First begin your day by downloading Seth Godin’s free e-book here.

Then read it. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that I am a huge fan of Seth Godin and his innovative perspective on marketing and business. I push the Purple Cow whenever possible and revisit it periodically for a jump-start in my own business. It sits on my desk, behind my business check register and to the left of my computer. Suffice it to say, this book is a seminal text guiding me.

And so it was a no-brainer to download Seth’s book about What Matters Now when I found the link on ReadTheSpirit. He says:

We’re rewarded for being generous.

If you make a difference, people will gravitate to you.

If you make a difference, you also make a connection.

I’m also reading a preview copy of Rebecca Rosen’s book Spirited, which makes its debut February 2nd. She talks about finding the purpose in our lives and pursuing it. Because we’re all here to accomplish something and, as I tell my kids, to make the world a better place.

Each of us has something unique to contribute in our time on earth - if only we realized that mission and focused our light and energy in that direction, instead of spinning wheels like so many of us do.

Think about your daily life. What matters to YOU? Are you doing something of worth in your daily work? Do you make a difference in the lives of others? When you go to sleep at night, are you satisfied that you’ve done all you can possibly do to create a community of connected individuals, in love and with integrity?

Because if you answered “um…NO” to any of the above, you’d better stop in your tracks and recalibrate. Focus your energy in a new direction. The time is now and there is never enough time.

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. 

Early on a Sunday morning, and she’d had enough of sleep. And so she climbed from the warm bed into the dark and cascaded down the stairs into the quiet house to find words for her tossing in the night.

The month of betrayal had ended, or was almost finished, and a new year had begun. She was nervous to trust people now - new friends, of course, but there had been an old friend, a very long-time person whom she thought she knew in excellent character, and still the betrayal had come.

It was like the darkness all around her - even with the lights on, shadows collected in corners and there were always going to be things she didn’t see.

The year had begun in quiet and she had only two goals: peace and simplicity. The prior year had ended in tumult - like a pinball game of people and work and time and money, all wrapped up in a cyclone-swirl of chaos and disbelief.

And now. She had found love. She had located clarity on a beach in Mexico. She had finally set parameters for her thoughts and her time and she was beginning to step back from telling every story to the world.

She operated now on a need-to-know basis.

In Thomas Lynch’s The Undertaking, he proclaims that all of life revolves around questions of sex and death - the book-end opposites of passion and peace, of beginning and end, of creation and destruction.

She read those words and knew them to be true. And she wondered if the rest of time was filled with attempts to cheat one or find the other?

It was an early Sunday morning and the house was still. She would rush through another day and end with the same kind of quiet. Only she hoped that by day’s end, she would have silenced the echoes in her head and quieted her mind enough to gaze into sleep.

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.

It’s been a while since I’ve waxed poetic or philosophical or issued an unbridled rant - so, happy new year!

I used to walk through airports, wondering where people were going, why they were in such a hurry, imagining the stories behind the faces. And the faces - I admit, I grew up on 1980s pop culture brat pack movies and I believed beauty lurked in romance. Or maybe it was the other way around.

And I spent many years looking for the happy ending, the stunning match, the confirmation that life imitates movies or perhaps it was the other way around.

So last month, I ended a tumultuous year with four solo days in Mexico with a beach so vast and soft, I could have walked clear around the earth. In the early morning sun and in the setting sun at day’s end, I walked the sand, invigorated, inspired, ignited by the crash and ebb of ocean waves, marveling every time at the way it gave its gusto slam onto the shore only to pull back in retreat.

Again and again and again. The waves would always be there, rocking in shades of blue and screaming their utterances, then whispering them, too.

The marble floors were soothing. The winter-warm breezes like kisses. Sunshine, cloud cover, fish fresh from their catch, drinks sipped in soothing utterances. I read books. I took notes on Life As I Know It and sketched out Life As I Want It To Be.

And when I came home, this is what I had gathered:

* Every person should ask herself, if I could do anything, what would it be? Then do that thing.

* Instincts are the most powerful force we have. Listen to them.

* Money ceases to matter when there is no meaning attached. And even so, money comes and money goes. Shoot for the meaning.

I once read a very thin book of Jewish scriptural thought called Thou Shalt Not Want. It explained the Talmudic perspective on income, which was basically that if you exert the exact amount of effort required for whatever your task in life is, you will be fine.

You can kill yourself to work overtime, but that doesn’t mean you’ll end up with more cash jingling in your pocket. You can shlub around and do the bare minimum, but we all know that won’t cut it either.

The whole perspective, summed up in less than 120 pages, was, do what is required of you and you’ll be taken care of. Not a sit-and-let-the-Higher-Being-provide way of looking at things. A strive-for-balance-and-you’ll-get-happiness approach to the necessity of working for a living.

In this new year, this new decade, this second-third-fourth chance at starting over and creating new beginnings, do what really matters. Only you know what that is so only you can measure your success.

And banish all those outside voices. If they don’t get you, they never will.

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.