When I was first married, we spent Rosh Hashanah in Indianapolis, where my husband performed as the cantor during services. I was at my most pious then, covering my curly locks with hats and wearing sleeves below my elbows.

We stayed in the apartment of an ultra-religious couple who did not own a television nor any secular magazines or books. In our haste to hit the road, I had forgotten to pack reading material for the heavy two-day holiday, and so I scoured their bookshelves for something familiar.

Most of their books were Hebrew, so I pulled a thick English tome from a shelf in the hope that I would find inspiration. It was a big book about the Jewish views on modesty, and after reading about how Jewish women should not wear makeup because they might be tempted to apply it on Shabbat and that they should avoid patent leather shoes because the shine might reflect up their skirt, I closed the cover.

It took me years to decide that a strict Orthodox life was not for me - but that doesn’t mean I am not innately Jewish, passionate about the heritage I’ve been handed through the centuries.

On Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, I hear the shofar blast as a wake-up call. Not to become more fervent or beat myself over the head for not attending to the details of Jewish Law.

Rather, I hear it as a call to make sure I am alive and noticing. Its long, aching blasts and short staccato ones remind me not to take anything for granted.

Last night, I sat at the long table in my parents’ dining room, my sister smiling at the end of the table. One of her twins wore a blue plastic police jacket and serious face; “I’m Spiderman,” he said, then tore out of the room to save the day.

Shaya sang “Dip the apple in the honey” to a round of applause and patted his pudgy hands on my shoulders. “I love you Mommy,” he whispered in my ear.

Eliana wore her black dress shoes with their little heels and hung on my cousin Amanda like a monkey. As the cousins fought over who sat next to whom, Asher said serenely, “I’m ok with anyone sitting next to me.”

We ate brisket and apricot chicken, sweet noodle kugel and a heaping salad. We had a round challah dotted with raisins and roasted root vegetables that I chopped and glazed while sipping a glass of Spanish wine.

It was a good night.

In Judaism, our days begin at sundown, a metaphor of embracing the darkness with flickering candlelight, spirits and song and venturing slowly forth into actual light. Isn’t that what this journey of life is all about?

Jews wish each other a happy, healthy new year. It is a phrase we say without thinking, a notion that the words just go together - happy and healthy as we start anew.

This year, those words are especially poignant for me. And so when I say, a happy healthy new year to you all, I mean it with my heart and soul. For we cannot take for granted even a single day or a single smile. Everything is sacred. There is no turning away from that.

It was a hot day, full of time to work, accomplish, cross items off my list. But when my sister suggested I could spend half of it with her, I didn’t think twice.

Hairdresser, retail returns, lunch from the deli. I drove the streets of our childhood, sun beating through my windows, knowing there was no task more important.

I am one of those ponderous people who contemplates the meaning of it all. I teach my children that every person is put on this earth to make a difference.

Someone I admire has said many times that a person either observes or does. I’m not sure I entirely agree (I think one can do both). I haven’t written a blog all week because I’ve been entrenched in life.

This weekend, we will have our hands in dough and pull apples from trees. On Monday, I will feed a large family, glad simply for the opportunity to be all together and the wisdom to sit in the moments.

The smell of the sheets, freshly laundered and crisp, reminded me of when my babies were born. The sterile hospital, the smell of the soap, the notion that I would be taken care of for at least 24 hours and I would not have to take care of anyone else.

Many people are put-off by the scents in a hospital but not me. Perhaps because I have spent my life developing independence and nurturing others, it is symbolic to me of a time off, when someone would at last take care of me.

In the last months of my marriage, my recurring argument was that my husband had nothing nurturing to offer me. “At least, if you aren’t going to support me financially, can’t you in some way take care of me?” I pleaded with him.

But I appear too independent, it seems, to inspire that emotion. At least in him.

Last week, on a field trip with my eldest, another mother told me a horrifying story. As is the trend, her older son wore his hair long-ish - not heavy-metal-rock-star long but skateboard-fan style. A principal at our children’s school approached the mother to complain.

“Your son’s hair is too long,” he said. “He must cut it. It’s not appropriate for our school.”

Nowhere in the dress code is there mention of a boy’s hair length. There is the notion in Torah-Judaism that a Jew represents God in his or her appearance and so it’s a good idea to be put-together and clean. Perhaps it is that rabbi’s opinion that for a boy, this includes short hair.

The mother smiled at the rabbi and politely said, “It doesn’t bother me. He likes to wear his hair that way. It’s fine with me if he keeps it.”

I’m sure it was not the answer the rabbi wanted, but what he did next is still inexcusable.

The next day, the rabbi went to the boy. “Your hair is too long,” he said. “You are not representing this school well with the way you look. You must cut it.”

Shamed and embarrassed, the boy told his mother when she picked him up after school that it was imperative to cut his hair. Nothing she said could change his mind.

In a community, are we supposed to negate the self for the collective? I do not believe so. We have an obligation to the whole, but an equal obligation to the self, to meld the interests of the two.

When I wore only skirts and covered my hair with hats, I became depressed. I did not recognize myself. I felt cut off from my family. But it was what the rabbis around me believed I should do.

Only when I took off the hat and pulled on a pair of pants on a camping trip with my children did I feel the wind in the trees and hear the call of the birds. Isn’t that God’s world, too? Dare I say even moreso than our manmade structures and busy highways?

Hospitals and hotels, that smell of fresh sheets I can sink into, when I will have a brief respite from obligation. Religion should be nurturing, not punishing. Like a good book you can’t put down, it should be a journey whose pages you turn to see what comes next.

Late-lingering warmth shone golden on the afternoon. After school, the children peeled off their socks and walked barefoot in the cool, cool grass. The daughter raced the swingset glider to the moon, while the youngest boy watched, his golden hair curling into shades of late-afternoon sun.

The oldest boy ate pretzels and rode the tricycle in circles on the patio. The backyard swing was awash in diminishing sun.

It always seems like a good idea at the start. And then like an old wooden wheel onto which water keeps pouring and pouring, it never stops, it keeps going, and the idea spirals out of control.

Or it is in theory a very smart way to go, but the reality lags behind. Time is an expensive commodity for everyone but in a down economy, with retail at a premium, ideas must produce results.

In the dark of night, all is calm. Her heart stops racing and the ideas cease their endless daytime ricochet. There was to be a dinner of introductions but that, too, evaporated with the best of intentions. In its place, a dinner with an old friend and a mentor, listening to stories of endings that are really beginnings.

Every ending is a beginning, though. We sat on the chalky patio, discussing a best course of action. Apple-picking on a Saturday could indeed be an extraordinary way to spend the day. Not by their father’s definition, but in Israel the idea of Shabbat is just that - a day away from the busy-ness of schedules and work, family gathering in the parks and on hikes and at the table for a taste of quiet.

The children are quicker to accept change than the mother. It’s always like that.

She stares at pictures of Dog Mountain, which seems like such an old memory, even though it was just June.

She stares at pictures of the Pacific Ocean, blue as a promise with the best of intentions, and remembers the way it sounded rushing along the sand.

She stares at her littlest boy’s hands, painted and stamped on white paper, in autumn shades, so one day when he is a man towering above her and changing the world, she will remember how little and soft he once was.

One of the rationales behind Orthodox Jewish modesty mandates is that we are not whom we appear to be on the outside, but rather the true essence of each person hovers on the inside, unseen but manifesting in actions and words, nuances and cadences. That’s a nice story. But we are the sum total of all of our parts, seen and unseen, felt and imagined.

Each time I gave birth, I looked at my babies and marveled at their 10 fingers, 10 toes, and total lack of preconceived notions and expectations other than to be fed, held and nurtured. It became my promise to them, these perfect soft creatures who didn’t ask to be born into a world of unfairness, to satisfy their need for love and nourishment. It amazed me how simply holding them close quieted their cries - that familiar smell of the person who can solve all of your problems.

When my babies cry in the night, I kick back the covers and go to them. There have been times when I cursed under my breath or tried to reason with the unresponsive wall - but mostly, I hear a cry to connect, and I pull them to me.

My kids don’t play much with blocks, but this week, I was reminded of the rules of construction: some stay where they are put, some lead to incredible towers of delight and joy, and others crumble to the ground.

Work hard, get good grades, apply to college, graduate with a degree. Get a job, save money, fall in love, build a family. We set ourselves on paths and don’t expect bends or detours.

We are forced to make choices we don’t want to make, never knowing the reason why the path turned. Almost always, we decide on the surgeon’s knife so we can keep making decisions, so we can celebrate our children’s moments.

Today is the wispy kind of Indian Summer day that buzzes with sweet-seeking bees. My open windows bring in the sound of crickets from the nature preserve. Clouds lace the sky.

I wake up in the morning wondering which tasks I’ll cross off my list, which path I’ll follow. Like the promise of a classroom, there is possibility in the sunrise. Perhaps the Orthodox don’t have it so wrong after all - each day, we are born anew, given another chance at life.

And sometimes, you just have to let the feelings go. Whether into pools of tears or leaping squeals of abundant delight, if we keep the feelings at arm’s length, we relegate ourselves to white windowless boxes.

Yesterday, when I picked up Shaya from preschool, he came running toward me down the hall. His arms reached for me, his golden curls bounced. I scooped him into my arms and nestled my nose to his soft cheek.

“You comed for me!” he said.

“Of course I did,” I replied. “Mommy always comes back.”

Don’t fear the coming of the dawn, for it always comes.

Indian summer and the late afternoon. Sun white on the winding path, that smell of summer leaving. Treetops like the rush of soothing river she remembers from a time long past in Colorado by a river and a mountain. Jagged rock and the cold winter melt running off like it is supposed to as the seasons turn one into the next.

They drove to the highest point one early morning instead of taking th highway just for a glimpse of view. She let him drive because the hairpin turns of the heights scared her. At the continental divide, she climbed out to touch summer snow grayed with time and wind.

Today smells like dirt and sweat pressed into skin and children laughing and sun kisses. The trees rustle a symphony, or is it harmony? High school boys run shirtless around the dirt track.

The sister yearns for the brother but he casts her into shadows. “We’re using big words she couldn’t understand,” he tells the mother.

“So explain it to her,” she says. But he runs out of reach to a new friend on the playground whose name he doesn’t even know.

And the next day, the windowless hospital waiting room. Family members pace back and forth and talk about what-ifs and Sudoku puzzles and things they can manage instead of things they cannot.

A Ziploc stuffed full of bagels. The aunt brings candy and grapes and pretzels, but no one eats anything. At 9:30 the mother wants to eat something sustaining but the sandwich counter does not open until 10.

A dearth of emails. No texts. Everyone knows she is waiting for the surgery to end. Everyone knows she is sitting on a highly patterned couch, waiting to hug her sister. Everyone knows she is peripherally beginning a family journey whose outcome she is straining to see on the very distant horizon.

But there is sun there and there is hope. And there is focus and there is love. The night before she called the sister to say, “I didn’t hug you today when I saw you. I love you.”

And the sister said, “That’s ok. You’ll hug me when I wake up from the surgery. I love you too.”

In the morning before the sunrise, the sister called her sleeping house and left a message. Her soothing voice was the perfect wakeup. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back last night. We’re almost leaving for the hospital. I’ll see you later.”

Always, the promise of next time and tomorrow because there is no possibility for anything different. She understands Carrie Bradshaw in that Sex and the City rerun with the Russian. It’s just not a possibility.

This was the refrain I grew up with.

In a store, no matter how obnoxious, the goal was customer satisfaction. At the gas pump, when I was a kid, we sat in our car and a nice, spirited young man poured gasoline into the tank of my mother’s car. He smiled as he took payment and we drove off satisfied.

In a restaurant, tips depended upon service with a smile. On airplanes, oh so long ago, passengers’ comfort and happiness were paramount.

The other day, I pulled through the drive-through of Dunkin’ Donuts to buy a box of 25 munchkins for my children’s playdate. And while I did make that purchase, I was disappointed with the entire experience.

For one, the price posted on their outdoor sign said $4.29 for a box of 25. The attitude-impaired teenage salesperson charged me $4.79 - even when I pointed out to her that her advertising is mistaken.

She didn’t care for a minute. Out poured a tirade of excuses: the freezer just broke and we’re rushing to get everything out before it all melts and there’s no one here in management you can talk to, call this number during these hours if you want to lodge a complaint, $4.79 $4.79 $4.79.

I know it was a 50-cent difference, which Thank God is not a big deal to me. It was the point of it all.

The other thing that happened, while slight, was that when the salesperson asked at the drive-through if I wanted assorted flavors, I said yes. When I got to the window, knowing how assorted can be interpreted as maybe-only-one-or-two-flavors, I inquired as to whether there were any peanut donut holes included.

“No,” she said. “I said assorted,” I clarified. To which she replied, “Well you have to say specifically peanut.” “I meant all flavors when I said assorted,” I replied. “$4.79,” she said and stood there until I forked over a fiver. Then she walked away with my money and my donuts. I wasn’t sure she’d be back.

As a marketer myself I know that even by mentioning DD in a negative context I am giving them publicity. (Notice I am not linking to their website deliberately.)

I share this story because I am fuming about how little businesses today care about customer service. This tousle for service - a veritable combative effort to, um, spend my money and get something in return - amazes me.

How hard is it to strive for satisfaction? Being satisfied is not being supremely happy. It’s shooting for the lowest acceptable bar, my friends.

When did we, as a society, stop caring whether we do good work?

I love the smell after a rain and being among the trees. The rush of cars somewhere outside of the cemetery was a soothing whiteness while inside the fences, all was still.

My grandfather’s gray stone lay flush against the grass. I traced my fingertips over the letters.

Shaya walked atop the stones - great-uncle to great-aunt, Grandpa Louie, Grandma Evelyn, Grandpa Artie. Asher and Eliana counted steps.

“Let’s hide behind the gravetone, like in the Abbey in the Sound of Music!” Asher ducked behind the big engraved family name.

Across the way were my father’s parents and grandparents. I read each surname aloud as we walked from section 21 to section 18.

As I walked in the wet grass, smelled the damp, I was back in graduate school in Vermont. A time of openness and carefree sitting on fences, leaves changing up the mountainsides, driving into the angles of the road.

A place as if no one lives there, but so many do. From house to house, miles of quiet, and the trees speaking their own language from limb to leaf. I walked under cover of trees, wet fallen leaves carpeting the dirt path.

In a heartbeat I drove to Montreal, passing the 45th Parallel at the border, and then I was in another world though it looked strikingly familiar. I spoke languages of the heart then. But I was writing poetry.

This morning, Shaya slipped from the gravestone onto the wet grass. I watched but didn’t say anything. He didn’t cry, just picked himself up from the ground and kept walking.

“I’m so busy talking, I haven’t said grace.” Lydia put her fork down and pressed her palms together. From hidden speakers emanated an upbeat Latin tune. Before us sat chicken enchiladas in the most authentic fashion.

Her prayer went something like this: Lord, thank you for the gift of this food, this friendship, for bringing me and Lynne together, thank you for seeing us through our days and guiding our decisions. We trust in you.

I uttered Amen before picking up my fork, and meant it.

I used to mutter Hebrew blessings before I took a bite and after I finished. I used to whip off the Hebrew blessing after using the toilet and recite Sh’ma as I fell asleep. I ritually washed my hands in the morning and uttered another prayer, thanking God for giving me a new day of living.

I haven’t said any of those in the longest time.

Not because I don’t believe in being thankful or in the power of acknowledging a higher power. Mostly because I spent so long feeling penned in by religion that I just needed to breathe.

How unlikely to find spiritual inspiration from a business mentor. Lydia is a beacon. Beautiful, dynamic, running a huge company in southwest Detroit, Hacienda Mexican Foods, spearheading political awareness and giving a voice to thousands of Hispanic Detroiters. All in the wake of her husband’s death two years ago to hepatitis C, leaving her alone at the helm of his family company and of their family (two boys).

“All we have is this moment,” Lydia said. “I told my boys that before school today. We have to be grateful for every single day.”

I was so glad to have my children back yesterday afternoon. They’d only been gone to their father for 24 hours, and normally I cherish that time for myself - to work, exercise, catch up with friends and sleep, and just reconnect with myself.

But Tuesday night, I woke in a sweat, heart pounding, from a nightmare. In the dream, my ex-husband sped away from his house while our three children slept inside it. I ran in to protect them only to find two men lurking in the shadows of the dark.

There’s nothing quite like waking from a bad dream. We all know there is no greater fear in the dark than in the light, but somehow the middle of the night quiet and aloneness seems far more terrifying than in bright day.

Most of the time since I divorced my husband, I am fine. I love being alone, I feel empowered for ending a troubling relationship and I don’t really think about nor desire a new mate.

Tuesday night was quite the opposite. I awoke to a pounding heart, short of breath, and I didn’t want to be alone.

Ever since I got divorced, people tell me their stories of unhappiness in marriage. It’s as if my happily divorced status inspires others to confide in me about their core displeasure. I am happy to listen, to offer solace, to commiserate, for I know how hard it is to endure the challenges life throws your way after the bubble of the wedding and honeymoon bursts.

But I have no answers. I’ve never had a successful romantic relationship! I know a handful of happy couples who have weathered challenges; the key to their success is a cocktail of dance steps and held tongues, almost always punctuated by absolute independence and confidence of both partners.

Last night, the kids and I had dinner at my friend Lisa’s house. Another divorced mom and her kids joined us. These women are two of my favorite friends for so many reasons.

Around 6 o’clock, Lisa’s husband Jim walked in the door. He smiled, kissed her hello and poured a glass of wine to join us. When Lisa asked Jim to put steak kabobs on the grill, even though he was set to leave for a party of his own, he smiled and complied.

They’ve been together since college. They love each other fully. And they live their own lives, together.

As I drove home with three tired kids, sweaty from jumping on the trampoline and playing with trains, the sun set behind us, an orange glow. I bathed everyone quickly, then zipped Shaya into blue footy pajamas for the first time this season.

At 8, Asher, Eliana and I piled into my bed and lowered the bamboo shades. They laughed at the silly absurdities of SpongeBob Squarepants, each one nestled against my arms. They fell asleep as the dark reached its fingers into my room.

I lay awake between two of my children, their even breathing like calm waters under the hull of a boat.

“What is not yet done is only what we have not yet attempted to do.”

– Alexis de Tocqueville