away we go (and by 'we' i mean my brain and me)

One week ago I saw Away We Go, a little movie you may have heard of, or maybe not. Maya Rudolph stars, along with my pal John Krasinski. It was also co-written by Dave Eggers, so I figured it would be up my alley. And it was.

But…it also derailed me a little.

The movie is essentially about a couple who are expecting a baby and who have no idea where to live. They take a bit of an odyssey around the country, visiting various friends and family, searching for the ideal spot to raise a family.

The message was essentially: home is where the heart is. There is no perfect location or situation or setting. There is no formula for figuring out what to do or where to live. Just go with what feels right and the rest will get sorted out.

I wish I was that carefree. I wish I had that much faith in the universe. Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I believe I’m truly lighthearted, even a free spirit. But somewhere during the second half of the movie I slipped into pensive mode, and on the walk home I was pestering Michael with Big Life Questions: where do you think we should live? When do you think we should have a baby? How will we do all of this?

(Perhaps this is why men resist chick flicks whenever humanly possible.)

Truth is, I’d already been fretting about where to live even before the movie got in my head. I’d been having visions—not the creepy or prescient type, just the kind that crop up from time to time when a gal’s got her head in the clouds eighty percent of the time. The visions involved a house—not huge, but not cramped. Comfortable. Cozy. It was in a place that looked a lot like the Bay Area.

The town was beautiful, vivid, clean and peaceful. But full of life, too. Just a calmer kind of life than I’m currently used to. The only part of the house I could really see in my vision was an office: whitewashed furniture, framed black and white photos on the walls, overstuffed bookcases, green and blue pillows on a comfy loveseat. The focal point was a big desk, with a vintage chair—one of those slatted oak chairs with wheels that make me think of an old newspaper office—and a laptop. It was a room for me, a place where I went daily to write, partly to make a living, partly just for myself.

Not sure where the vision came from or why it popped into my head. But it made me happy. And confused. Wasn’t I just gushing about my love of New York not too long ago? How I don’t want to leave? So why am I fantasizing about California now? Why is that where I picture myself finally freelance writing for a living, where I envision a content and peaceful life?

Many times in my life I’ve considered moving west. Usually immediately after I’ve visited, or at other times when I feel the need to run. This time? Not quite sure. Maybe my soul is craving a kind of peace I’m not feeling at the moment. Maybe it’s the Northern California-like weather we’ve been having back east. Maybe I’m just itching for an adventure.

Whatever the case, it has me contemplating the notions that 1) you can’t have it all and 2) there are never any perfect scenarios. Breaking news, I know, but nevertheless I find it all very frustrating. California—albeit flat broke at present—is, to me, God’s country. It’s another planet. A better planet. I am pretty absolutely positive I could be happy there. All it lacks are my friends and most of my family, people I’m fairly sure I can't live without.

But again: why am I even thinking about this? It makes me wonder if I’m just the kind of person who will never be content, who can never just fully enjoy where she is in life, who always thinks there is something more amazing she could be doing with her time.

This mental state is probably the reason I was firing so many questions at my always-patient fiancé after the movie. I was hoping he had the answers. Poor guy. Enduring a low-budget chick flick should have been more than enough.

mb