I used to think I had a broken internal compass. I made up a story that my mother had dropped me on my head when I was young when people teased me for going the wrong way.

I’ll wait for some things: the mail, the weather to clear, my nail polish to chip, but when it comes to warm scones, bread and hot espresso, uh huh. No thank you.

This time, I want the memories I carry to be more precise. During the next span of time between myself and Italy, I want to feast on and savor the details of how I spent my time there. I want to bring home more than a few tasty treats and the disjointed thoughts of a gratitude journal. This time, I want to bring home an artifact crafted by my own hands from the raw beauty of my Italian adventure.

The body is meant to be held and cradled and loved. The body is meant to touch and be touched. The body is meant to breathe deeply and to feel and to know pleasure and pain.

What if everything happens in your life in order for you to find love?

The other day I was on the Facebook page Adoption Truth and Transparency Worldwide Information Network and I saw Jenette and Janine, the Vance twins, were offering up (as is their style), an amazing act of generosity and creativity.

Adopted people can be so confusing! You would think they would all be crazy desperate to attach to everyone and everything, and some are, but watch for the ones who say they are fine. Watch for the ones who push away. We do not do well alone in the world.

How can you show the world who you are when you have no clue?

What if whenever adoption papers were signed in court, the music of separation played in the background? Would the smiles and sense of “gotcha!” remain the same?

What if the weight of sadness/grief/confusion isn’t something for us to escape or run from? What if it’s not our fault we feel this way? What if we are carrying the weight of society’s agreement that it is okay to separate a mother and her child? What if this is our job?

You want to be the mother. You want your daughter to know she is in the right place, that a life with her first mother, a women you would never call a straight out mother, a women you call birthmother in one long breath, like if you say it fast enough it will disappear.

Maybe this could be your second Master Class: meditations for those who miss their moms.