Sunshine helps. And so does loving where you are at this very moment, doing what is right in front of you.

The people you’re with. Whether it’s perfect silence in your corner office or you catch a glimpse of blue sky out the quiet window. If the music playing on your computer speakers is from a CD someone you love made for you over the course of two weeks.

If, as you sit in this moment, you recall little bits of perfection - in the hug from your lover the night prior, the navy blue paint of your bedroom walls, the taste of your favorite coffee, the fact that your children are at school happily on their way.

And then there was the weekend just ended - of sunshine and clear air and walking along city streets, drinking in the sites that have been waiting there for us to notice.

The knowledge that you are not only OK, you are exactly where you should be and everything is truly going to be alright.

The belief that you can do exactly everything you want to do and do it with grace.

The notion that the possibilities are endless and the world has opened its arms to you.

The idea that forever begins right now, and you are at the head of the line.

The comfort that you have chosen good people to fill your life with and discreetly waved goodbye to those who drain you of your purpose.

And the innate knowing that you are making a difference, as you set out to do, and making this world a better place. That is our mission. Get started.

Last night was fitful and rife with dreams. I was looking for an apartment to live in and my aunt and my mother were guiding me away from a complex that was 30 years old. But the newest buildings were put up in the last four years, I insisted. No matter. They pointed out the precarious staircases where I’d tramp up and down alone in the dark night. And the buildings were by the water and an industrial park and just very echo-y and desolate.

I was alone. Where were my children? And this past week, Shaya’s been complaining that he hates school, that he is bored. Today, his teacher told me he’s been so angry this past week. My 3-year-old is angry, and I can’t sleep. In the bed, he was next to me, arrived there sometime late in the night, but still I couldn’t sleep. He was sound as a whistle.

There is nervous energy all around me today. I am interviewing Rebecca Rosen - am I nervous? Is there trepidation? She’s just a person, even though she speaks to Spirit for a living. Hell, I speak to Spirit, too, just not as well nor as frequently as she does.

On Friday, my ex-husband barraged me with accusations that I am not raising my children with Jewish values because we eat non-kosher food and drive on Saturday. He pointed his scrutiny wand at my family, saying they’re not Jewish enough. He yelled at our 7-year-old when he insisted he will marry for love and only love - religion be damned.

Is he beyond scrutiny? When did Spirituality and Heaven and God and Goodness become obscured by dogma and rules and stern fingers, judgmental gazes? It’s all I’ve ever known religion to be, even when I was trying to see the goodness in the strictures.

But surely, at the beginning, at the SOURCE, there was goodness and integrity and true connection with higher knowledge.

Why is it so hard for real people in this life to see that?

MLK Day, 2010

High atop one of the lone skyscrapers in suburban Detroit, a group of interfaith leaders convened on a gray cold day in January to brainstorm how various faith communities might work together to level the landscape. A landscape rife with separation and segregation, even all these years after the civil rights movement blazed its way through the nation.

Here in Detroit, we are still so separate. Never the two shall meet…and it cuts across various faith groups as much as intrafaith. I know well the divisions within my own Jewish world and I’ve never liked them.

But years ago, I believed that the separations between Jewish denominations was due to lack of understanding and a misguided view of how each community finds meaning.

I was wrong. One of the reasons we are all divided is that we wag our fingers and judge what the other does. And you know it’s true.

I lived for 8 years in the Orthodox world, subverting my liberal beliefs and hiding my questions about the practice of relegating women to behind-the-divider status. What, exactly, is the threat of a woman’s voice amid religious prayer? Why are men so fragile that they need protection from view and song of their feminine counterparts?

Are we not partners in this? And really, that question is not just about men and women in Orthodox observance, but it’s about Jew and Christian and Muslim and Ba’hai and all the various differences and “others” in this world of faith.

Are we not all saying the same thing - that we are not so arrogant as to believe the world starts and ends with us but that we were put here to make a  difference and to find meaning and to illuminate the path for those who are questioning?

Yes, we do the same thing, we hold the same beliefs and yet we separate ourselves out of fear and discomfort of the way the words sound in a different inflection, in a foreign language. It is, in a word, ridiculous. Think of how much more time and energy we would have if we did not pour it into anxiety and fear.

Last fall, in the sunny Saturday of the first day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, I took my kids to the green landscape of Cranbrook. We hiked the grounds in open sun, under tall trees, beside the rippling lake. We climbed rocks, lay in the grass, ran among the gardens.

At the river in the back of the property, we sat on the bank and tore little pieces from stale bread to throw into the cascading waters as symbols of our “choices.” It’s an old ceremony known as tashlich, where the bread crumbs symbolize sins washed away in the fast-moving river.

Only for my young children, I changed the wording. “What choices would you like to make differently in the new year?” I asked them and I asked myself, and we took turns, from mother down to 3-year-old youngest, and we answered in earnest.

After, walking back among the gravel and trees, we were quieter, reflective. It was, for each of us, the most meaningful new year celebration of our lives. And our synagogue was open air, vast sky, bright sun.

There are many who would judge me for making this choice, but I relish in it - for it was the freedom of thought and a desire for meaning that propelled me to substantiate the celebration in a tactile way.

And that’s what I mean. I don’t care what others think because I’ve found my own meaning. And I’m not judging what they do either - stay in synagogue all day long, or find answers in all manner of faith groups. They’re yours for the choosing.

This life is not about finger-wagging and punishment. It’s about learning, building, refining and celebrating. All of our traditions teach us this in one way or another.

Today we celebrate the birth of Martin Luther King, Jr., a man who wanted to level the playing field so all could play. It’s a message for every single one of us. If only our ears are able to hear it. 

I had but a few minutes of quiet this morning from when I awoke until the kids came streaming into my room. And in that time, I pulled up the bamboo shade above my bed and watched the sky turn from sea-blue to pink to strings of yellow-white sun and a striking day in all its brightness right outside my window.

By then, Asher had arrived, and Eliana too. She with a book for us to read, Eric Carle’s Pancakes! Pancakes! We burrowed down into the blankets and then I found Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises on TV and we watched the toreador’s waving red at a fairly tame bull while a woman with a pillbox hat cheered from the stands.

And then Shaya slinked in, finding space between his sister and his brother, and Asher was reading The Hardy Boys. And so it was a good morning, a good beginning, on a slow day in January, just after the new year.

With the beginning of a decade and the ending of fear, I am hoping for peace and simplicity in 2010. I am paring down the clutter and the poisonous people and becoming highly selective of who gets close.

In 2009, I battled with individuals who lacked character. I struggled to fit them into the fold of my path but really, they never did. There are remnants, now, spilling over into the new space but as soon as I clear the air and banish the threads of poison from my midst, the sunrise will shine brighter, the snow gleam under the sun.

There is a flower the peeks up through the sun, determined as ever to fight for its very breath amid the death of winter. The crocus is beautiful, full of color, and strong. It noses its way through the snowbanks to see the light of the sun and feel the warmth of promise on the wind.

I have long believed in the infinite possibilities of each day. I refuse to believe in betrayal, even though it abounds all around me. I am truly a glass-half-full and it is into my aching words that I pour whatever discontent or disbelief I stumble over on this knotty path of life.

But life is good. It is the one true gift and one thing I took from my days in religion was a simple morning prayer, which recognizes in the sunrise, the very miracle of each new day, of the next breath coming, of morning as a new chance to start fresh.

The email read that all leafy greens are infested with bugs and bugs are not kosher so other greens should be eaten. Don’t even try the leaf ones because you’ll fail. Because they all must have bugs. Because it no longer applies to wash and check the leaves and if you see a bug, get rid of it in the sink. Because we live at a time when excess is affordable, even though rumor has it there’s a recession going on.

I tried to be religious for 10 years, which is a pretty good run. It didn’t stick for me, like bugs to a leafy green, so today I look at the question before me and decide how I feel and what is right and choose the best course of action for my situation. It’s working out ok. In fact, it’s pretty great.

Life is good and I cherish the moments. Maybe even more than when I was checking off rules and ways of doing things.

The assumption that all of anything is identical is ludicrous. You know that. And anything to an extreme loses its semblance of sanity. You know that too. So why persist?

The leafy greens grow in the fading sunlight and warm air sailing through an afternoon. They have vitamins, minerals, fiber - all the things our fat nation should be eating. But oh there may be bugs hidden in the folds of the leaf.

And some would say there’s no sense even taking a look because what would happen if there were not, in fact, any bugs at all hiding in the crevices? What then? Would you actually be able to add something new to this moment?

My weekend past was an exercise in exploration and discovery with an element of relaxation, too. It was Indian Summer full-fledged with bacon for breakfast. Brick buildings trembled in their streetfronts.

The children were happy. And last night, back in their comfortable beds, they slept easily and well.

The morning rises dark but prescient. A week of gratitude unfolds. The violin strings quiver. In the kitchen, dough rises. Some religious folks say the rising represents arrogance - it’s a story they tell for the spring holiday. Metaphor is everything.

But the other 51 weeks of the year, it’s the dough they seek to start their meals.

Last night, as the plane descended over Detroit, Asher looked out the window and motioned me closer.

“Look Mommy! It’s so beautiful - the city lights,” he said.

“Yes. It really is,” I replied. “On the ground, it sure doesn’t seem so beautiful, does it?”

He shook his head.

It truly is all about perspective.

I bought a gift at Starbucks, having forgotten earlier in the day to find something with meaning. I scoured the shelves, scanned the offerings on the counter. What could I buy for one of my dearest friends on the occasion of her office open house?

And there it was. A journal called ONE and with inspiring quotes and quips to ponder and this for a woman who journals incessantly, channeling the universe, communing with Spirit. It’s like I was meant to forget to buy a different gift and steered to nothing less than a ubiquitous chain shop by some hand reaching down from the heavens. Because this gift was waiting for me.

And in her thank you letter to everyone who attended, Carolyn quoted from the journal I gave her. The words are prescient, I think, as we face times filled with fear and gripped by the lowest energy. I share them now but hold on to your seat because I have more to say:

How many people does it take to make a difference?

One.

One song can spark a moment.

One flower can wake a dream.

One tree can start a forest.

One smile begins a friendship.

One handclasp lifts a soul.

One star can guide a ship at sea.

One word can frame the goal.

One vote can change a nation.

One sunbeam lights a room.

One candle wipes out darkness.

One laugh will conquer gloom.

One step must start each journey.

One word must start a prayer.

One hope will raise our spirits.

One touch can show you care.

One voice can speak with wisdom.

One heart can know what’s true.

One live can make a difference.

That difference starts with you.

-Unknown

In the past two weeks, I have felt the acrid air of bad energy and misguided intentions swirling around me like a cloud of locusts. On Monday night, I stared out at the bare trees, their outline against a milk-chocolate night, and let angst spiral out to the universe. I banished the bad energy that I’ve received from others and I invited only love and goodness to stay.

The middle part of this week responded well to that. Conciliatory notes and calls of kindness abounded. There was space to breathe. And I did my work in good conscience and in earnest, proud of every word, connected to the very people I feel lucky to work with.

But the bad energy comes a’knocking at the door again and again. It is tough, I tell you, and it keeps coming back. I believe it will try until/unless I let it in, but I am trying not to succumb to it, trying to weather the storm of insecurity around me and the pervasive fear and loneliness that so many are mired in.

We are living in unprecedented times. But that doesn’t have to forecast failure and demise. It can mean rebirth, it can mean a new existence, it can and should mean a different color on the horizon.

There is still a horizon. There always will be. The economy won’t grind to a standstill. It isn’t possible. And those who are creative and innovative and GOOD will persevere. I’m counting my pennies like everyone else these days but I’m also counting the ways the sun arches over the trees in my backyard and reveling in the soft cheek of my child’s smiling face.

It’s all good, you know. It’s all good.

I’ll never understand the patterns of other people. There is a natural ebb and flow distinguished by personality and drive that is so apparent, it’s almost easier to discern than the name on the mailbox. But I digress.

All the canoes and kayaks and sailing vessels of my Pacific Northwest trip in early summer have been analyzed and metaphoricalized for the taking. And now it’s fall in Michigan and I encountered canoes once again on the path at Cranbrook last weekend, offering up our sins for a new year in true Jewish tradition.

We hiked down the leaf-strewn path under tree cover on Saturday morning and emerged into sunlight and clear blue sky. We walked at our own pace over the footbridge and around the still of the lake. Banked on their sides, five canoes lay beside the shrubbery. My boys lay atop them. I took a picture to remember it.

Just before the Japanese garden, we heard the river before we saw it. Even the baby stepped up onto the concrete overpass and then we sat on the cold ground to look at the river in its course below us. Each of us held a piece of stale bread. And we tore pieces away to represent the choices we’ve made and the choices we’d rather make in the new year. The ways we could improve. The thought we could put into our actions. How we could love more.

Were the canoes significant? Of course they were. And of course not. It was a quiet Saturday in sunlight and most of the people we knew were in synagogue in suits, standing solemn with open prayerbooks. We sat serenely and listened to the pace of the river and learned more in those moments about how we might embark upon a new opportunity than all the finger-wagging of the scripture.

Not that following routine and what is familiar is a bad thing. Of course not. But I take the lesson of the canoes to heart. The vessel that contains and which allows for discovery. The opportunity in simple construction, in balance and wake. I find reverence in those elemental details and that is enough for me.

I’ve heard tell these last days, and in ongoing months from parties who shall remain nameless, that I am not doing it right, or at least not according to their definition of order and rigidity. Too bad. It’s a new year dawning and it’s mine for the taking. Isn’t that the right of each and every one of us.

On Saturday, we discussed our choices. We said prayers. We turned the pages. We sang familiar tunes in letters we all know. We kissed and hugged and finally, we slept.

On Sunday, we cleaned. We emptied corners and dusted surfaces. We carted bags and bags of discard to the curb. And on Monday it was business as usual.

Welcome to the new year. Every day is a year in time. Think about it. And then don’t.

There are no new stories, only new ways of telling them. At least that’s what I thought until I discovered The Magic Thief by Sarah Prineas last year. Now, I’m reading the second book in the series with my eldest son, who can read just fine by himself. It’s our ritual, our discovery, our adventure on the tousled covers of my bed before he sleeps.

Hugh MacLeod’s talent is being witty, clever and artistic on little business cards. And in his book, Ignore Everybody and 39 Other Keys to Creativity, he says you are responsible for your own experience. He’s not telling a new story - he’s just saying it in a creative way, selling a new product with a perrenially important message.

This morning, I ran in the rain. Drops spotting my orange be-present shirt I bought at a yoga studio in New Haven, Connecticut when I was embarking on a new life. The air was fresh and cool. In a neighborhood I know well, I noticed houses in a different way, a manicured yard with admiration.

Later, there was music as I worked and the children popping in to say hello. Summer is winding down and it is too cool already. I want to bask in the sun a while longer.

But we adapt to the changes put before us and cool temps are just another bend in the road. The calls have been coming in relentlessly, for help, for guidance and I am honored at the gift but burdened with the task of answering well. It’s just business, is a sentiment not everyone understands.

And then news of another diagnosis, of someone several steps from me but familiar nonetheless. Everywhere, I could see bad news, but I choose to see light and gift in every moment.

I am looking forward to the quiet and the focus of the coming weekend. To the sunshine and the early morning air. To the farmers market and the creativity pouring forth to benefit everyone who takes a chance on me and my nascent company so that they will, indeed, be pleased.

Have you discovered meaning in someone’s words or work or just a passing moment? If so, share them with me. I want to hear from others who look at the world as a half-full glass. Because in my humble opinion, that is the only way to truly live.

Driven by angst, observer of the utmost details of life, the man drank in culpable amounts of fresh air and waxed philosophical about the necessities of human interaction. His books, they move me in their simplicity. And when I read a passage like: All my life the early sun has hurt my eyes, he thought. Yet they are still good. In the evening I can look straight into it without getting the blackness. It has more force in the evening too. But in the morning it is painful.

When I read a passage like that, and there are many, one after the other, in all of his works, I turn them on my tongue and read them twice, maybe three times, just to savor the simple profundity of his words.

Ernest Hemingway was a singularity. In Victoria this past June, I found an old careful copy of The Old Man and the Sea and I had to have it. And now, it sits beside my bed and I linger over the pages at night, just because I can, marveling at the wonder that he turned out in words.

I was a journalist and a poet simultaneously and I do believe that one informed the other. On Peg’s farm, as the chardonnay spilled over the top of the flute and softened the shaggy carpet of the farmhouse, Peg would tell me that my poems had the eye of detail because I was a journalist.

And I can only imagine that my magazine stories contained little crafted nuances hidden in the back windows of my sentences. But I have yet to be like Hemingway, though I warm to the notion and would honor that evolution.

Most days, I rise with the sun or even before it, to attend to the many tasks at hand. Inevitably, one or both of my boys careful-creep down the shadowy stairs and into my office, where they climb into my lap, sometimes both at once.

And then I am a juggler of dualities until either I am supplanted by a babysitter or the children’s father or my work makes way for a day in which I wholly notice the hot sun, the still air, the screamy-splash of children in a pool, the after-quiet of their breathing in the car.

Last week, I worked four days and spent one in the blueberry orchard. The berries were heavy on the branches, the bushes taller than all of us. We filled our buckets and paraded in the grass. This week is even better.

Life is like that, you know. It’s in the details, in the moments, that huge awareness is born, and in that swirl-wave of knowing, I step a tad higher. Have a great day.

Does your work fulfill you? Does it help others? Would it make a difference if you stopped doing it today? Would anyone notice?

If you’re a little bit like me, you ponder these questions and hope the answers fall in line with your personal goals. I’ve always focused on the meaning-of-it-all, striving to do well and do good at the same time.

This week I met Terry Grahl, founder and president of Enchanted Makeovers. This humble mother of four traded her for-profit interior design business for a not-for-profit endeavor which attempts to bring sunshine, light and hope to the disadvantaged by transforming their surroundings (shelters, orphanages, etc.). What a difference a wall mural and a new bed can make for an abused child who previously stared at cement slabs and slept on a falling-apart prison bed.

And the next question … does your work define you?

Last night, we gathered around my dining room table with friends to celebrate a little-known spring holiday called Shavuot. I brought out blintz souffle and baked ziti, salad and roasted cauliflower and leeks with tomatoes. An array of soul- and belly-filling foods to sustain us for more than a night. The conversations included work-talk but not until after we’d touched on our summer plans, school stories, funny items and fond memories.

I’m not going to preach about how a life is the sum total of its parts. But I will say that my life is not as I envisioned it when I was a dreamy teen and I am happier than I’d ever imagined possible. Success often carries no resemblance to the dictionary definition or societal expectation.