My horoscope today suggested that I live in the present. Eckhart Tolle would agree. However, I’ve decided to choose which present, because in any given moment, there is a lot to take in.  The puppy-doting woman was entertaining, until she got a human on the phone and went into an elaborate description of the cruise buffet. The cluster of eight men walking through the airport with pointy felt hats and gray knickers were interesting (was there a direct flight from the Alps?), but they passed by too quickly before I could surmise about what sort of musical instruments they were hauling in the tube-shaped bags. I decided on the interior moment, sitting in the airport an author completing a tour, and reflected on the last 24 hours.

Yesterday at this time I was sitting in seat 24C on a 767 heading to Atlanta. While I had my collection of books and notebooks with me, I was yearning for the internet. As a woman in transition – looking for a new house and exploring new consulting options – life felt uncertain lately. I was antsy to be in action. Instead, I made the mistake of ruminating, which in Sally-speak is code for worrying.

I arrived in Atlanta to be greeted by a fellow author and friend, Dr. Ernest H. Adams, and our driver. Whisked away to the hotel,  checking into a luxurious room, opening a thoughtful gift bag– they all tempered my weariness. But I still wasn’t fully living in the present. My mind kept leaping to the future, a picture I was unable to paint.  It was like holding up a sable brush to an empty easel.

In the morning I awoke to the sound of rain against the window. I drew back the drapes to discover a picture window framing a grove of spindly trees, a thin forest of tall timbers swaying and dancing in the gales of wind and rain. A heavy fog muted the autumn colors, but making them no less beautiful. I have always found peace in the woods, be it hiking, horseback riding, or even driving. Pulling back those curtains was like opening a present.

And the trees reminded me of the simple rules of nature. They were so accepting of the wind, moving in changing weather, dancing with the elements. And why wouldn’t they? The storm was as natural and as necessary for their grown as was the heat of the sun.

I thought back my brother’s curiosity about toddlers and elevators. “Don’t you wonder if kids think that they go into this box, the doors close, they open and everything has changed?”

I hadn’t known that this lovely forest was behind my drapes. I had arrived in the dark of night, but I only to wait until dawn to find it.

I’m in familiar territory. Michael and I lived 20 blocks south of here as newlyweds and later, as new parents. This area of Broadway and Columbus marks my well-worn path, when I slipped Harrison into the stroller and walked to the local Duane Reade on Broadway, often followed by Citarella, Fairway, and sometimes Zabar’s. There were the miscellaneous stops for the non-essentials, too. I often stopped in Poppy’s Fabric on 72nd street, but for reasons inexplicable Harrison always burst into a tantrum within five minutes in the store. We loved Krispy Kreme next door to Poppy’s, but if I had worn a swimsuit recently I would opt for the Tasti D Lite on Columbus instead.

This neighborhood was our social hub. We took out-of-town guests to the Museum of Natural History for the laser shows at night, and Harrison visited it by day with his Nana B. There were friends all over the Upper West Side with whom we shared dinners, brunches and Central Park walks.

As I sit here, looking out onto the gray day in Manhattan, I allow myself the privilege to pause and marvel: Who Knew? Who knew, when I was a young, married stay-at-home mother here on the Upper West Side that I would one day return with such a different life? I couldn’t have known I would one day become Jewish, that my mother-in-law would die, that our city would be victim to the worst terrorist attack in our history, that I would move to the Other coast, become single, and embark on a new career, that I would write a book, and enroll to graduate school. When I lived here, I had written in my journal dozens of times that I dreamed of a writing career. And now, here I am, returning on book tour as a Jewish, Californian, single mom.

Last night I dreamed I was handed the reins of an agitated horse. The horse was difficult to control. The more I shortened the reins, forcing its head closer to my wrist, the more the horse yanked violently away until it finally reeled back and fell down, chest-to-chest, on top of a friend. “Get it off,” she calmly said, as if she were asking me to remove some lint from her shoulder. I wondered how the one-ton animal didn’t crush her. The horse just grinned its big teeth into her face. When I raised the huge animal back to its feet, I risked a new strategy. I held very loose reins, letting them sag a few feet between us. The horse’s entire body relaxed and we walked on amiably.

When I searched for images on the internet for this post, I was startled to find repeated images of a famous race horse. Its name Manhattan Rain.

I am back from my Chicago trip. It was one of those experiences where I was so many places at once – in my head, anyhow. Eckhart Tolle would not have been impressed.

There were many triggers to my past, starting with the air. The atmosphere in the Midwest is different from the air in California – particularly the crisp, autumn air that welcomed me every day in Chicago. One step outside the door and I was transported to the mounds of fall leaves my siblings and I used to take a half-hour to pile high, only to destroy them with jumps, stomps, and raucous throws.

Staying with my friends, Adam and Joyce, and their 18-month old brought me back to my days as a young mother, nurturing toddlers. The sentimental side of me idealized the loveliness of living life with a little one, their little hands grasping mine, their random running through the house like surly cats. Yet, watching Adam work late into the night after his baby was asleep reminded me of the challenges on the schedule, too.

I have to admit, I fed the reliving of my layers in life. I drove through Evanston, where I had lived one college summer, retracing my steps to the bus stop, to the cafe, to my workplace. How could it be that 22 years have passed since then? And how could I have possibly known at that one day I would return to that same neighborhood as a Californian, part New Yorker, a Jewish woman, an author, and single mom? I never would have believed it.

On my last day, I met my first boyfriend for lunch. MG and I dated in college, but hadn’t seen each other or spoken in the last 26 years. Oddly, we talked as if we had just spoken yesterday. Seeing him, being in the presence of his kindness, humor and generosity, gave me such strength. If I had had such amazing judgment at the age of 18 to pick him for a boyfriend, I guess I could certainly trust the decisions I made in my life today.

And then there was the present. I attended Adam and Joyce’s synagogue, Aitz Hayim. There is so much that moved me about this service, it will have to be a post on its own. Suffice it to say that it holds true to its claim that it is a “different kind of synagogue.” I’m still smiling from the spirit, and reeling from the teachings.

With all of the tumult of the past and present swirling about me, the future still sung out in the wind. I loved speaking at the shul, just as I loved stepping in the Chicago Tribune Tower for my WGN interview. Reading the etchings on the walls in the stunning art deco lobby, quoting the merits of writing and journalism, I felt chills. I had finally answered my pull to writing, something I had felt since elementary school. And now, I was continuing my journey into the media. I was finally headed exactly where I wanted to go.

I hadn’t  wanted to travel without my kids. But they were with me everywhere, just as my past and future were, too.  It seems no matter where we go, we’re facing in many directions.

It already happened once. Harrison heard me murmuring about not wanting to travel for this trip to Chicago, which is centered on a 2-hour interview on WGN. I also wasn’t sure about a ten day NYC-Boston trip a week later.

“Why are you walking around, scratching your head?” Harrison asked, seated at the dining room table creating animation forms.

“I’m just not sure about all of this travel coming up. I’m going to miss you kids.”

“Mom,” he answered with an authority beyond his years. “How long did it take you to write this book?”

“Um, about three years.”

“And you got it published. That’s a big deal.”

“Yes, it is.”

He looked at me from across the pile of clay he was molding. “Then get behind it.”

He was right. And that is why I am writing this on a plane headed for Chicago. But it doesn’t mean it is easy to leave.

Considering touring for a published book is a dream come true for me, it might be surprising that I feel this way. The thing is, as much as this stage of my career is a goal realized, it pales in comparison to my ultimate dream since childhood – of becoming a mother. It’s no secret. I frequently tell Harrison and Olivia that no matter what happens in life, I’m living the ultimate life I wanted – I get to be their mom.  Leaving my kids behind for my work is like jumping a chasm in order to get to the other side.  I simply have to do it.

Yet, once I arrive at my destination, a new love sets in. Love for time alone, loving reconnecting with friends in the cities I visit, love of expanding myself, love for new people and new encounters. It is a necessary and gratifying part of my personal journey. And I bring home a much richer perspective than what I left with.

Last night, as I cuddled with Olivia in her bed, listening to her recap her day, my eyes scanned the silkiness of her smooth cheeks, followed the small upturn of her nose, took in her prominent chin. She still had the same features she had as a toddler. It would only be five days that I would be away from her but I still found myself memorizing her features.

As I sit here on the plane to Chicago, it occurs to me that maybe that’s another gift of my book tours. While I am doing my work with my eye on the future, I become clearer and clearer of all that I already have, and I cherish it.

Second to writing The New Jew, the most gratifying part of being published is discussions with readers. Tuesday’s book group was no exception. Each of these women was a member of the Jewish Federation of the East Bay. They were committed to Jewish causes, to furthering their understanding of Jewish issues, and were clearly loyal to each other. I marveled at how I somehow was made to feel included in their banter and familiarity. It reminded me of the qualities of the Jewish culture that drew me in nearly twenty years ago — inclusiveness, intellect and humor among them.

“Before we begin talking about the book,” Susan said in her irresistible Texan drawl, “we want to know what has happened between your conversion and now.” Everyone nodded. I wondered if they heard my gulp.

This was the first group that I spoke with that wanted to first talk about my current life. But they wouldn’t be the first audience to learn that I am now divorced. Since much of The New Jew is about my marriage, I so wished I could tell my readers that, after my conversion, we all lived happily ever after. And the fact is, we have, but not in the traditional sense. Michael and I have a dear friendship, we each have gratifying careers, and the children and we are all very close.

As I explained this at the book club, I took in the various expressions. Some looks of surprise and shock lingered, while other faces softened with compassion. One woman shook her head in dismay, with moist eyes. The scene was vaguely familiar. It was if I was once again telling my brothers and sisters of my divorce at a family dinner, as I had four years ago.

And it made sense. The women at the table had become invested in me. For more than 200 pages, they joined me as I met my in-laws, as I attended temple for the first time, and when I had trepidations about converting. In The New Jew, I confessed my longings, my hopes and my disappointments. I included them in intimate flashbacks to my childhood, and they entered my mind as I judged, and later accepted, Jews. My very personal story included my love affair with my husband. Dropping the bomb on them that we are now divorced was sudden news. They just didn’t see it coming. And, although I am accepting of my new life, I had to give them time to get up to speed with me.

But before I knew it, I was given the gift of support.  The women at the table lovingly acknowledged the trauma I must have endured. Terry shared the story of her divorce. Frances expressed her gratitude for the lesson in strength. And, somehow, we were all fortified.

“Okay,” Eileen said. “Now let’s talk about conversion.” We laughed as pages of books were flipped. I felt honored again to be included in this group of spirited readers – attentive enough to place post-its on the pages of my books and to underline passages, and generous enough to be present to the author before them.

Take tonight, for instance. I am alone in my room, two twin beds divided by a low bureau, a desk on either side of the beds. I am stretched out in my sweats, my laptop on my legs, books strewn all about me. I am working on a final paper for grad school. When I was an undergrad, I would have been sitting at my desk, clacking away on typewriter keys, but the scene is otherwise identical to my undergrad days.

Shockingly, so are my thought processes.

My paper is due on Monday. I knew going into this weekend that I’d have a few precious pockets of time to finish the lengthy project. Returning from dinner, I glanced at my desk ready to start my work. Then I noticed the television. I’ll just see what’s on. One show. I sat on a bed two eighteen inches from the television (there is no other way in a dorm room) and flipped through the channels. Write the paper the adult-me scolded.

I snapped off the tv and grabbed my journal. I wanted to clear those pesky thoughts that cumulated on my six-hour drive south. A handmade card fell out., and the words Running to You,” were crooked across the heavy paper. Olivia had hand-stamped and drawn it two weeks ago, and I loved it, just as I loved coming upon it unexpectedly.

It made me miss my sweet daughter, so I called her (never mind that I had spoken to her only two hours earlier). After our brief chat, I was really ready to hunker down and get to work. I filed my nails. I ate half a cookie I packed from the Commons earlier. Then  I went to my laptop.

The paper started to come together. Sections formed themselves, and the text flowed. It was a great half-hour –until I heard a crowd of kids outside. I feel like going out, I thought to myself, shocked at my regressed response. In college, I would have talked my roommate into abandoning our studies immediately. “If we just sit here thinking that we will go out after we study, we’ll be so distracted we won’t be able to concentrate.”

“Hmmm,” she would say. “It does make sense…..”

In school I recently studied how our environment – our place – is integral to our behaviors, feelings and perspectives. I can testify to that about dorm rooms. I fully blame the worn desks and two twin beds jammed near closet doors and the scrunched living quarters for my regression. But I can’t get into it right now. I’ve got to get back to my paper– which I really do love writing.

As soon as I go to my website and enter this post.

I knew that Saturday, May 30th would be magical. What I didn’t know is that it would transformational. During the week beforehand, all odds were against hit. Harrison was hit with strep throat on Wednesday, and Olivia and I spent Thursday night in the ER for an injured finger. Guests were arriving, place cards had to be made, and there were many details to take care of. Yet, the ailments renewed my perspective of our blessings in life. Harrison would get better. Olivia would heal. And we would celebrate my son’s new phase of life.

I expected to be weepy on Saturday, but that seemed to be released Friday night as Harrison led the congregation at kiddush. Instead, I was beaming on the day of the bar mitzvah. My brother-in-law approached me in the morning and said, “This is a big day for you.”

“No, not really. It’s a big day for Harrison.”

And it was. At first he sniffled his way through the service in the background on the bimah. But when it came time for him to chant, he did so beautifully. The magic happened in unexpected moments. Having my entire family stand on the bimah for pictures, surrounding my son in his kippah. Watching friends and family envelop Harrison at the Torah, looking on as he chanted  from the scrolls. Seeing Harrison and Olivia embrace at the podium after she read her poem.

Yet, nothing stirred me more than to hear Harrison give his d’var torah. Using his pages of text only as notes, his eyes panned over the congregation, his friends and family, as he implored us to be more connected with our food sources, to eat together as families, and to help feed the hungry. He rose from childhood into a young adult leader at that moment, and we were wowwed. We had all witnessed Harrison becoming bar mitzvah.

There is so much more… the sanctuary brimming with love, the party pulsating with joy. We were a community, welcoming Harrison into the folds of adulthood. He was embraced. 

Michael had his transformations, bringing several walks of life together into one room. Olivia had hers, gracing the dance floor with her free spirit, taking in the love of everyone. And I have mine. It cannot be a fluke that I had  to go on book tour two days after the bar mitzvah. I feel I am being asked to do something that will enrich me forever: I am being asked to hold joy.

Now, as I sit in my old stomping grounds of Manhattan, the same neighborhood where I pushed Harrison along in his stroller a dozen years ago, daydreaming of becoming a writer, I am struck by the poignancy of life. It is a sweet cup of coffee here in Manhattan.