from The Globe and Mail, June 27, 2009: “The authentic soul of Canada is the wilderness … A Canadian is someone who knows how to have sex in a canoe… If you want to feel truly Canadian, you’ve got to get out there and learn to paddle a canoe.”

I don’t know if any of the above is true, but I do know from spending a brief week last summer in the far southwest corner of Canada, that identity is all tied up in the water and the wilderness and the vessels that can safely take you from one point to the next. I personally hate canoeing - but I have never really considered what exactly cements my identity.

Is there something symbolic, some food, some task, some color, some hobby?

Consider this, from David Grossman, “The Age of Genius,” which appeared in the New Yorker, June 8 & 15, 2009:

“When I first heard about the life cycle of salmon, I felt that there was something very Jewish about it: that inner signal which suddenly resonates in the consciousness of the fish, bidding them to return to the place where they were born, the place where they were formed as a group. (There may also be something very Jewish in the urge to leave that homeland and wander all over the world - that eternal journey.)”

And later, in Saveur, in a story about Sheila Lukins, coauthor of The Silver Palate Cookbook: “Sheila’s love of cooking and her belief in its ability to enrich lives not only got her through tough situations - it was contagious.”

Food as a transmitter of identity, of experience, of relationship, of love - that’s not a novel concept but it is a true and powerful one. In feeding someone, in preparing a meal together and savoring the flavors, we are nourishing our souls.

Dana Goodyear wrote in “The Scavenger,” a New Yorker article from November 9, 2009, “Interesting cuisine often comes out of poverty…serve some actual hunger people have, rather than something they tell themselves they must have.”

It’s no secret that culture and identity are conveyed through the foods we eat. Our lifelong preferences harken back to our earliest days. Our tendencies, our proclivities, our choices - they all represent deep-seated feelings and desires, the desire to be ok, the desire to be loved, the desire to be a part of something significant.

When I was in college and in love with John, we’d banter back and forth about identity and faith. “How can you be so Jewish if you don’t know anything about it?” he challenged one day in his rented room with shaggy brown carpet. Queensryche ballads played on the stereo. His electric guitar stood at repose under the bunkbed.

But it was not an honest question. I mean it was, but there is so much more to who we are than what we know.

And the food part of this - in children’s books, the greatest punishment a parent can bestow is to send a child to bed without supper. Why? Because there is no possibility of withholding love or money or sex, all the things we as adults toy with in an effort toward control and power. Children are pure and innocent and simple - and their need to receive love, and to give it, is vast.

My children have said simple things in moments of crisis. When I’ve felt sad or angry or frustrated or self-doubting, one of them will say, “Well then why are you fill-in-the-blank, Mommy? Do something else, befriend someone else, go somewhere else.” Simple. And true.

Sometimes, all I want is to make a lot of money and put it away in a safe place. Maybe a shoebox under my bed. My bed is large. It’s very hard to get to the middle point underneath it unless you squeeze yourself and take a chance.

But other times, all I want is to live a life of meaning and of joy. Of pure, sheer bliss and appreciation for the sunshine and the fresh air on my skin and my three children sleeping in solemn repose in rooms around me every night.

 Read this. I couldn’t have said it better myself. I agree with every single word and the way it was delivered. And I think I am going to start focusing on these simple words. Immediately.

How do you find meaning? Give me a shout. I’d love to hear about it.

Why were there always things she wished she hadn’t done?

For her entire life, the girl had made choices that at the moment seemed brilliant, but in retrospect were entirely misguided. And this was certainly one of them. Except that even in the moment, she knew it was the wrong direction to walk.

Of course, she didn’t want to spend her life looking behind her. What good would that do? In addition to making her dizzy, it would simply confuse the focus.

And now, she could look completely forward and focus on what was right in front of her. Goodness. Honesty. True authenticity instead of cruelty masquerading. The work the work the work.

She could finally do what does best - create, inspire, weave stories. She could focus wholly on her kids. No more maniacs, no more catering the needs of insecurity.

Freedom, she realized, was the ability to not let another control her moments, not quiver under the gaze of a scrutinizing and unhappy behemoth. She knew, and she had always known, that happiness and strength come from within. If others didn’t realize that, she would not be the one to try to fill their voids.

She’d had enough of doing that and done it more than she’d like. But yesterday is gone and today is a new day, and she reminded herself that she’s always been scrappy, always been kind, always worked with integrity as well as passion.

And so, long before the dawn of a Thursday peeked its head over the trees, she sat in the low lights of her office and breathed deeply. In the next room, her son lolled on the couch with cartoons. Upstairs, the other two slept in darkened rooms.

And the night before, they’d snuggled as a family in her bed, watching The Jetsons and The Flintstones and she had realized that these vestiges of her own childhood were unfamiliar to her own children. You see all the wonderful things to discover together? she said to herself.

Life is too full, too rich, too wonderful, to wallow in the mistakes of another. And with that, she went to sleep.

Claudia invited me to join her at a homeless shelter on Saturday morning. “My friend Marguerite is coming,” she told me on the phone. So we met at Marguerite’s house and they got in my car.

As we drove downtown, Marguerite mentioned, “My good friend Karen B.”

“Is that the same Karen B. who’s about 30 and cute and does yoga?” I asked.

“How do you know her?” Marguerite replied. “She’s like an adopted daughter to me.”

The volunteer event was part of Mitch Albom’s A Time to Heal organization. I wrote about Mitch after his new book came out, for ReadTheSpirit.com, which is run by my friend, David Crumm.

I met David years ago, after he wrote a stunning article comparing Starbucks to a church. He suggested we have coffee at Avalon Breads. I fell in love with Avalon and met Jackie and Ann, the proprietors. That story got me into Saveur.

I knew Karen B. because she’s done graphic design for me for my client and favorite yoga studio, Yoga Shelter. I went to Yoga Shelter because my childhood next-door neighbor, Laura C., dragged me there several years ago. I hated yoga prior; but in Justin’s class that first day, the music rockin’ loud and the sweat pouring down my skin, I had a revelation.

Exploring what the Shelter was all about, I drove to the home of founder Eric Paskel. He lived in the home where my aunt and uncle lived for a decade before they moved to Milwaukee for just a year. Across the street lives a friend I’ve known since middle school.

Yoga teacher Justin is friends with a son of Hiller’s CEO Jim Hiller. He helped me get in touch with Jim when I wanted to set out on a new career path. Jim took me under his wing and became a client, mentor friend.

When he was an attorney, Jim represented my late great-grandfather’s company. I’m named after Grandpa Louie. He had lunch at 11 a.m. every day at Roma Cafe. That’s where we celebrated my grandmother’s 86th birthday.

On the side of the highway, as we drove through winter ice and snow in the dark of night to get to that dinner, a homeless man sat bereft with a sign asking for help. My son Asher, 5 years old at the time, begged me to stop the car, get out and help.

“I can’t just now,” I said, “though I love that you want to help him. My first job is to protect you.”

And today, my young son, age 7 1/2, is a veritable activist - unplugging electronics, turning off lights, asking me to designate one day per week when do not use our car.

One degree of separation. I could go on for hours. We’re all connected.

The front cover article of today’s Detroit Free Press & News is about a pending piece of legislation to grant protection to nursing mothers when they feed their babies in public venues. The article, and the bill, look at whether this is a civil right and whether it needs protection.

A case in point concerned a local mother who was asked to leave a Target store because the security guard said it was illegal to breastfeed in public. Not true.

Are we really still debating whether a baby can feed in plain sight? Really? This has nothing to do with feeding a baby, you know - it has to do with other people’s discomfort at seeing a little bit of naked breast - which of course, they have no problem with when it’s in a low-cut shirt or bathing suit. But with a baby attached to it, for nourishment, well, apparently that is a supreme offense.

And what this is about more than anything is people’s overarching concern and judgment of others.

We are faced with two choices: look inward, or cast your glance everywhere else. If you choose option A, you stop being concerned with what others are doing, saying, feeling, thinking and attempting to do. You focus on your own energies and where you pour them and you focus on ways that you can make a difference on this earth.

For that is the whole point of our being here, in fact. If we are not here to contribute something, to make a difference, to make the world a better place, then what is the point?

Choose option B and you’ll spend your life blaming others, pointing fingers, feeling dissatisfaction at every turn. For it is impossible, truly, to control anyone outside of yourself. Even our own children - they are not extensions of us; they are whole individuals in their own right and while we mold them and guide them and hopefully teach them right from wrong, they still have their own leanings which we have nothing to do with.

Let the mothers nurse. Let the babies feed. If you’re uncomfortable with the way that we were created, steer your cart down another aisle or avert your gaze. It’s none of your damn business anyway.

I’ll be the first to say my BlackBerry saves the day. I’m connected, hooked up, in tune, linked in, facebooked and more. I text, I bbm, I email from remote locations. Technology is good. It gets things done. It’s immediate. My clients never have to wait.

And it’s bad, bad, bad. When I met C. and wanted to go on a date with him, he said, “Isn’t it just fun to text and email and talk?” Um, sure, as another way to connect after building a foundation face-to-face - but not in place of it!

He’s not the only single man these days who relies on distant forms of communication to take the place of actually meeting up for coffee, seeing if there is chemistry in real time. It’s a trend, I find, and not a good one.

I’m done with dating men who don’t go on dates - texting does not a relationship make. And as far as clients go, well, even in the business world we’re all guilty of staying in touch via remote tools like email and text messages, in place of meeting over a desk and feeling the energy of real-time work.

Sometimes, it’s a good thing. And sometimes it’s not.

I built my business two years ago on what I perceived as a widespread need for connection. I was on Facebook one night, while chatting with an old friend, and we noticed that 50 of our high school buddies were on FB too. Not huddled under the covers with a spouse or reading a book or having a glass of wine and staring out at the stars.

Online, trying to connect but really just looking at a screen. This distant mode of communication - it’s a good placeholder. But it can’t replace real connection.

And what is it, exactly, about face-to-face that is so scary? Isn’t that the only way to find the kind of intimacy and connection that we all crave?

I’m throwing in the towel today. I want real-time. I want a face.

I learned recently that a particular local publication will not write about my company’s success because I used to be a freelance writer who contributed to that publication. One editor there has decided that it is a conflict of interest.

I respect the editor’s journalistic integrity, truly I do. And yet it appears to be unnecessary and arbitrary. Because if we are truly dedicated to rebuilding Michigan and seeing our local economy once again thrive, then I believe we all ought to support one another and celebrate the success stories of individuals who reinvent themselves.

We have no shortage of dismal stories to tell - companies closing, bankruptcies, stores standing vacant on streets and downtowns known for decades for upscale spending. People out of work. Families floundering. Homes lost to foreclosure and nowhere for a couple or family to turn.

I am certain this editor would write about me if, God Forbid, I had tanked as a journalist and lost my family home and ended up on the street. That’s news? Not in my book. And thankfully it didn’t happen.

While I was a journalist for 15 years, I always cringed to read story after story devoted to the sadness, the devastation, the scandal and the corruption, for I am and always be an idealist who believes in silver linings and sunlight on dark days.

In any economy, I am grateful to my clients for the interesting, challenging work they give me and my employees. I am grateful to my parents for encouraging me to strike out on not one, but two entrepreneurial paths. I’m grateful, too, that the same editor will write about my interesting and innovative clients when they do newsworthy things.

And I am grateful for my perspective: that there is room for everyone, that there is enough business to go around, that competition is healthy but meanness is not, and that all it takes to succeed is try, try, try something new and keep trying new things all the days of your life.

I’m all for putting my hands in the dirt and doing whatever it takes to make it. If that isn’t a great story, I don’t know what is.