Now as I settle into my executive role at a resort, I find that more patience is necessary. Its taking time to develop my expertise at work, and it take months to get a good start on my second book. I want to dual career – the only problem is I want it now.

As I write this, I can’t help but think of a statement Harrison made at the wise age of 14. He, Olivia and I were enjoying dinner, going on journeying 0n random paths of conversation, when Olivia mentioned she wanted an iPod Touch for her birthday -  which was 7 months away.  Harrison murmured, more to himself than to our family, “Well, you better start praying.”

I was taken aback. Harrison was a self-proclaimed atheist. Why would he menton God, and with such certainty at that?

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Well,” he shrugged and chomped the tip off his wedge of pizza, “Because God takes time.”

Now I was really perplexed. Not only did he acknowledge an existence beyong the earthly and evident, he had a philosophy about it.

“What do you mean by God takes time?”

“Because its true. Last Tuesday, when we had to run a mile in 5th period PE , I prayed and prayed for rain so I wouldn’t have to run. Up until we stepped onto the track, I prayed. Then, just when we finished the mile – whoosh – it downpoured.” He shrugged again. “I should’ve started praying earlier.”

I imagine God at a chalkboard, making a list of things to fulfill, and saying, “All right already, give me a moment – I just finished your last one!”

Perhaps if I place an order for patience, that will arrive first.

It’s a funny thing about being a non-fiction writer. It seems it has made some people wary of me.  I knew this was true when Olivia scrunched her face and said, “I can’t believe you wrote that.” And when friends have made disclaimers in conversations, stopping themselves mid-sentence to say, “Don’t blog about this.” I even overheard one of my brothers say to another,”Watch it. She remembers everything” (call it a curse, but it is true).

The other night I was given an entirely new request.  The man I am dating asked me not to write about him. And “if I did,” he said, “please change my name.” Change his name? I couldn’t imagine why he would want me to do that.

It was difficult enough to name each of my children. Michael and I used up the entire span of each pregnancy mulling over dozens of possibilities and even then, Olivia wasn’t named until after she was born. Selecting my Hebrew name was daunting, too. It had to have meaning, and I had to like the way it sounded. But now I have to rename someone whose parents had already had taken care of the task? Worse, did this mean I should reconsider the name of everyone I write about?

I guess my spirited cowgirl friend could be called Wild Child, and my spunky girlfriend from the south could be dubbed Tequila. An aggressive New Yorker could be named Eight for his Enneagram personality type, but most people one wouldn’t know what that means. My sister could become Princess for her love of the finer things in life, and quite frankly, my cats, Rocky and Snowball should exchange names.  I mean, Rocky startles at the sound of a bottle opening. He is definitely not living up to his namesake.

Harrison (who shall remain Harrison) has been urging me to write fiction lately. “Why write fiction when the real thing is so rich?” I’ve countered. But now that I’ve played with names, I can see the draw. If I give the people in my life anonymity, I could throw open the door to some veerrry entertaining stories.

So, thanks, Fin  (or should I say “Fin“) for the suggestion. I suppose now, with your pseudonym, I could feel free to expose your addiction to Colbert, and your loathing of fancy boy haircuts, and your odd love affair with your iPhone.  Your getting whooped by a 70+ year old swimmer becomes fair game, too. But teasing in my writing really isn’t in my nature. It’s the reality of life that gets me –  the beauty, the humor, the poignancy of the small moments in our days. No name, real or imagined, could capture that.

Sometimes home is Milwaukee where I grew up in, and where my entire family lives still.  I’ve been deciding when I’ll go home this summer for our annual family retreat weekend.

Tonight I experienced another home, one that I had forgotten was a vital part of my weave. It was my graduate school, JFK University. I have been attending JFKU since the fall of 2006, and I’ve come a long way since the first term, when I was shocked we were actually meditating in class. Now I’m upset if the meditation is too short.Traditional courses in developmental psychology, along with ancestral studies, terrapsychology, and paradigms of consciousness have profoundly altered the way I interact with the world.

I’ve taken time away from the school lately because of my extensive book tour. So when I walked into my class on Sufism and Tim and Carissa welcomed me with their huge smiles, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of coming home. Sitting between them in our small semicircle of five students, I had to hold back my impulse to hug them each tightly, and ask them everything about their lives. When we did have a chance to talk, I was moved by their open energy, their candid expression of their feelings about break ups and recoveries. Standing at the exit after class, I hugged Tiffany and made plans to see her this week, and saw Keith in the distance outside.

When I started grad school I was intimidated by my differences with my fellow students. They were a group of brilliant, soulful, single, twenty and thirty-somethings. They went to grad school and did non-profit work.  I was a recent stay-at-home mom serving lunch at my kids’ school. They had undergraduate degrees in Psychology. I had a degree in Retail Management. They came to class in soft-soled shoes and flowing blouses and t-shirts. I wore heels and business attire. They meditated. I wrestled cattle.  But while I was busy wondering if I had landed in the wrong program, they were busy embracing me. Never once did they judge my different lifestyle. They listened to my random input in the classroom, and in turn, helped me to listen to myself. Plus they gave me a whole new gaggle of people to nurture. These were the students who had gently escorted me to my next phase of life three years ago.

Tonight I learned that they will all be graduating in June. I became terribly sad. Not because I will take another year – I knew I was on a slower track due to my career, parenting and book tour.  I became sad because I only get their love, their intellectual sparring, and their humor for the next six months. In many ways I feel like I am at my best in this circle of friends.

And that is where I found home tonight.

At first I thought the summaries bothered me because I am more comfortable looking ahead than I am looking back. Or it could be because I thought it was preposterous to try to sum up 365 days  in one column or television segment.

But then it dawned on me. The reason I didn’t want to review the last year was because it was dangerous territory.  If  I dipped my toe in the water of nostalgia, I would likely be pulled in by the tide of gratitude.  If I gave it just a little thought, if I put together the pieces of the last twelve months, I would see that I had a year overflowing with mind-blowing blessings. And I really needed to write a final paper for grad school today.

As I sat in the pew of my synagogue, mesmerized by Harrison’s d’var torah as he become a bar mitzvah, I knew it was a special year. A shy child become a bold man, looking his guests in the eye as he shook their hands, allowing himself to be body-passed over the dancing crowd, hugging me when he thanked me and Michael at the end of the night.  It was a year of watching Olivia mature, too, as she generously handed her brother the limelight,  and as she made fresh choices for healthy friendships. There was nothing like watching her ferociously face opponents on the basketball court, too.

My brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, sisters-in-law and parents astounded me with their bottomless well of love in 2009. They flew out to California for Harrison’s bar mitzvah, and filled the crowd at my book launch in Milwaukee. They called me and offered me support as I decided to leave consultancy and seek the next career move. Throughout the last year, they constantly told me words that still make me cry today: I’ve got your back.

It was a year of nieces. Sabrina moved in with us, and Stephanie spent after school hours with the kids every week. They both share their spirit, their humor, their zeal for life with our households. They  are forbidden to leave the state. I’ve offered them incentives to lure their siblings to California.

This year I finally deeply understand the transitions my mom had the courage to go through in her own life, and I credit her with my strength and stamina. She was my first one to read my manuscript, she is my first call after a victory, and the first voice of support on a bad day. She held up my book at every one of her networking meetings, boasting about her daughter and selling books, and she scheduled my book launch in Milwaukee. Forget the woman behind the man. She’s the mom behind the woman.

Hikes with girlfriends and candid conversations were the highlights of my weeks last year. I am so fortunate to have friends who showed such unbridled enthusiasm when The New Jew was published, and their support for everything I do means the world to me.

My book tour gave me the unexpected bonus of spending time with friends I had lapsed with. They opened their homes to me when I stayed in their cities, feeding me, giving me vitamins when I was getting overrun from exhaustion. I felt nurtured and loved every time I travelled, and friendships have found second lives.

A surprise romance opened my heart to love in a new stage of life, and I am so very lucky. It’s different this time around – kids, schedules, careers and life’s daily bustle make it challenging to see each other sometimes, but I’m learning to integrate, and it is lovely.

It was a year with death. My brother-in-law Marshall passed away.  I miss him very much. I don’t think I’ll ever see a smile like his again. I was stunned by the death of my friend Robert, a friend of mine from Larchmont Temple. When I was last there he took a photo of me that I loved so much, I use it on my Facebook author page. They, and others, are gone. But they are not forgotten.

It is confirmed – I cannot possibly summarize an entire year in an essay. For every sentence of gratitude I begin, ten more pop into my mind. How can I recall each pomegranate colored sunset over my deck, the cat’s smug expression from the sofa, the raucous games of Pictionary, the sound of the branches brushing my window, the taste of the best smoothie ever, the feel of my daughter’s hand in mine?

I have just one New Year’s resolution: to give back even half as much as I received last year.

Happy New Year.

One of Harrison’s and Olivia’s biggest treats is reading past midnight. This has seriously cut into my opportunity for late night television, something I indulge in just a few times a year. So, when the kids left for Tahoe with Michael, I surrounded myself with DVD’s and munchies and ended the night with an episode of  CSI: New York .

There are a few seductions to this show, and they all reflect a sampling of my  fantasies: of being a detective, of having curls like Melina Kanakaredes’, of having a job with cool, high-tech gadgets, and of having Gary Sinise as my husband. On this particular night, I had the added bonus of hearing a new musical artist – an unknown actor who played a recovered homeless man-turned-struggling musician.

As I listened to his soul piercing voice, I was entranced. A shame he’s so old, I thought. If he had started younger, this guy could really have potential. I thought he was a little dated in his skinny jeans and black t-shirt, but I faulted the show’s wardrobe designer for that. His passion was mesmerizing, and his voice had incredible range. I wondered if the show was promoting this new singer and his band. I’m going to shock my kids and find out the name of this guy, I decided.

It was my chance to vindicate myself. I really don’t listen to the radio a lot, save NPR, classic rock or country. My iPhone reflects my tastes, and according to Harrison and Olivia, it’s woefully pathetic. Woeful would be enough, but it’s the pathetic that makes me wonder how bad off I am. They swear there is not hope for me, and I don’t bother arguing.

But now I had them. They were going to come home from Tahoe in a few days and find out their mom was edgy. She knew new artists before any of their friends – even before their father! It would be a sweet moment.

I waited and waited for the credits to roll, until the very last trademark symbol scrolled by. No artist. I went to the computer and searched through Hulu till I found the episode. I scanned the cast list and found the artist’s name. I clicked to Google to find the name of his band, and then to iTunes. Oh, yes, it involved a lot of digging, but the vision of redemption was my motivation. And I knew from my detective shows that motivation is key. Who was that dark-haired, elderly artist?

And there it was.

Train.

I concede.

But I have to say, I’m enjoying the newest artist on my playlist.

… I wonder if the kids know that Pat Monahan came out with his own solo album?

Harrison, Olivia, my niece Stephanie, and I were enjoying a Saturday morning pancake breakfast at the dining room table. We love it when Stephanie spends the weekend with us.  At 25 years old, Stephanie, who lives in Daly City, brings a special effervescence to our household. She somehow manages to be both an adult and a playful child. One moment she and I are sitting on the sofa, talking about spirituality and philosophy, and an hour later I spot her climbing out of a steep incline of bushes, pulling twigs out of her hair, holding high a red rubber ball.  Last month I pulled out of our driveway and came to a screeching halt when I saw Olivia and Stephanie sitting on toppled chairs in the street.

“Stop. Go. Stop. Go,” I heard from my right, as Harrison stood a few yards away, directing them in a stop-motion film.

This morning we were still smiling after last night’s Music Man movie night, complete with popcorn, chocolate, licorice, soda and lots of sing-a-longs. The night had a particular poignancy to Stephanie, who informed us she used to don her own marching band pants to watch this favorite film when she was a child.

“Cleaning?!  We don’t want to clean! That’s not fair!” Olivia’s shoulders slumped, and Harrison shoved his chair away from the table, crossing his arms across his stomach.

I felt heat rise in my chest. I didn’t want to clean the house either. I just returned from Chicago after a week away from Harrison and Olivia and I would much rather skip our weekly chores and enjoy of day of play with them. Their moaning and groaning made it that much more difficult to see the chores through. What I needed was a positive attitude. I just wanted to do it, get it done, and have a fun day with my kids.

“You guys! Cleaning is fun!” Stephanie declared, face luminous with anticipation. I looked at her sideways. What was wrong with this woman?

“Fun? What is fun about it?” Harrison challenged. “Do you want to clean the bathroom? Or my bedroom?”

“Sure!” Stephanie cheered. “We’ll do what I did when I was a kid. My mom used to crank the music and we’d dance and clean. It was so much fun!”

I quickly set aside the mental note that there are much more effective mothers than me, and considered her scenario.

“Will you clean with me?” Olivia pleaded.

“Absolutely!”

Harrison and I went out to run an errand, and when we returned I entered an entirely different energy field than that which I had left.  I walked gingerly down the stairs, trying to locate the voices I was hearing. They were coming from my bedroom.

“How about you clean the top, and I’ll clean the bottom?”

“Sounds good, Olivia.”

I entered my room to see Stephanie standing on her toes on my long wall of closet mirror doors, and Olivia scrunching below her.

“Mom!” Olivia beamed. “We cleaned my room, two bathrooms, your bathroom, and most of the mirrors.”

I had been gone one hour.

“And I vacuumed the living room and your room after doing my room.”

Dense is the word I use to describe my current lifestyle. Between parenthood, consulting, writing, traveling, studying and the occasional hike, most of my minutes are pretty much accounted for. So when I walked into my room and saw that two lovely angels had taken care of my haven, I had to touch a finger to the teardrop forming at the edge of my eye.

“You two are awesome. I’m so touched.”

I grabbed a dusting cloth, stepped over the threshold to my iPod hub, and turned the music louder.

“I love this song!” Stephanie hollered.

I love this moment, I thought.

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.

Granted, this was not just any cemetery. Designed by Frederick Olmstead, the landscape architect who created the masterpiece of Central Park, this cemetery is particularly beautiful. I entered through my secret passageway – a path that leads to a field that leads to the upper-most point of the park – and made my way through the meandering lanes. Low headstones dotted with bouquets of spring colors, the grass a particularly crisp shade of green, I immediately felt calmed. I wasn’t alone in embracing the ambience. There were a few parked cars along the way, some whose passengers remained in the seats.

I was enjoying my quiet time when I found my stride was catching up with another walker. I noticed was he was wearing flip flops.  “Those are not good for hiking,” I noted to self, then wondered why I cared. His pace was slower than mine, so I was forced into the awkward pedestrian-pass. I didn’t want to seem rude passing him, but truthfully, I wanted to get moving. After all, my kids were home alone.

I turned to my right as I passed him.

“Hi there,” I nodded.

“Hi.”

“How are you?” I asked off –handedly.

He smiled broadly and said, with conviction, “Excellent.”

I was caught off-guard. When a stranger asks how you are, you rarely answer anything but, “Fine,” or “Good.” Maybe an exuberant “Great!” will pop out now and then. But “Excellent”?” Not so common. But by the look on his face, I could tell that it was true. He was definitely feeling excellent. In fact, I imagined he felt excellent most every day.

I rolled the word over in my head like a scientist gingerly considering a specimen. Excellent….excellent. And it dawned on me. Come to think of it, I’m excellent, too!

My entire family was healthy and very happy. I have a world of friends that I love. I have a beautiful house to live in, a place of employment where I feel valued and enjoy working, a book recently published, opportunities to travel, interview and speak to groups, and all sorts of wonderful experiences on the horizon. My mental list went on and on and on. How could I not have seen that I am excellent? In fact, I’ve been excellent for a long time now! I loved that this stranger in inappropriate footwear offered me a response outside the norm.

On my way home, I encountered two men looking for directions. We stopped and talked a while, about the beauty of the landscape, about our gratitude for the day. Seems that the notion of excellence was spreading. And all it took was one shared word.