I just lit a yartzheit candle for my mother. She died–gee, is it already six years ago??? I can’t believe she’s been out of my life that long. But of course she hasn’t been out of my life. It’s ironic, I said to her as I lit the candle, that I am moving away from this house that we bought together on this weekend, the anniversary of your death. I hope you approve, I added. And she does, I know. She thinks the money we got for the house is amazing and that we’re doing exactly the right thing the way we’re spending it, including the $4000 for the washer and dryer that are Sedona orange.

She was never one to stick around in a situation that wasn’t full of possibility. You only have one life to live, she always told me, and no one is going to give you a reward at the end for sticking things out hoping they’ll get better. I miss her—but a lot less than I thought I would. Perhaps it’s that she lived such a full life, and when it was over, it was time for it to be over. Perhaps it’s that I needed to be alone in order to find out what my life is. In our family–the whole extended bunch–we have uniquely close mother-daughter relationships. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we’re enmeshed, and many of us never really become our own people. We always resonate to the tunes our mothers’ played.

So my mission in this lifetime is to learn what my own tune is and to play it as well as I can. Far easier said than done.