Guess what? Like Madonna, I am stumbling, shaking, smashing, and dancing my way through the effects of my divorce. From the interviews I've read, she's not having an easy time of it.

Even though it seems she'll hang onto most of her cool hundreds of millions, someone recently told me that prosperity isn't how much money you have, but how "well off" you feel. Honestly, if that's the case, then I'm rich!

The holidays can be a crazy time. Self-sacrifice and stress can lead to negative emotions, and leave you feeling vulnerable and tired. People like Madonna keep their heads screwed on straight by staying creative and expressive. They always remember to make time for themselves, because if you're not good to yourself, then you won't be good for anyone else.

This month, Madonna's on tour with her band. She says that keeps her from feeling too sorry for herself and all the messy divorce proceedings.

My band's on break this fall, because my keyboard player just had throat surgery and is on vocal rest. So the only tour I'm going to do right now is the one I'm taking with my kids on Thanksgiving.

We're not quite the Partridge Family, and we're not riding on a bus, but the shrink-wrapped, pink Housewives On Prozac-mobile will head north toward New Hampshire tomorrow for a week of family fun. The kids and I will be singing at the top of our lungs all the way.

This is a trip we really look forward to. The only difference is, this year, there is a new man in my life. He's my prize for sitting tight for five long years and not jumping into another full-time relationship, or marriage.

I know I'll catch some grief. What would a family get-together be, without the teasing?

They probably feel I've introduced them to thousands of men through the years. I'm afraid they'll be whispering behind my back: My goodness, here she is with another one!

Hindsight is 20/20, or so the saying goes. Another way of saying that is "Monday morning quarterback," meaning someone who opines on just how the quarterback could have won the game, after the game is over. Or, to get hoity-toity, as the philosopher Soren Kierkegaard said, life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backward.

Last weekend I traveled to New Hampshire to watch my oldest son's rugby club play their final games. They got hammered, yet at game's end I was caught offguard when several of the players (including my son) suddenly turned red-eyed while hugging, weeping, and sniffling.

These six-foot, 240-pound young men, lurching toward their adult lives, seemed to think nothing of slamming into the other team's players, only to break down in sobs after the fourth quarter.

They were bummed to lose, and to see the season come to a close.

Lunching together after the game, my son was sweetly reflective and swept both of us up in a tide of sentimentality. I never know exactly what he is thinking, except for a hint here or there. He's 19, so there's always a certain amount guesswork involved. But he kept saying how much he loved me and how much he missed the family.

I found myself unexpectedly longing for the good old days (I'm sure there were some) at the beginning of my marriage and in the years leading up to my son's birth. When my son alluded to his childhood, I guiltily remembered how brief that period really was.

My ex was at the game last weekend, and had spent the previous evening touring the campus, and hanging out with our son.

Our brief greeting on the rugby field was awkward. We seemed more like a strangers than two people who had spent 18 years married. I assured myself that distance was a good thing.

Still, there have been times during the last few days when I've thought how much lovelier things would be if we could all just live together as family again.

Mama's time has come. From the hills of Hollywood to the halls of the White House, there are mamas in the limelight. Instead of simply acknowledging the fact that any accolades Mom receives are long overdue, why not join the growing boom of females who insist on everything from paid maternity leave to rock festivals that feature female entertainment?

I refuse to believe the current movement is a response to the 1950s stereotype that kept June Cleaver in the kitchen with her lipstick on. And I keep hoping the momentum is bigger than an angry backlash of feminists who refuse to make room for softer, gentler versions of themselves. 

Most of all, I pray that while the idea of "family values" is of great concern to many of us, those values are not determined by a right-wing government.

We want different things. The point is, for the first time in many years, we are mobilizing to want something. The common thread between us is that we are reaching out to redefine what it is to be a modern mother.

For the first time in (her)story, we are single mothers, rocker mothers, soccer mothers, alpha moms, hot moms, and intellectuals, all taking on new work, new life definitions.

I am totally psyched to see a dialogue begin and, the sensationalistic Mommy wars aside, the truth is that we can all get along.

I started out as a mother and a wife replicating what I had witnessed growing up in middle-America. When my children were born in New York City from 1989 to 1994, there was a dawning of a new consciousness: a network of midwife-assisted births, natural parenting magazines, and higher consciousness baby groups.

People say that relationships require compromise. Well, punch line and drum roll please. How's this for ironic: Being divorced requires compromise as well.

That was one of the most challenging adjustments I had to make.

Divorce means that everyone has to make some sort of sacrifice: There won't be enough money, room, or time. When there are children involved, it's hard not to go a little nuts every day.

There's a constant reminder of adjustments that don't seem to rack up points in your favor. In fact, everybody feels pissed.

The kids are back from Fire Island. I've meditated and therapized myself throughout the summer. I'm calm, at peace, and ready to cultivate an attitude of gratitude.

Can you hear the tinkle of ancient Tibetan bells?

Amazing how easy it is to feel calm on a retreat, or at a health spa, or in the simple act of meditation. But taking this thoughtful way of life back to the real world, when everyone's trying to get out the door for school, is another thing.

And when it gets to compromise, it's very hard to cultivate a sense of peace. Why can't we blame someone else, or feel sorry for ourselves?

But chasing thoughts in that direction is bound to lead to an attitude explosion that does more damage than good.

So, after every mountaintop experience, I prepare myself for the inevitable adjustment back into the real world. My goal is to breathe myself into a state of acceptance.

I am truly as happy as a clam in my kitchen, where the air is thick with smoke as I whip up my favorite recipes. Feeding the kids is one of my simplest and most direct acts of love.

Except what happens when one of the kids is a no-show? When the cell phone plan doesn't work, and a child chooses to bunk down at Dad's house?

Should moms just accept the fact that teens roam around, and be thankful when they turn up at the dinner table three nights a week?

How do I know if I'm on the right track? Sometimes there's a sneaking suspicion that I may be going off the deep end. As I pack my bags for one last solo getaway, all I can think about is my old life, even though I know how important it is to keep moving forward.

I am totally committed to coming out of all this on the other side.

Probably the best thing I did this month was to commit to another six sessions of therapy. My therapist has been an on-and-off integral part of my life for more than 30 years.

Now, in the post-marriage phase of life, I'm looking for signs, talking to angels, seeing a therapist, journaling, going to Buddhist retreats, and saving time on Sundays for church.

Oh, and I make time for lighting candles, drinking champagne, reading, and celibacy.

All bases covered?

Yikes! Especially since, when I first moved out on my own, I didn't even know where electricity came from. I don't mean which electrical company. I mean where the circuit breakers were, or even what they did.

That's how long I'd been married, pregnant, nursing, and ill.

Ok, get a grip, Joy.

I keep telling my friends, "I am going to be the last 50s housewife."

Not sure exactly what that means, except there's no excuse for disempowerment.

Practicing deep breathing, calming the mind, "ommmm-ing" for peace, I'm treating this weekend as a launching point.

The new school year is going to herald big changes. The kids will get out of bed with no hassles. They may even have my morning caffeine ready. I will find myself, minus the dot on my forehead, and without curry.

Ooops. Wait. This is a reality blog, and my kids don't even know where the stove is.

That's it for now. More thoughts after the retreat and, hopefully, ensuing clarity!

During this, the final week of my solo month, there have been lots of opportunities to give up and run to a bar, or go to Fire Island for one last fling before the kids come home.

Instead, I've dabbled in cooking, reading, and sampling wine. I've become an expert in the latter. My friends have given up in frustration trying to set me up with dinner-party hotties.

I've resigned myself to the single life, for at least the foreseeable future.

Labor Day weekend will be my last shot at a three-day getaway. So I've been Googling activities that don't involve getting spruced up for the opposite sex. That means no going to a spa, or a resort, no facial peels or shopping sprees. Obviously alcohol and orgies are out.

Instead I decided to try a resource in the New York metro area that supports mental and psycho-spiritual well-being. There were plenty of opportunities not more than an hour from my home that offered to stretch and encourage my inner goddess.

There was the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health Center in Stockbridge, Mass., which says it aspires to "teach the art and science of yoga" and is a "place where people come together to deeply inquire into the core issues of life."

Kripalu has a radiant health retreat for women on Labor Day Weekend starting at $513 for classes, meals, and accommodations. It's taught by Sudha Carolyn Lundeen, a holistic RN who helps people discover their inherent wholeness.

Hey, if I discover my inherent wholeness, maybe that will do away with my focus on finding the next man in my life.

And if that doesn't pique my interest, Kripalu also offers rock climbing, yoga, and bodywork.

Also, in central Massachusetts is the Barre Buddhist Center, which specializes in meditative insight. According to their calendar, I could cultivate Inner Freedom and Nonreactivity with Michael and Naraya, just not on Labor Day weekend.

In my ongoing quest to spend a month happily living solo, I decided to spring for some fresh, fanciful fare.

I've just finished reading French Women Don't Get Fat. It seems the French drink a lot of champagne and that, somehow, ingesting quality ingredients keeps their women from over eating.

I scored beautiful local goat cheese at the Hastings Farmers Market and picked up a lovely pink Brut for under $40.

I don't usually drink alcohol while I'm alone, but I'm in survival mode and the kids don't get back until after Labor Day.

Popping the cork and pouring the Brut into a pink marabou martini glass, purchased at the TJ Maxx bargain rack, life seems sort of okay for the moment.

This was not a reward for spending a month in isolation. I don't need a reward, because I know that a workshop or trip to the Omega Institute is coming up.

However, I'm convinced that every night I spend alone is going to help me be a stronger person.

Admittedly, as I'm having these thoughts, there is a strong craving for a Valium or something else that will make me feel numb.

I used to feel desperate if I didn't have a man in my life. I still feel desperate, but when I compare the relative peace of my little blue house in Hastings to my married life in the mansion, with my over-the-top, angry ex-spouse, I'm satisfied with my decision.

But when I think of the things I gave up to be a hermit, I want to cry. Family and friends from the last 20 years are gathering on Fire Island this month to swim, laugh, and sail together.

Flirting with single guys, and sometimes even the husbands of my friends, chatting with the hunky lifeguards, and making the rounds to Saltaire, Fair Harbor, and Kismet were all part of my married life.

Feeling popular, rich, and loved seemed ingredients for a perfect life. But they're not.

Busy people, who surround themselves with four kids, a husband, a wide social circle, a dog, two cats, and countless gerbils, do it because they don't like to be alone. I am one of those people.

My girlfriends, therefore, called me crazy when I told them I was going to go without a date for the next month.

I had no idea it was going to be so hard. Unplugging the phone and suspending the match.com account has not been without ramifications. The first night was horrible.

It reminded me of the first weeks of being separated.

The first thing I did Friday night after work was turn the lights down and turn the radio up. With the scent of candles wafting through the house, I ran a bath and decided to concentrate on "me" time.

Normally the kids would be watching TV in the living room, asking for second helpings of dinner. On nights when the kids are with their Dad, I'd be out for drinks with friends.

Weekends post-divorce, I'd usually be juggling a man, or two.

But not this month. This is solo month and I'm determined to find out what makes me tick.

There is no choice but to succeed. If I can't wrestle some quiet time into my hectic life, then nothing is going to change from the days when I was married.

By 8 o'clock I'd downed two glasses of wine and was feeling weepy. Wine churning around in an empty stomach, and the silence of a childless house, were enough to make me run screaming from the suburbs.

When the divorce was first under way, I'd thought about getting an apartment in the city. My ex told me that he'd make life with the children impossible if I did that, so I'd reneged, a good choice for the kids, but a tough sacrifice for a middle-age woman alone in a house in the middle of August, with nothing but the crickets chirping outside.

It might as well have been Stephen King's Maine.