was an energy that was bigger than I was, propelling me forward, so I forged on.

Here in San Francisco, life is pretty idyllic.  The weather is perfect nearly everyday. People I meet– neighbors, shopkeepers, cab drivers–are educated, cheerful and positive. My daily life consists of pleasant tasks, like choosing a paint color for our new place, or small adventures-a day trip to Sonoma for lunch,  a stroll through North Beach, a visit from family and friends.  Ridiculously idyllic, when I think about it. Dangerously close to being insipidly idyllic.

I can do better than this.

I can make the world just a teensy bit better.

Today, I need to get dressed and go somewhere I have never been before, and do something I have never done before, with people I don’t know very well but hope may become friends.  I am just hoping that the energy that propelled me before may still be out there somewhere.

Because I could use a little push.

This is the kind of Thanksgiving I remember.  Crisp.  Cool.  Splashes of brightly colored leaves intermingled with green oaks and evergreens.  The smell of sage and thyme and nutmeg wafting through the living room, and the distant commentating of a 49er’s game on TV in the background. This is the kind of Thanksgiving I am having again.

Being back in the San Francisco Bay Area continues to bring back so many memories for me.  I feel like my parents might be alive and down the peninsula, if only I were to get in the car and drive to their home.  My dog, Micky, might still be there, causing some kind of mischief.  My brothers, funny, rowdy and boyish, might show up, and round up friends for a basketball game while the turkey cooks.

I know what the day sounds like. I know what the air tastes like. I know what is true. I know love.

I know love again, differently now.

Today my husband is in bed with a cough and a chill, and we have told our family to stay away, away from any lurking germs in our home.  I am cooking a bird anyway, although it might not get eaten until tomorrow or the next day, because I am hoping that somehow the smells from the kitchen will bring him out of bed and back to health.

Today my husband’s son– (my son, too, now, actually;  I sometimes call him my son, but I feel like I can’t really take that kind of credit for him and how amazing he is)– is in Idaho with his girlfriend’s family.  He called me an hour ago as he was making my mother’s Pecan Pie, with questions about caramelizing the sugar and butter.  That my mother’s spirit is alive and as sweet as ever in Boise today, makes me happier than I can say.

Today my brothers are with their families, being good husbands.  One is at his in-laws for lunch, then going out to dinner with his son. My other brother, I bet, is going to enjoy the traditional crab legs for dinner and then call me with the sacred family grace we stole from Mad Magazine years ago: “Stuff your gut…..” is how it begins, then goes downhill from, there.  Still rowdy, still boyish, still wonderful.

Yes, I am grateful, deeply so. In the decades that I have been on the planet, my life has been colorful and interesting.  I have found love, lost it, then found it again.   The shape of my family has shifted and changed, but is still joyful and loving.  My friends, perhaps my greatest asset, are still mostly in my life, like a constellation of stars, at some distance apart from me, but always there when darkness comes.

And finally, I am back in the most delightful city in the world.

The bird is almost ready to come out of the oven, my husband is up and wondering when dinner is, and the 49er’s game is about to begin.

I think this will be another very Happy Thanksgiving.

I wish you a truly Happy Thanksgiving, too.