When I was a kid, I hated Sunday nights. Back then, Sundays were an empty time when many stores were closed and no good TV shows were on. That night, as I got into bed early in preparation for school the next morning, I felt sad and lonely, even with my family in the adjacent rooms.

Saturdays I anticipated eagerly. That was the time when I didn’t have to wake early, I could take my time, stay in pajamas, linger in front of the television or return to the kitchen for something else as the appetite hit me. Saturday was a day of doing and going and being amid the elements - I loved being outdoors without an eye on the clock. And while Sunday had the same indefinite element to it, I knew Monday was on the horizon and with it, the time of everyone going off in their separate directions to get things done.

Last night, I coasted along peaceful waters as the sun dropped behind the trees in an orange glow. It was colder on the return than on the departure, and it occurred to me as I burrowed into layers of coats that there is a certain excitement in the going out and a resignation upon the return. No longer a sadness nor a loneliness, for in all that I’ve been through in the past 36 years, I’ve finally come into my own in a wonderful way.

But I relish the eager excitement as I embark on even the smallest journey or the shortest path and give in to the acceptance of serenity upon my inevitable return.

My ex-husband moved his belongings out this week. I now inhabit a house entirely my own with my three wonderful children. My new dishes sparkle from the cupboards. The counters are clean and every day I eliminate more clutter.

The metaphor of all this is huge, I know. Years ago, I chased every date, job, and journey in search of that happy equilibrium that I never found. When John flew back to Ann Arbor after his graduation in search of something more with me, it still wasn’t true love. And when I walked down the aisle eight years ago with a bouquet of coral-colored roses in front of my handmade white dress, I thought I was walking toward completion.

Today, newly divorced, a single mother, an entrepreneur, a woman with reddish-brown curly hair that sometimes does what it wants in spite of my desires, I finally have it. Equilibrium, completion, serenity, silence - a better bouquet than the most fragrant flowers, a more promising relationship than any I’ve known thus far with another person.

I am eager for the outbound, no longer afraid of the return.

I don’t hate Sunday nights anymore. In fact, there isn’t a day that I dread nor one that I particularly await. For I know that around every corner, there is something wonderful to discover - whether it’s new or familiar. When they are with their father for the weekend, my children return to me on Sunday nights. And though I feared I would hate the time that they are away from me, I don’t. I miss them, but now I have myself in time, and that is a great gift.

My ears are still ringing just a little.

I sat in the seats I’ve sat in since Joe Louis Arena was built and watched as the lights dimmed and the ice lit purple under black lights. The wheeled wing danced on the ice, then an image of the shiny silver Stanley Cup. The crowd erupted in tinny cacophony. Atop the scoreboard flames leapt toward the roof, and the crowd roared even louder.

It was the perfect thing to do the night before my former husband moves out of our house.

As I sat in the red plastic swingy seats in row 6 like I’d done since I was a kid, I was overcome with joy. Memories danced in my mind:

the winning game that clinched the cup after 42 years of victory drought

countless New Year’s Eves with my sister, brother, and parents, eating first at Joe Muer’s, then cheering ourselves hoarse at the game, then returning home to watch the ball drop on TV as we nodded asleep on the couch

swiping at tears in my eyes as Steve Yzerman’s number 19 jersey was raised to hang with honor alongside Red Wings greats Gordie Howe, Terry Sawchuk, Ted Lindsay

and though I don’t remember it, I cling to the story I’ve been told over and over of my very first Red Wings game, at Olympia Stadium, on my daddy’s lap. I was 4.

I am only beginning to emerge from a terrible marriage and a disappointing journey through religious awakening and an attempt to build a life with someone who never knew how to be truly close. And yet, I am so so happy.

I love where I live. Yes, that’s the same place that all the newspapers tout as having the most dismal economy, the lowest home values, the most foreclosures, and the worst bout of unemployment. I love it all the same because we are a town that bands together against the odds. When outsiders shake their heads and turn up their noses at the idea of Detroit - “why would you live there?” - I just shake my head. This is home. This is a provincial city of hard-workers who are fiercely loyal and have great team spirit.

The Pistons are winning, too, you know. We win a lot, even if you think we lose.

In all the years that I was unhappily married, I fantasized about living in the mountains, about moving to the sea, about relocating to New York City, thinking that a new place would have in its streets and in the contours of its hills, all the answers that I sought.

I know better now.

Geography doesn’t change a situation. We can’t be made whole by a place or seek a sense of place when what we really need is a sense of confidence.

That comes from inside. I’m glad I had the good fortune to gain a second chance. We don’t get many in life, so I’m taking this one very, very seriously.

In the row behind my dad’s friends tonight sat five or six of the top NHL draft picks from all over the world, invited by the Red Wings to witness their greatness on ice. These young men - 18, 19 years old at most - wore sharp suits and thumbed their way through text messages during TV timeouts. The next class of superstars, perhaps, eager to be a part of my hometown.

I leave this marriage on top of the world. It’s the best place to be.

Last night, Avy began moving out. He scooped up his hanging clothes and piled them in his truck to take to his parents’ house, where he’ll be staying until he finds a place of his own.

I was relieved. Finally, I thought!

Until I went upstairs and peered into our walk-in closet. At his end of the closet, it was bare. I could see the white particleboard wall beyond the empty hanging rod. And suddenly I felt sad.

It’s to be expected, I know, and I will feel even sadder as he packs up dishes and furniture and truly leaves this place we bought together five years ago and intended to inhabit with happiness and a growing family. Any death brings on a jumble of emotions, not the least of which is sadness, and we have yet to truly mourn the death of our marriage. We’ve been so busy fighting and protecting our respective selves that we haven’t taken a moment to mourn.

But we will, I am certain. It’s like when a beloved pet must be put to sleep, as my friend Debra Darvick did last week (check out her new blog!). It was a necessary step, but it didn’t lessen the blow that her 15-year-old companion is no longer by her side.

She had to do it - the dog was old and frail and life was no longer good to him. The same could obviously be said for my marriage, though it wasn’t terribly old. It just was far from good, it was detrimental to all involved.

I’ve said before and I’ll say again, neither Avy nor I are bad people. We just had a bad marriage. We were ill-matched, something we both knew going in but didn’t want to heed.

And so begins the move-out. I steel myself for what’s to come, for gaping holes, for emptiness, in which I hope to find peace.

At my children’s private Jewish school, certain acts earn the designation of middot tovot, which translates roughly as “good traits.” It’s a big deal to get a middot tovot, since the principal signs a certificate of recognition for a specific behavior and doles out Laffy Taffy (an absolute bane of motherhood as far as I’m concerned - can’t he give out an apricot or muscat grapes if he wants to do something special and delicious?).

Asher has earned three middot tovot this year, the most recent of which was last week. Minutes before Shabbat, his grandmother called to congratulate him, since those children exhibiting excellent character for a moment are so named in the weekly school newsletter.

I like this idea of middot - paying attention to the kind of character one has. You find a quarter on the ground - do you pocket it, or drop it in a collection can on the counter at the deli? Your waitress smacked her gum and gave you attitude the whole meal - do you still leave a tip, and even make it close to 15% because you know she needs it more than you do? And how long do you hold a grudge?

Last week was the Scholastic Book Fair at my kids’ school. I gave Asher $10 to spend as he wished during his class library time. When I picked him up, he brimmed with glee.

“I bought three books, Mommy,” he said, pulling thin tomes from his bag. “This one is for me, to read with Abba,” he waved a kid-level scientific exploration of global warming above his head.

“This one is for you.” He handed me the storybook version of Disney’s Enchanted, knowing I love Patrick Dempsey. (Should my 6-year-old son even be aware of my silver-screen infatuations? Fodder for another blog post, methinks.)

“And this one is for Eliana,” he said as he pulled a beginning reader book from his bag. “It’s to help her get started reading, since she’ll be in Kindergarten next year.”

My sweet, good boy! I shook my head, furrowed my eyebrows, covered him in kisses as he shrugged me off. “Oh Mommy,” he said, almost blushing.

“I think that’s a Mommy middot tovot,” I said. ”You could’ve spent all that money on yourself - but instead, you bought thoughtful gifts for other people. Maybe I should make you a certificate.”

“Well, but at school, the principal gives out Laffy Taffy, you know, Mommy,” Asher said sheepishly.

“Ok.” I played along. “Would you like a lollipop?”

“I get lollipops all the time,” Asher replied.

“So it should be something special,” I said. He nodded.

After a few minutes of careful consideration, I said, “Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?”

“YES!” said my too-cool-for-public-kisses but still-young-enough-to-cuddle-all-night-long boy.

Asher slept soundly beside me in the big king bed that night, the moon ablaze through the bamboo shades. The next day, I’m sure he went on to punch his sister when I wasn’t looking or go for a joy-ride on his baby brother’s motorized truck that he’s not supposed to even sit on. He is, after all, a precocious, astute child.

I never considered my own moral footsteps this seriously before I became a mother. Children watch so carefully, eyes always open to the details. My little ones are a constant reminder to make deliberate choices, to be thorough in my understanding of myself - I don’t have to make sense to the rest of the world as long as I can live with my decisions.

If you ask a religious Jew why it matters what time you begin Shabbat or what time you end it, they’re likely to say (among a few possible answers) that Judaism is all about sanctifying time. Elevating moments. Noticing the difference between holy and mundane, dark and light, and all the metaphors therein.

We light candles approximately 18 minutes before sundown on Friday (18 being the number in Hebrew that signifies life, or chai) and are supposed to consider it a day apart from the rest, when we refrain from work, have celebratory meals, and in the best case scenario study Torah with the people we care about most. The Sabbath does not end, then, until three stars can be seen in the night sky on Saturday, or approximately 45 minutes after official sunset.

There is a Jewish calendar and an English calendar (Gregorian, to be exact) and we religious types usually celebrate a Hebrew birthday and an English birthday (and don’t forget the all-important birthday party, which often falls on neither of the aforementioned official dates).

Today is Shaya’s second birthday. The English one. And for the life of me I couldn’t remember when his Hebrew birthday is. I went to the handy Chabad calculator (God love Chabad - they accept everyone and know everything, even if they believe a long-dead rabbi is the Messiah) and plugged in the numbers and voila - Shaya’s Hebrew birthday is the 26th of Iyar, which will be May 31st this year.

For a week and a half, Shaya’s been saying in all his chubby cuteness, “Shaya birthday NEXT WEEK!” Clapping hands together, eyes alight, his voice curving on the arc of the last two words with inexplicable joy. The next statement to follow was something like this, “Elmo cake!”

I made the Elmo cake on Thursday and froze it. Tonight, Asher and Eliana stood on chairs at the kitchen counter after Shaya went to sleep and “helped” me frost it - the bright red fur, a tear-drop shaped orange nose, two perfectly circular white eyes and the black pupils which Asher insisted I had to “press down” because otherwise they looked like little black Hershey’s kisses.

It looks damn good, if I don’t say so myself.

This morning when he awoke, I laid Shaya on the changing table in his room and quietly sang “Happy Birthday” to him.  (No this You Tube clip is not the one I sang but it is hilarious!) He was so gleeful as I sang; I should’ve measured the grin on his pudgy little face.

This child - the third child, my last baby - he is so delicious. All of my children are gems, but there is something about a third that is extra delicious. Perhaps I’m a more laid-back parent now so I can savor the moments of his babyhood more. Or maybe it’s that I know I won’t have another baby, so I want to remember all of the little details - like the way he says, “pea-loom” for play room and knows the words to the book Pinkalicious, which he asks me to read over and over again.

Or the way his golden hair curls up at the sides into little wings. Or how he’s so eager to be BIG that today at lunch he asked for “glass cup too” but conceded that a plastic one without a lid was fine. (Third child or not, I just can’t see giving him a tall glass - visions of shards all over the floor and my baby paralyze me into the no-no-no Mommy fearful mode.)

Shabbat ends too late at this time of year for my three little lovely ones to stay up until Havdalah, which is the official ritual ending to Shabbat, when we light a multi-wicked candle, smell spices and drink grape juice. In the mood I’ve been in for the past several months, it’s just as well.

For since Havdalah means separation - marking the difference between holy and mundane - I might launch into some poetic treatise about how there is holy in every single day and that’s what the glory of life is all about. I know, it’s a bit much to take. But I mean it. Whenever I walk through a forest and smell the minty-woodsy scent of pine, I am overcome. Hiking near the Maroon Bells in Aspen last summer. Even just sitting on the cushiony swing in my backyard while Shaya rides the motorized mini-truck my parents got him for his birthday (not realizing he has to turn the handles to not crash into people, trees, the swingset or the house).

I can’t say that holiness is confined to one day. It’s not who I am. “God is the wind,” Asher has been known to say. And I can’t argue. Or the way Eliana was born - in two minutes without any drugs or medical intervention - and after, how I felt like I could do absolutely anything.

Holiness is everywhere. If you can’t see that, close your rule books and open your eyes.

What bothered my parents most when I became religious in Judaism was the food. I started walking down the path of observance 12 years ago, but only when I met Avy did I get to the point of not eating in the kitchen of someone who did not keep kosher the way we did it. The way he did it.

Until then, I was flexible. I didn’t mix milk and meat, didn’t eat out-and-0ut treife like shellfish or pork, but I sat down to table with non-keepers easily and sipped from their glasses without a thought.

It was because we were getting married and because I wanted to start in the same square moving forward that I took on his stringencies. In particular, I remember the time I rejected the tuna fish my grandmother prepared for a party of relatives because it included bits of chopped hard-boiled egg. I miss the taste of my grandmother’s food - her velvety veal scallopine, her homemade gefilte fish, the little square brownies she dusts with powdered sugar. When I lived in New York, she sent me a Jacobson’s box full of them and I was the most popular person in the newsroom for a day.

Food brings people together as well as it can tear us apart. When you can cook for someone, present them with a beautiful table, a sip of lemon-water, and some hushed-over-shoulders intense conversation, then you are really connecting.

But when another person comes to inspect your pots and boil your silverware in an effort to make them holy enough to eat with, well, that is certainly an intrusion. And it’s an easy way to create distance.

There are many ways to be authentic. These days, I’m fond of the individual definition, the way that each person has her own story, with little details that differentiate her from the crowd.

Religious people around the world often succumb to the giving over - of control, of belief, of the way they walk through their days. But you make your own luck - it doesn’t come as a reward for deprivation or asceticism or turning your back on your sister.

There is good kosher food, to be sure. In April, I ate the best burger of my life at Le Marais in New York, its juices seeping into the bun, its pink flesh sweet as it was tangy. Hell, there is great kosher food. A person doesn’t eat only kosher for culinary reasons; it’s done on faith, the belief that it is the right way to sustain one’s body.

I believe there are many absolute rights, almost an infinite number of paths to higher meaning. I don’t have the license on it, and neither does anyone else. We tell ourselves stories to sustain ourselves - it is the fear of the unknown that drives us to embrace the rules and restrictions, to suspend sensible belief in favor of blind faith.

Today is my first full day as a divorced individual. I’ll drink the same cup of coffee that I drank every day for the past number of years and my hair will curl the same way it has for so long. Tonight, the kids and I will taste a bit of home-cooking at my aunt’s house - she went out of her way to buy kosher meat and I will meet her in her efforts by eating it, its taste enhanced by the people around the table and our ability to fully merge with them, to laugh when they laugh, to eat what they eat.

We are family even in our different contours and shadows, in the different details of our faces. All valid in our choices. I feel the need to offer a toast now though the sun has yet to rise. In Hebrew we say L’chaim, which  means to life. I think it utterly appropriate. Cheers!

This morning, I awoke at 5:30 a.m., contemplating the day to come. I showered, dressed in a suit I bought in New York before my wedding in 2000, and mixed 2% milk into a cup of Elite coffee.

I’d made the kids’ lunches the night before and arranged for another mother to drive them to school. My babysitter arrived, and I hugged the children and left.

My heels clicked on the sidewalk as I walked toward the courthouse. The sky was clear blue and vivid, not a cloud in sight. The sunshine was bright but cool. My father and I rode the elevator to the fourth floor and I kept my mouth shut as Avy tried to further nickel-and-dime me outside the courtroom, the 17-page-thick judgment sitting on his lap.

Aren’t we finished? I wanted to scream, but I kept quiet on the hard black chair outside the courtroom. Finally, at somewhere after 9 a.m., it was our turn, Schreiber vs. Schreiber, and we with our attorneys approached the bench.

It’s official. Judge Leo Bowman officially proclaimed, in his soothing, authoritative voice, that my marriage was over and irreconcilable. But we already knew that. He just made it possible for me to escape the unrelenting tension, anxiety, sadness, and misery of a marriage that never worked.

It’s not quite over, though. It won’t be until Avy packs up the dishes, dining room table, a few beds and some towels and leaves this house for good on May 30. Then I’ll change the locks. And begin to breathe.

Today, some of the most wonderful people in the world texted me, called me, emailed me - I am so so lucky to be surrounded by quality people. It’s no coincidence. I make most of my choices wisely, and I yearn to be around people who are dynamic, brilliant, loving, and fun. Those who are superficial or surface-only I have no time or patience for.

Since I filed for divorce last October, it is as if I have finally come alive. I am the butterfly who lingered too long in an old, stale cocoon. But no matter. All that matters is right now, is the fact that I broke free, that I shed the encumberances of the past, that I never let the cave consume me, but rather I used that time to properly gestate into the person I was meant to become.

Today I am whole, my shoulders no longer bent under the weight of a person who needs me to hold him up. Good timing. I received an email announcing the publication of an anthology in which some of my words play a part. Bread Body Soul it is called, a collection of writings about food and life and meaning - and I dare say, that is the underlying yes of all of our lives, or at least of lives well-lived and completely enriched.

When I asked him how he felt today, Avy said, “I don’t know. The hard part is ahead of us now.”

For me, the hard part is behind. I know there will be hard times to come, many in fact, but they’re the kind of hard I can handle.

Spring is the perfect time to get divorced. The time of all things blooming, the world waking up, coming alive. In my yard, one bush blooms with white flowers. The lawn is lush and green, and the bench swing beckons. The trees smell of rain and dirt. The worms have more energy, more presence, burrowing their tunnels into the fresh limey earth, knowing there is only warmth ahead for some months now and absolutely no fear of frost.

This summer will be a season of senses, as I walk through the farmers market with my children, Asher palming tomatoes and sinking his teeth into the sweet flesh, the juices dripping down his chin. Eliana and Shaya will eat the strawberries that we pick before we can get them home, their fingers stained red, their chins in automatic grins as they nod into a satisfied sleep.

And me. I will be the one at the wheel, steering us to adventure and escape as much as I steer us to safe shore and home again every night.

I’m sad that I had an unsuccessful marriage, but I’m not sad to be divorced. I am grateful that I can put a stop to things that don’t work and begin anew.

A friend said to me once that the first time a person gets married, she should know her spouse well; the second time, she should know herself. I don’t know if I’ll ever marry again. But no matter what lies ahead for me, that’s what I’m shooting for. Infinite, intimate knowledge, and sweet moments of endurable silence.

Today began with purple-gray clouds and cool breezes that smelled of rain. I met a friend to walk along a tree-covered dirt road, perfumed with the scent of spring blooming. There is an edge to the air today but it’s a rounded edge, one that doesn’t cause me to shrink back, but rather to pull it close.

Yesterday, I walked two miles to a friend’s house for Shabbat lunch. I sat at their rectangular table for hours, eating plates full of salads. Israelis who are moving to a house on the Golan Heights in a month, my friends prepare food with the love and attention of the Holy Land - thinly sliced onion, half-moons of avocado, tiny pungent bits of hot pepper, and beautiful rounds of cucumber. There was meat slow-cooked and long-flavored; roasted potatoes; calm innocuous rice; a pot of slender cooked green beans; and for dessert, homemade coffee ice cream.

I walked home in the rain, but it didn’t bother me. My face open to the sky, under the light patter of raindrops, I wished a man in a black hat and black suit “Shabbat Shalom” and he answered back, neither of us in a hurry to escape the elements.

Many people have commented on how “naked” I am in this blog. I’ve been a writer all my life, so it is possible I no longer have a filter. Perhaps I don’t know how to keep secret the private details of my life as society dictates is appropriate.

But I’ve never been fond of rules. The words I write here don’t feel particularly revealing, even if they are. There is an assumption to the assertion that it is a bad thing to be emotionally naked before others.

I don’t think so. The only reason one might be uncomfortable naked before others would be if that person is uncomfortable in her own skin. To take the metaphor to its expected end, I recognize the flaws in my body, but I still smile when I stand naked before the mirror, noticing contours and flaws, scars from illnesses and injuries long past and flab that comes from being human.

It doesn’t embarrass me to be naked in front of the world because I love my body. I’m talking metaphorically as much as literally - I’m not a workout fiend, mind you; I am supremely human. And still, I don’t only merely live in myself; I revel in the gifts and warts alike that I have been given, that I have developed, that I have adopted. I reveal what I am comfortable sharing with the world. Many of my friends have suggested that what I put out there is too much of me. I don’t mind, you see, because I’m solid.

We Americans, and women in particular, have kept ourselves hidden for so long. We marvel at children in their ability to be real as much as we shush them when they scream in a restaurant or point a finger and say loudly, “That woman looks strange, Mommy!”

Would that we all could be as true to our feelings and instincts all the years of our lives.

I go to court on Tuesday to become officially divorced. I am sure you will hear from me after that, and I don’t know whether those words will be laced with pain or regret or sadness or elation. I’m thinking maybe a bit of all of these emotions, and others I have yet to experience.

We will keep this conversation going because connection is the lifeblood that runs through us all, that allows us to sleep soundly at night and wake with bright faces each morning.

Today, I began my day with good company, fresh air, strong coffee, and the knowledge that I am not alone in the world. Tomorrow is another day. A gift waiting to be opened, its red ribbon gleaming in the light.

“I want the bookshelves.”

“So do I.”

Jaws set, eyes narrowed. I perched on the coffee table I bought at Naked Furniture a million years ago for $600 and Avy sat on the overstuffed chair-and-a-half that I bought before I met him. He wrote bookshelves at the top of the notebook page with a question mark.

“Humor me,” he’d said in the kitchen earlier. “We need to make a list of everything we’re each taking and sign it.”

I laid out the blue glass plate with the dragonflies etched into the perimeter. Mine. He chose the tablecloth and napkins that his mother bought for our anniversary last year. His. I get the mixer. Mine. He got the Cuisinart until I gave up the dairy and meat dishes (but got the china and crystal) and potentially gave him both sets of pots and pans.

An hour later, two notebook pages filled and the bookshelves still in question, Asher came tearing downstairs.

“What were you just talking about?”

I knelt to his eye level. “Have you been listening to us the whole time?”

He nodded, his skinny legs and little-boy body in green shorts pajamas from the Gap. I sat cross-legged on the cork floor and pulled him into my lap. “Divorce is upsetting,” I whispered in his ear as I rocked him back and forth.

It amazes me that after eight years of marriage, I remember who gave us which present. Last night, as we divided our belongings, I heard myself saying things like, “Well, my sister gave us the toaster so I’ll keep it.” Petty. Stupid. I can buy a new toaster. I hate that toaster in fact and tried to get him to take it but he only wants something when I want it, too.

In a few months, this house will look very different. I’m painting the basement bright primary colors in June and moving a lot of the kids’ toys down there so they have their own dynamic space. I’ll buy a flat-screen TV (if I can afford it) and put it in my bedroom -where there will be new linens and new bedroom furniture and much more space. Avy is taking the blessed cedar chest we bought at the Ann Arbor antiques market years ago and which I hate in its heavy-grained wood, the way it blocks so much floor space.

Soon, I will be able to breathe in my own house. I will stretch my arms out and spin in a circle and not crash into anything. I’ll feel the cross-breeze on summer nights with the windows open.

It hasn’t taken long for me to learn to love the quiet. I hadn’t expected to enjoy being solitary or to embrace being alone. I’m sure I will feel the pit and roll of emotions that comes with divorce, especially a not-too-acrimonious one, but I am loving the possibilities in the quiet.

Yesterday, I took Asher to Toys R Us and let him pick out two things - a movie and a toy - to have at his father’s house. They are in a bag on his bedroom doorknob, awaiting his father’s move. Now he has something to look forward to that isn’t horrible.

Yesterday, he took the phone from my room and dialed my mother from the list of names and numbers I taped to the wall beside his bed. “He was so excited about his new movie and rock garden,” my mother told me later. “You did a good thing.”

I hope so. I hope this divorce is a good thing in the end, as I expect it to be. As I want it to be. All I can say is that from where I stand, the sun sparkles on the water and the trees are barely moving in their serenity. It’s another day and the air is sweet, if cold.

I’m feeling particularly reverent for a change, thinking of the Hebrew prayer that begins Modeh Ani, thanking God for giving a person a new day, another chance, a beginning with the sunrise.

I’m even tempted to let him have the bookshelves.

Last night, MORE Magazine asked me to introduce Joan Anderson at Borders. So I read her two memoirs, A Year By The Sea and The Second Journey, dog-eared pages, pulled out inspiring quotes.

And then I was inspired by her gravelly voice, her wind-burned face, her blond bushy hair.

Joan likes to say she is an “unfinished woman.” Fifteen years ago, she left her husband to live on Cape Cod for a year. She didn’t end her marriage, but she left him nonetheless because with him, she wasn’t sure she could find herself.

And find herself she did. Ever since. Joan has hosted dozens of women at a time for self-empowerment weekends, and she’s been writing books. Some of her weekend women were part of the huge crowd last night, and one of them is my aunt’s lifelong friend, Joanie. I’m amazed sometimes by how small the world really is.

In any case, here are some of the amazing points Joan had to offer:

Give yourself permission to become who you are.

Find your purpose, your bliss, your gift, whatever you were meant to do - if you want to get to adult love and adult life.

There are 8,700 hours in a year - if you can’t find 24 for yourself, it’s pitiful.

Be the unconventional original you were meant to be.

Have secrets.

More than that, Joan asked questions, she made me think. She asked the women in the audience, “Who are you beyond the roles that you play?” That is crucial for women especially since so often we lose ourselves in being mothers, wives, friends, daughters, sisters, workers.

And then she said the thing which made me smile. She said some people make change while others wait for change to be thrust upon them. And that’s when it came home to me.

In less than a week, I will go to court and my divorce will become final. I’m a little bit scared about that, I must admit, because the word final is so, well, final. But when the divorce is final, that means the next part of my life can fully begin. In many ways, I’ve been building that part of my life already since October - but we’ve been suspended in limbo, in transition, all this time, like cobwebs from the light fixture to the smooth ceiling that the broom just can’t reach.

In our culture, we cling to things, even after their usefulness is outlived, says Joan Anderson. It takes bravery to give away the baby clothes in the basement because it’s admitting you may not have any more children. And it takes courage to end a relationship that isn’t working.

Joan quoted her mentor and friend Joan Erikson as saying that the greatest loneliness is not knowing who you are. And that’s something I’m not willing to face.

I’ve long believed that I can’t truly be intimate with another person until I’ve been completely alone with myself. I told that to a man recently who was interested in sharing my life. Instead of working around the clock or renting movies, I booked a week-long vacation for the first week that my children will be away with their father this summer. A vacation with myself to a place I’ve never been, literally and figuratively. And I can’t wait to see the landscape, experience the flavors.

Joan Anderson says she begins each day with a walk in nature, where she offers praise, thanksgiving, and petition. That is how the Jewish daily prayers are structured - except in the prayerbook, the words are given to you. There’s only one spot for spontaneous originality.

I dare to say that we need more space for our own words. I charge everyone to begin their days with something meaningful specifically to you. That’s why rigid, proscribed religion doesn’t work for me. Because I come seeking meaning - not a uniform, not a script, not a country club.

Joan Anderson says that ever since she went off to seek herself, she has created a life where every single day has meaning for her. It’s a goal I think we’d all be wise to shoot for. Try it today. Praise, thanksgiving, petition - for yourself, for your life, so that when you sit down to look at the past year and notice all the things that happened, you don’t come up blank. May we all live a life of meaning, the way we were meant to.