Last week, over coffee and 90-degree weather, my grandmother and I had a brief discussion about identity.

We’d been chatting about a little bit of everything, as we often do — the weather, the oil spill, Mel Gibson and how the world, we’d decided, had gone certifiably crazy.

In the middle of it all, I had been discussing the nature of relationships and how so many of them, sadly, go bad before they even get started and only get worse once it’s too late.

Neither one of us even pretend to have our finger on the pulse of this subject, that is for certain.

But I commented on the sad reality of a collective loss of identity.

A sharp contrast from what I was fortunate enough to see embodied by my grandparents: two people with strong, individualities who just happened to complement each other for more than 50 years.

Lately, it doesn’t seem we know how to do much of that anymore.

So many, it seems, from the hormonally charged high school kids to quarter-lifers poised between freedom and the quest for a soul mate, are in more of a hurry to identify with someone else than themselves.

And so we end up with a lot of lost souls.

And if you think Mel Gibson and Lindsey Lohan are bad — they’re just the ones the cameras follow.

But I’m a believer that even in the midst of unbelievable, exaggerated madness, there is a mustard seed of truth.

Gibson and Lohan are merely exaggerated forms of broken people.

One seems to have given in to all the hate and rage and abuse that somewhere along the line he identified with out of complete insecurity and cowardice.

And the other, a girl who could be discovering all kinds of interesting things about herself, who could have taken advantage of incredible opportunities, seems to have found nobody really cares anymore — and aside from her paychecks, her parents probably never really cared at all.

So she just tries to identify with anything that’s close to the bottom, where she’s taken up residence.

They are the exaggerated depictions of what can happen when we put character and dignity and a sense of deep- rooted identity second to anything else.

Lately, I find myself making mental notes of the little curiosities that are the things that make me, me.

There are the little things.

Like how when I hear Pavarotti’s “’O Sole Mio” I want to disappear into someplace dark and Italian, with a red glow, thick red wine and rich pasta.

I can be instantly changed by something as simple as a cup of coffee or a song.

Sometimes the amount of the bill that I’m paying doesn’t even matter when I think about the fact that I’m paying it all on my own.

I’d spend my money on all kinds of unnecessary thingsbefore I even consider the necessary ones like windshield wiper fluid or light bulbs.

I like blueberries. I hate the beach. I don’t particularly enjoy the responsibility of owning an automobile. I think it’s important to be well-versed in old movies.

And there are the big things.

Like how I could never settle for the idea that we are all here for the mere purposes we’re fulfilling right now.

You may be the best at what you’re doing as you do it today.

But there’s always something more.

You may be the best parent — but you could be even better to a motherless child.

You could be an awesome businessman but an even better philanthropist.

You could be a good friend but a better teacher.

I’ve grown to believe compassion is tricky and something that has to be practiced every day and if we’re lucky enough to master it, we should teach it to others.

These are just little bits and pieces of me. And I think that’s just the beginning. They bring me comfort when I sometimes feel surrounded by others who have faded into each other. Or when I doubt myself.

There’s a reason why businesses who hone their identities with their customers tend to see so much success.

And here’s the thing about identity. It has to be maintained every day. It has to be cultivated and then honed and then kept.

Because if it’s strong enough — nobody can take it away from you.

Jessica Sieff reports for the Niles Daily Star and Edwardsburg Argus.

E-mail her at jessica.sieff@leaderpub.com.