During the last month, I have struggled to nearly the final page of Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth." It's not a difficult read, but a weighty one, with time needed between chapters for thought. And in my case, a sprinkling of fiction to offset the intensity of Tolle's ideas.

This book was an Oprah Book Club choice a few years ago, and I assumed then it was another take on finding the career of your dreams, a slightly different version of "What Color is Your Parachute?"

But those who've read it knows it's far different. "A New Earth" urges its readers to find purpose, not just in one's career but in everyday life, and in every moment. Tolle asserts that we spend much of our time in the future or the past, and not enough of it in the present. We look forward, thinking some future day will be better than the one we're living now. And we look back, often romanticizing the past as perhaps the best times of our lives.

Tolle also believes most people are too attached to their egos, caught up in modern society's definition or ourselves. That labels like "parent," "professional," and even "male" or "female" restrict our ability to connect with our spiritual selves.

Especially at this juncture in my life - in the midst of what is both a career and lifestyle transition - I read "A New Earth" with a mixture of intrigue and discomfort.

Although I find a nearly profound sense of purpose in writing, I may never reach the level of consciousness to which Tolle suggests we all strive. But I hope I'm on that path.

I'm in a new phase of life, reviving a once part-time job as a dog walker into nearly full-time employment. Ideally, the occasional freelance marketing project will balance the financial scales.

It's too soon to tell if this hodge-podge of monetary sources will adequately support my son and I. But I'm giving it my best shot.

I've traded skirts and Vera Wang heels for hiking pants and Keen boots. Florescent lights and a controlled climate for sunshine, rain and snow. Human co-workers and conversation for canines with wordlessly lolling tongues.

Yet I'm still deeply defined by labels. Even as I'm proud of the decision to start my own business, I'm embarrassed to say I'm a dog walker. Pointlessly pondering the reaction that former co-workers might have at the fact I'm paying bills with a series of mostly double-digit checks. Wondering what the family members who advocated my return to a desk job say to one another about my decision to go it alone.

Day by day, and with the addition of each new client, those kinds of thoughts and comparisons are fading. Overshadowed by growing confidence, and brought into perspective by my new co-workers. Dogs are, after all, among the finest examples ofliving life in the present.

The lessons Tolle attempts to teach his readers are there in the glistening eyes of a dog whose sole focus is a tennis ball, who delights in a roll in fresh snow, who so excitedly sniffs grass and trees for the coded canine messages only they can read.

I find a meaning I never anticipated in helping the owners of these dogs, in caring for the things that bring them such joy.

Standing chilled under an umbrella in the rain-slick mud of a treeless dog park, watching a husky ignore the pelting sleet to run in exuberant circles, I feel a sense of purpose.