Family. That is what holidays have traditionally been about. Father helps children celebrate Mother's Day by purchasing a card or two, flowers, a gift.

Maybe he helps your son and daughter prepare a breakfast complete with your favorite French toast, bacon, and eggs.

Today, moving beyond divorce, holidays have changed. This Mother's Day begins with getting out of bed and feeding the cat and the six little kittens now crying for their kitty food, walking the dog, making my bed, starting another load of endless laundry, and watching the weather channel. I watch the weather channel the way some people listen to the news or radio.

I turn the oven on to broil and I grab some Lenders bagels out of the fridge and split them with my fingers. I place them on my mother's 50-year-old pizza pan and slide the pan into the oven. I wait.

I open the fridge to look for my caffeine fix of sweet tea, and the pitcher is empty of anything except a single swallow. I grab my second choice, the kids' Pepsi. I turn and kick the door shut with my right foot. I pull the bagels out of the oven. I yell, "Breakfast!"

Happy Mother's Day to me.

There is no answer. I yell again, "Breakfast!"

I hear shuffling and laughter.

"Mom!"

"What?" I say. "Breakfast!" My frustration and self pity increasing.

My daughter calls me to her room. I stomp back to the hall muttering to myself about ungrateful children and my life without a spouse and no support, and then I open the bedroom door.

Her eyes wide and sparkling. My son stands beside her barely able to contain his laughter.

They pull their hands out from behind their back. She extends a large pink construction paper creation in front of me with pink paper roses glued to it. She has made a card. It is beautiful. My son has made me three Lego puppies.

Funny thing happens when you leave your bubble — you meet people.

Technically, I didn't even leave my bubble. I was sitting on a concrete slab on campus when a gentleman approached me. He was tall, well spoken, and confident, and politely introduced himself to my friend and me, as well as apologized for interrupting our conversation.

What I like most was the fact that he wasn't NYC-coiffed — you know, too well groomed as to reflect a bit of self-centeredness. That kind of primping always turns me off.

During our brief conversation, I learned that he is in the process of completing his MFA, which also leant itself to his disheveled appearance. I can appreciate that, as there are days where there is room to doubt — based on my appearance — that I am a member of a civilized species.

Long story short, I gave him a card with my number and email address. I figured what the hell, he represented himself so well that I would be a fool not to at least check things out.

I suppose now that things are beginning to wind down, that I may be slightly more relaxed than I have been in months past, which in turn makes it easier for people to approach me.

While I am not completely in the clear — I still have finals to get through, a job to find and I still have to move, it may be time to start branching out.

Since the divorce (two and a half years ago) and in the last year, I have discovered something quite wonderful. It is that each and everything that we do is important. So, consequently, I am no longer in a rush. Seems I spent 12 years rushing, rushing, rushing to please, to prepare, to arrive on time, to make sure "they" were on time, to get things done. And it nearly killed me.

Today, I take pleasure in the smallest of things. I simply look at the job at hand and begin. I cut linings for my friend's drawers today. I did not over think it. I did not look at all the drawers and think, "Oh, my God, there are so many of them."

She gave me the assignment, and I poured myself into it. I sat in the sun at my "work" station, which was a bench on her deck. I sat on a cooler with wheels, and I had a razor blade and a block of wood, an ink pen and a tape measure to complete my work.

I sat and drank a Smirnoff lemonade thing and began the task at hand. I did not care if there were rolls and rolls of this shelf liner that needed to be measured and cut and that the dimensions had to be 19 ¼ for some and 8 ¾ for others. I spread the material and measured and marked and cut using a quarter round to hold down the liner. I ran my blade as close to the quarter round as I could, paying attention to the fact that I wanted the edges to be smooth and not ragged.

I accomplished my task.

When the kids spill Pepsi or milk. When my dog gets sick and throws upon my floor or when the kitchen pipe under the sink leaks and I have to stop my current task or effort to relax and must stoop, bend, twist, unscrew, wipe, I do it willingly and almost happily.

I am a grateful Samurai, today. A soldier with Krud Kutter and Lysol as my weapons.

I submitted my resume for my first potential post-graduation job. I am trying to keep from getting too excited about it, as I don't want to get my hopes up in the event that I don't get it.

I know what you're thinking, and believe me, I am thinking the same thing: Why on earth am I looking at it from that angle? Why am I selling myself short? Why am I not being more optimistic?

As much as I wish I did, I do not have the answer to that question, other than to say that if this were a position I didn't care so much about, or feel such a strong attraction to; I wouldn't feel the need to protect my feelings so much.

Jobs, relationships, classes — funny how it doesn't matter what the case, the behavior is the same — self-preservation, isolation, desensitization. Go through life wearing your best game face.

Self-preservation is a bitch.

I wish it weren't so necessary to insulate one's self to the point where it almost seems as if we have to deny that very thing that makes us human.

I have to remind myself, that this is not the only job I will go for, and that this is not the only job that will resonate so deeply within me. As with so many other things in life, there are plenty of fish in the sea.

It's a good thing I like fishing.

My friend Lori — the coordinator of the Wit program in California, called me after the program's luncheon a few days ago. She told me that the letter I wrote really tied into the afternoon well, and that those in attendance enjoyed it immensely.

Here are the highlights of the letter I submitted — very good things to keep in mind — for me and for everyone:

I remember that my life as it stands is of my choosing, and that I would have it no other way.

Losing yourself while (ironically) trying to find yourself is a very real possibility. It is easy to get wrapped up in "the process" to the point where you forget why you've even set out in the first place.

These are the times when is it absolutely necessary to take a step away from things, close your eyes, breathe and reconnect with your inner self — you know, that thing that gets tucked away in the back of your mind and taken for granted whenever there's some obnoxiously prevalent matter to attend to.

Hold on to your core, to your convictions, your integrity, your humility. Never lose sight of your reasons for doing what you do, and never allow someone to question who you are to the point where you begin to question yourself. Holding on to these principles will at least give you a place to retreat to at the end of the day.

Turns out I had no problems finding my words at all.

There is this hot little Italian named Bertazzoni. She is my friend's new best friend. Cooking. It's a great way to begin a relationship. It's a great way to help heal old wounds.

She cooks. Regularly. And now that her new hot little Italian has arrived, airfreight from the Old Country, she promises mouth watering delicacies that will, as she says, change me forever.

It has lots of knobs. She's still reading the manual, but she doesn't want to rush it. She tells me that she wants to understand exactly what happens and why it happens and how it happens. She can do this with her Bertazzoni.

It's a $12,000 gas stove. But to call it a "stove" is to demean this invaluable 48-inch stainless steel warm, ready to perform piece of artistry. She had a brother in the gas industry so she got the stove for half price, plus shipping and handling from the "Old Country."

I came to her home today to see it.

It moved me. Six burners, and each different dependent on the goal of the chef. One for bringing water to boil almost instantaneously. One for a slow, steady heat that will gradually take your entrée up to the perfect temperature and consistency. One that provides a way to almost double boil.

There is no husband like a Bertozzoni. No man will ever understand our need for the perfect temperature, for the perfect weight and height and stiff endurance in the good times and the bad. No, no man can compete.

Cook.

I am a woman in a very small kitchen with an ancient electric stove that offers little solace for me, but I manage to create my famous enchiladas and lasagna and even the crust less cinnamon and powdered sugar dusted French toast.

I don't have a Bertozzoni. I have a crappy $200 Kenmore, but it will do.

Now that I have turned in my thesis, I rather miss it.

Yes, I am a masochist.

There is something to be said about the level of discomfort experienced at various times in a person's life — it reminds you that you are in fact, alive.

Honestly, I think it has more to do with the fact that the process of writing, which has helped me to figure out where my niche lies, and what avenue might mead to a fulfilling and stimulating career path. I love theory, research, data and network analysis, and writing.

I am a nerd. Let's move on.

Though this last year has been stressful because of this process, it has helped me learn about myself, and my limits. It has also given me an insight to what it really means to be dedicated to a career that you love — more than for the sake of it paying your rent. I am very grateful to the process, and to the people that helped me navigate through the tough times.

I also came to realize that it was not the thesis that had me wrapped as much as it was that I had to deal with the other things in life that monopolized my time.

But that's — unfortunately — what life is about. We all have to learn to deal with everything that our lives encompass, whether we want to or not. It's not always about doing what we love — we have to deal with it all.

I have just come to the realization that I am a workaholic.

I was having a veg-out evening last week with a friend of mine. We indulged in wine, pizza, and a movie. I guess there is a limit to how long I can "veg-out," because I grabbed my laptop halfway through the movie and began returning emails and scheduling meetings. She looked at me half-crazed.

"Don't you ever stop working?"

Apparently not.

The following morning, my department advisor echoed the same sentiment, stating that I need to slow down and specialize, or risk premature burnout.

This afternoon during a conversation with my mother, she asked me how I was, and I replied that I didn't know, now that things are beginning to wind down. She laughed at me, as she does often, noting that if I am not wound up like a spring, I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself.

All three of these women are right.

This is a sad state of affairs.

My problem: I don't have a balance. I don't know how or where to find one — or what one would consist of. This brings to the forefront myriad questions, with the most prominent being, "Am I overcompensating for something?"

This is the first time this thought has crossed my mind. This is a very real possibility. Problem is, I have no idea what to do about it.

Have you ever planted a garden and followed all the garden etiquette and made sure that the soil was fertilized and softened to encourage the growth of the new seed or tiny seedling? Have you pulled your children out from their warm beds to rush barefooted and still in their PJs to see the first tiny tomato bursting forth before all the others?

What is it to grow a garden? To till the soil and fight the rocky ground and force the it to make something grow from next to nothing?

As I came into the spring of my first year away from my crazy ex, I decided that the children and I must grow a garden. I took them to the farmer's co-op and together we selected our tiny plants that would entrust their miniscule lives to us for the next several months.

We chose Big Boys (I'd heard they were very good tomatoes) and Earlies and Tommie Toes (what we called them when I was a child). We picked peppers and cucumbers and squash. I let my children decide.

Caty and Joe became excited and began to pick flowers and leafy green things that would help make our tiny house a home. And...I let them. \No rational evaluation of what would or would not grow. They picked their flowers and their vegetables and together we took our bounty to the check out stand.

And when the total came to well over a hundred dollars, I paid the bill with a smile on my face. We were putting our hands in rich dirt and fingering green leaves of various plants. And it all felt so good.

In Middle Tennessee, the ground is filled with rocks. We sit on top of limestone, I think, and the first few inches of soil usually yield a dead end in the form of hard, impenetrable bedrock.

Springtime in Middle Tennessee is beautiful. The house I live in had flowers planted already, but for two springs they haven't bloomed. My landlady tells me that they are Irises. But, as I said, they haven't bloomed, so how would I know?

Irises come in many colors. The prettiest I think is the periwinkle blue (don't you just love that word — periwinkle — I love saying it). But for two springs, I've seen no blooms.

That changed this morning, a morning of my third spring. I'd seen it coming because I watched some green leaves sprout, thicken, and become stalks. Every morning, the stalks grew a little taller, and eventually I began to see the tips begin to swell. There was something good coming. I could see it, and I could feel it. 

Your recovery from a divorce is much like my Irises. The roots are still there, and the plant is living, drinking and growing, but simply not producing a flower. It may take a year, two years even longer, but as long as you're still there, standing and living, you're okay. 

What you will discover along the way is that you eventually will not feel quite so forlorn. You will notice that you are smiling a bit more, and that what used to bring you joy seems to be gradually easing itself back into your heart.  

A beautiful sky painted in dozens of colors that nearly moves you to tears. A sudden breeze that waves branches of trees and makes your hair blow around your face like an actress in a movie. A butterfly. Four-week-old kittens. Your favorite song suddenly playing on the radio and so you turn it up and sing along and feel alive and free and, dare I say it, happy.