I arrived back in Malawi last Tuesday, no worse for wear after the 2-day trip. I am back in my big townhouse, which is cold and lonely, not just because of the absence of my son’s happy squeals and babbles, but also because it is really, literally, cold. July and August are winter in the Southern Hemisphere, and typically the only two months of the year I ever get to wear a sweater.

So Jorge has absconded with my precious little Milo, and it’s very sad being here on my own. To fill the time, I have occupied myself with Projects. Projects used to be my life before I had a baby. My wedding was a Project. Photography and travel are Projects. I like binders and daily targets and color-coding. My current Projects are: 1) getting my butt in shape after consuming an average of 1,000 excess calories a day in New Orleans, 2) finally finishing “War and Peace”, and 3) finishing up editing the 1,000 or so of my mother’s slides that I scanned last summer in Seattle.

I’m making good progress on all three so far. I reckon I have about 250 more slides to edit, then of course I have to figure out in which order they should go, which will not be an easy task. Right now I’m working on the photos my mom took when we took our trip to Europe in 1987, our Grand Tour so to speak. Most of my childhood vacations were spent in the back on the Plymouth Volare (see photo) or in tents, and this was our big trip. Dad saved up money and vacation days for years, and mom took on her own major Project of planning the trip. I remember she mailed off to tourism offices and received hundreds of glossy brochures in the mail, which she would spread out all around her, finding hotels, plotting itineraries.

(The Volare - no doubt it had overheated again and that's why I'm sitting on the ground in the cold.)

It paid off – I still have such wonderful memories of that trip, and I believe it was the only 2-month stretch of my childhood where I did not bite, hit, or scream at my sisters. We were having too much fun to fight.

Now when I look back at those pictures, though, what strikes me is just how much love went into planning that trip, taking those photos, organizing them all into slide shows… The same way my love for my son seems to channel through my camera lens, I bet my mom was thinking that she loved us when she took these photos:

(Dad on a gondola in Venice)

(I put this one in just so you could mock my sister's outfit with me. Check out those shorts! And she accessorized it with a snazzy necklace! Mwahaha!)

(Me on my 10th birthday, in front of the Matterhorn)

Granted, there are a lot of duds in the slides, too. Mom was fond of landscapes, what we called her "Rocks, Trees, and Water" photos. What was she thinking when she snapped this one, for example?

But I scan, and edit, and restore all of them. It is my way of saying “Mom, I trust your judgment. If you thought this picture was worth taking, then I think it’s worth saving.” As I remove each speck of dust and brighten each color, it’s a long-delayed way for me to get to say “I love you too.”

The whole fat lady thing...

...is really a disservice. Most opera singers are actually quite height-weight proportionate.

I tell you this because I am so very excited about what I just did: bought tickets to see Aida in August.

Perhaps this is a bit weird for a gen X/Y kid, but I love the opera. I love everything about going to the opera - the audience, obviously happy to be wearing their best fancy clothes, the excitement of hearing those first few notes as the orchestra begins to tune its instruments, the costumes, the tragic storylines, milling about in the intermission, the plush red carpet, and the audience yelling bravo at the end with emotion and candor - everything is so full of drama and glamour.

Oh, and of course, the music will send shivers down your spine.

Unfortunately, I have been prevented from going to the opera for many years now, either through pennilessness or lack of a local opera. The last time I went was in Budapest in 1998. The ticket was two dollars, and I sat so far back that I had a much better view of the chandelier than the stage. I loved it.

I was raised on opera. My mother sang in the chorus of the Seattle Opera, and I still remember those early pangs of separation anxiety as I waited for her to come home from her evening singing practices. My father got season tickets each year and us girls would take our turns being his date. At intermission we were allowed to go backstage to see mom and meet the leading lady, her face caked in scary pink rouge so that even the people in the cheap seats (that is, us) could see her. I loved the big towering wigs and trains and bustles of the costumes, and wished I could dress like an 18th century lady myself. These are cherished childhood memories, and I can't wait for that old thrill again. August is so far away!