I am restless. Squirrely. I pace around the empty house with time on my hands and contemplate what substantial project I can undertake to fill the minutes: reorganize our abysmal office, start on taxes, dig into some research I’ve been putting off. But I can’t sit still long enough to focus. Or become interested. So I watch an episode of something on Netflix. I poke at the daily crossword. I search the pantry for carbs. Nothing calms my agitation.

This is my eighth month in a year of solitude. As solitudinous as one can be living amongst a family of four, in a densely-populated urban neighborhood, alongside the other 18 million people here in greater Los Angeles. The respite is not self-imposed; it just happened when several long-term projects–projects that had consumed me for years–came to their natural conclusion, all around the same time. In a matter of weeks, the predictability of work, the connectivity of peers, and the certainty of purpose collectively disappeared, and I was left with me.

Of course, at the time, I was cat stretching and kicking off my shoes and enjoying the growing white space on my calendar. At the time, I was high on the bliss of accomplishment. Too high to notice that loneliness and uncertainty had crept into the empty space once occupied by all that work. Too high to realize that these loners were having their way with my psyche. But that’s all hindsight. Once my sobriety kicked in, all I knew is that I was wigging out and something had to be done.

So I called another Silvia—this one a beautiful astrologer and healer—to look at the stars and offer some insight as to why I was so out of sorts. Now before you roll your eyes at the word astrologer, a little back-story if I may. I met Silvia in 2001 on the weekend of my wedding in Big Sur, California, considered by many to be one of the most stunning coastal enclaves on the planet. And indeed, Big Sur is breathtaking, but it is also deeply spiritual–perhaps a result of the mountains that rise dramatically from the ocean or the ancient redwoods that canopy the forests or the endless expanse of the almighty Pacific. Whatever the reason, the spectacle of nature provided at this tiny spot on the globe buckles the knees of every visitor–even the most hardened cynics–causing them to bow down in awe and gratitude. Which is why it only made sense for me, a newlywed, to solicit the wisdom of the heavens while I was basking in the glory of the earth.

I met with Silvia for two hours, which, honestly, felt more like ten minutes. She talked me through her charts, offering uncanny insights into my struggles, passions, and childhood. She also presented my solar return (the 12 months that run from birthday to birthday) and the themes involved that year. And while I didn’t understand it all, her perspective was so reassuring and calming that I played our recorded session again and again over the coming months whenever life felt overwhelming. Which, given the events of 2001, was often.

From then on, I talked to Silvia almost every year around the time of my birthday, always excited to hear what lay ahead, what I needed to work on, but secretly hoping for news of a lottery win or script sale. In fact, it took me quite some time to realize that astrology doesn’t predict what your life will be, but rather helps you understand the life that you create. That through all its ups and downs, with every success and challenge, one thing remains the same: the choice is yours -transform or replicate.  Which brings me back to eight months ago, when I called Silvia for guidance over my inexplicable angst and growing morbidity, to which she responded–with both lightheartedness and depth– “Quiet yourself. Be alone. Make space for silence and listen. This is what your year is about.”

Of course, as soon as someone tells you to do something, all you want is the opposite. For eight months I have longed for places to go and people to meet and an inbox full of messages. I have prayed for collaboration and partnership each and every day. I have ached over the wonderfully noisy lives of my Facebook friends—the jobs, concerts, trips, parties, hell, even the pumpkin patches—Can I join? I want to message. Give me 10 minutes to change and I’ll be right over. But inevitably, some big, omnipotent, exacting voice from deep inside (a voice that sounds remarkably like Billy Bob Thornton) reminds me to, “Slow down, princess. It’s not that kind of year.”

At this point, I’ve given up on trying to speed up and overfill my plate in an effort to remedy my anxiety; because it ain’t working. When pushed, life will throw the most inspired obstacles in your path. And besides, I’ve decided that I don’t want to replicate this all too familiar response; I want to transform. So now when I walk my dog, I pause only briefly to kibbutz with my neighbors before moving along. I write in the deadline room at my workspace to avoid too many conversations and phone calls. I’ve stopped signing up to volunteer. And when my younger-self becomes agitated and warns, “Don’t sit down, don’t stop…you may never get back up,” I blow her off and play word scrabble on my phone, hoping that soon I’ll be quiet enough to actually listen. Soon I’ll be okay with just the company of me.

Silvia didn’t actually call it a year of solitude; that’s my term. But she did allude to a point in time, around four months from now, when I will breathe a sigh of relief and say, Wow, that was hard, but it’s done. I got through it. And most important, I learned something. I looked forward to that day. But also, inevitably, I know that after it’s all over and the commotion of life picks up again, I’ll look back with longing and nostalgia and wish for the loneliness.