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?

I pulled by glance away from the window and began to read the paper. Within minutes all of my gratitude fell away like a bare foot on a mossy rock. I thought of Einstein’s famous quote “The biggest decision one will make in life is to decide whether the world is hostile, or whether it is friendly.” I knew what viewpoint I had chosen. And it clashed with the media’s chosen view. The paper was one big tome of disastrous, tragic things happening everywhere. I couldn’t help but wonder – did I really need any of this information?

There was the couple who died on Thanksgiving Day while digging for clams, and a man who perished when his sailboat capsized.  Their were stories about the man who shot his two kids on Thanksgiving Day, and the couple who mocked our President’s State Dinner by crashing the party. And who could miss the breaking news about  Black Friday early shoppers, boasting $1,000 in shoe purchases?

I’ll admit I’m a tirelessly positive person. I’ve confessed to my addiction to inspirational literature and I do literally own a pair of rose colored glasses. But I’m not saying our world is not in dire need of repair. I would just like some balanced journalism.I want to read a story about the family who came together, sharing a big holiday dinner despite the parents’ divorce. Or the couple who decided to forego their own holiday dinner to serve those in homeless shelters. Or the family who welcomed their loved one home from Iraq.

It shouldn’t be that difficult –  there is plenty of good news out there.  Did you know that doctors report that our efforts to change the climate is improving our health? By subscribing to Good News Network you can receive this and other positive news in your email everyday. Happy News will tell you about every day heroes, like the airline pilot who founded an orphanage, and that thousands of new species have been discovered under the sea despite the dismal reports about the environment.

Thw Green Bay Press Gazette devotes the week between Christmas and New Year’s reporting stories of people who make a difference, and Channel 7 in Denver honors local heroes on the air. Recently  CNN hosted a gala honoring every day heroes.  Andrea Ivory received a grant for providing free cancer screening tests, and 21-year-old Efren Penaflorida, who founded a mobile pushcart program to distribute books to children in slums in his native Philippines was honored, too.

We all know that word travels fastest and and most persuasively in conversation. So while you take in the mainstream media’s version of the news, remember that’s just one side of the story.

“It’s a birthday gift from my mom,” she grinned. “Open it!”

I hadn’t expected a birthday gift. As close as Chrissy and I are, we rarely exchange gifts (although she does have a habit of grabbing miscellaneous things from around her house and offering them up to me). I pulled the tissue away from the package and uncovered a rhinestone-encrusted tiara, spelling ”Happy Birthday.”

“Oh, my god. It’s perfect.”

Seems Chrissy was spreading her own formula for the female pick-me-up. We all have them. I’m not talking about a hike, or a massage, a night out with girlfriends. I’m referring to those little secret indulgent things we do for ourselves. I have a friend who is a believer in the healing effects of a late night burger and fries. Another wears seductive lingerie under t-shirt and jeans, knowing she is the only one who will see it. One girlfriend dons a cocktail dress at home with full make-up and has imaginary look-where-I-am-now conversations with old boyfriends. These friends shall all remain nameless to protect their identities (and to throw you off the scent of which indulgence is mine).

But I feel comfortable revealing my sister’s secret since she is actively recruiting. Plus I was there at its inception.

“We have somewhere to go today,” she told me during a recent trip back home.  “I’ve been waiting for you because I need you with me.”

I looked side to side. “Where are we going?” I whispered.

“To buy my tiara.”

As we browsed the display of expensive tiaras (or is it tiari?) at the bridal boutique, Chrissy was getting increasingly excited.

“Its so good to do this with you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because when I do it with my daughters they’re mortified.”

I imagined my teenage nieces shopping for their prom dresses, finding their mother across the store, gazing into a mirror from under a shimmering headdress.

“Where are you going to wear it?” I asked.

“You know, around the house. When I’m doing the dishes, or tidying the kitchen.” Sort of like my false eyelashes, I thought.  “I don’t think I would wear it while teaching online – that would be too distracting.”

I didn’t fully understand her draw to the tiara until I brought my gift with me to a birthday dinner my girlfriends threw for me. After they toasted me, I toasted them right back.

“I have been through so many transitions in the last few years…it was through your love and support I was able to get through it at all,” I effused. “And with that,” I reached down into my purse and donned my own, personal, sparkling tiara, “I thank you for this wonderful birthday party.”

The community table we shared burst into applause, as did the wait staff. “You’re glowing,” my friends told me. “The tiara really does something!”

It’s a shame I can’t wear it to the store. After all, it says Happy Birthday. That would be conspicuous.

The conversations that ensue are often enlightening. One night Harrison and Olivia shared articles they had had read in Newsweek. I was amazed, considering I hadn’t picked up an issue from our coffee table in months. Other times we recap our days. There are the sibling spats and the kids telling me not to respond to my beeping iphone, too – all in a night’s conversation.

Tonight Harrison and I were alone, and he was in the mood to express his latest brainstorm. A filmmaker, a consumer advocate and a budding entrepreneur, he was rarely at a loss for ideas.

“Hey, mom. I have an idea for a reality show,” Harrison told me through a mouthful of turkey melt.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“It’s an Olivia reality show.”

I grinned and held my chuckle in my stomach. I thought better not to encourage him prematurely.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, each week, we place Olivia with a different family. And we see what happens!”

“Harrison….”

“It’ll be amazing. The audience will see how each family handles the Olivia Storm!”

I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but laugh. How would another family negotiate the ups and downs of our own little Tazmanian Devil? When she is in a room, everyone knows it. She is either scaling someone’s body until she settles in their arms – and she is eleven years old – or trying to talk someone into a piggy back ride.  She is playing the electric keyboard with her hands and/or toes, or preparing a snack for the entire table. One second her belly laugh is bouncing off the plaster walls, the next it’s an ear-piercing shriek. Energetic, ethereal, loud, emotional, physical, silly, cuddly, she is a lot of girl. One moment I am sure she is destined to be an engineer, the next a rock star. I’ve entertained thoughts of stashing bail money now, while also envisioning her a poet laureate.

To encapsulate Olivia, the best I can do is offer up a visual image. I am sitting at my dinner table at Harrison’s bar mitzvah reception last May. Olivia runs up to me and asks me to dance to the slow song playing. It is the first time all night that I turn her down, finally taking a moment to talk with friends.  Moments later they say, “Sally, look at your daughter.” I turn to the empty dance floor to see Olivia, in her black spaghetti-string pleated cocktail dress, dancing with the DJ, the sole dancers alone in the middle of the dance floor. They are holding hands and leaning back away from each other, arms straight and elbows locked, swaying in circles. They release one hand and create their own slow-motion spin, one direction and then the other, and return to their two-person circle. Her blonde bob is falling loose from her ponytail. Her head is tilted back, her smile pointing to the ceiling. She is wearing enormous inflatable clown shoes.

I’m not giving her up to any other household, not even for one episode. They may never give her back.

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.

‘Yes. It’s going to be very hot.”

I was standing in the middle of my latest brilliant idea. Since I am traveling a good deal in the next two months, taking my traditional coursework in graduate school was not an option. So rather than bowing out this quarter, my program director at JFKU and I created an independent study course about leadership. That would have been enough, except I wouldn’t qualify for financial aid unless I took one more unit.

That’s where my brilliant idea came in.

Rather than design another cerebral course, I decided to create somatic balance. After all, I am enrolled in Integral Psychology. I must treat and respect the whole person.  So I decided to study and enroll in Bikram Yoga.

My girlfriend, Liz, has been an advocate of Bikram Yoga since last June. She claimed she was inspired by the spiritual display at Harrison’s bar mitzvah, and returned to New York to find her own path to serenity. She seemed authentically altered after six months of her regimen.

“Isn’t it, you know, really hot?” I asked Liz on the phone one day.

“You get over that pretty quickly,” she said, dismissively. ” I can only describe it as really cleansing. And my body is transformed.” I stopped studying my pores in the mirror and took mental note. This could be an interesting study. Take and study Bikram for nine weeks and see if there is any transformation in me.

It all seemed like a good idea until I stood in the second of two rows, noting that all of the students were dripping sweat and we hadn’t even starting moving yet. Stay positive, my mantra came back. You’ll breathe again in ninety minutes. At least it didn’t smell as bad as I had expected.

“Now, Sally. Just watch the person in front of you. You may find you get dizzy. You may get nauseous. At some point you may not know your left from your right. But stay with it and you’ll do fine.”

Nauseous? Left from right? I had never been attempted to experiment with drugs in college because I had no desire to lose control. Now I had paid $23 for a week’s supply of delusions in a room over 100 degrees.

“For the first half hour, no one is to drink water. It breaks the unified energy.”

I was thrilled when the small hand hit the six and I could chug a quarter of my water. The next half hour wasn’t so bad, either. Then I started studying the clock. I eyed the door, wondering how it would feel to have blast of cold air hit my body. But I wasn’t allowed to open it.  I went for the positive outlook again. I pondered worse situations. Being a POW in Vietnam certainly had to be worse than this. They could never get away from the heat.  But, come to think of it, they were locked in a room, too.

As the clock ticked each minute felt like a full hour. My heart rate was elevated –  my body’s way of telling me it really wanted to go home. Was anyone else about to faint? Was there any air anywhere in the world?

Finally, we were released from captivity. As I walked out of class and sat on the bench, the air feeling like I had just stepped into northern Wisconsin in January, I was startled by a thought: I had forgotten about everything in the outside world. I hadn’t considered my events, my interviews, missing my kids, Harrison being sick at home, dinner that night, or drinks later. I had simply in that hot room.

My defenses had also dropped. It is amazing what happens when one is in survival mode. I didn’t rate my body in the wall of mirrors, criticizing my lack of flexibility or weight that needed to be firmed. I was just me, and I loved myself. I also felt a peace in the entire room, an acceptance of others.

“Bikram says it is easy to experience peace in a dark room lit by a single candle, background music playing nearby,” the instructor told us. “But to feel peace in a crowded subway, or while holiday shopping, or in dealing with a difficult client – that takes discipline. That is what Bikram Yoga offers you.”

I can’t walk so well today – my thighs feel like a rubber band wound tight. I’m not so sure about 9 weeks of this class, but I’m all in. We’ll see what my version of transformation feels like.