True to Form

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I know it’s been a tiring week when my goals for an evening include only hydrating and seeing how early I can hit the hay.

For the record, I’ve managed to get my 64 ounces of water in, and I’m on track to crawl under the covers an hour before I normally do. Score.

True to form, my head is pounding post-travel. True to form, I’ve popped no fewer than six Advil today. True to form, they haven’t helped, and now I’m comfort eating — though I’m quite certain that noshing on a peanut butter Twix isn’t going to do my headache any favors.

There are some days when I’ll dive head-first into quinoa, chicken breast, Ezekiel bread and get my fair share of fruits and veggies. Today is not one of those days. If it was acceptable to crawl into a giant, sleeping bag-sized bean and cheese burrito and feast from the inside out — in between food coma naps, naturally — I would.

I often had headaches as a child, as well. I unfortunately also had a giant (read: self-imposed, all-in-my-head) issue swallowing pills — multivitamins, aspirin — so my mom would always have to crush the latter for me between two spoons, add water to the powder and I’d take my pain reliever in liquid form. Not tasty, but it worked. In the wake of every headache, the suspicion of many adults was that I needed to “eat something,” usually protein. After all, it must be why I didn’t feel well. The result? Lots of peanut butter and celery, peanut butter and apples, cheese, milk and small frozen bean and cheese burritos were consumed during my younger years.

During college my migraines were so bad nothing could tame them except three frozen burritos and two quarts of milk from the dorm store. Well, those items and a dark room…for two days.

Not surprisingly, those are the foodstuffs I still gravitate toward, though I don’t think they’ve ever truly helped me in the head pain department. Nor has hydrating. What? What’s that voice? No, Arnold — it’s not a tumor.

End of the day, I’m sure I’ll always have my noggin issues to deal with, but — true to form — I’ve always been comforted (at least psychologically) by my comfort foods. I’m thankful for continued access to them, for finally learning during fifth grade how to swallow an aspirin whole and for a cozy bed waiting for me to fall into it. Here’s hoping a solid night of sleep reveals a headache-free Friday.

My Grubby Halo

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There’s no sensation to compare with this. Suspended animation, a state of bliss.

It’s hard for me to find the right words when it comes to describing how I feel at 36,000 feet — or at most altitudes, really — but Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” is a good start.

It has a few lines that sum things up perfectly.

Above the planet on a wing and a prayer.

I’m a nervous passenger up high, but I’m getting better. I think. They say practice makes perfect, but I think I’d worry if I ever became “perfect” at traveling. My guard would be down, and I don’t want that.

Tongue-tied and twisted — just an earthbound misfit, I.

The song is beautiful, yes, but also a confirmed metaphor for striking out on one’s own. It’s easy to look out and behold the beauty, but it’s even easier to realize how small we are in the grand scheme. How in the world are we supposed to make a difference? How in the world are we supposed to leave our mark? In our tiny corner of life, I suppose it’s not that hard. But how do we get our impact to go beyond our bubble? Thinking about it is mind-boggling, brain-numbing and it leaves me without words sometimes.

Condition grounded, but determined to try.

How can we not want to try? When you look around at the effect some people have on others, either personally, professionally, whether there’s an element of celebrity or not, things can look pretty bleak. Feels like the stuff that sells and that gets propagated is the negative, the crude, the stuff lacking any sort of conscience. I’m not claiming angel-status…Lord knows I’ve had more than enough “not-my-finest” moments. I might be a small voice in a big world, a quiet voice among the disheartening, but because of it all, I’m determined to keep trying.

Tonight I am thankful for an uneventful flight, for its pairing with my favorite Pink Floyd song, and for the perspective it always brings, regardless of altitude.

Pitch.

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Hotel bar. Munchies. Wine. Ambience. All prior to an 8:30 dinner reservation at lovely restaurant mere steps from the hotel. Is this the best Tuesday night ever? I’m pretty sure it could be. Or, rather, it’s at least the best Tuesday night of September 2013. Har har.

I’m a creature of habit, and a giant fan of my bubble; I’ve worked hard to make it what it is. Travel takes a lot out of me, as I’m generally sick or plagued by a migraine following a work trip, regardless of length. That said, there are a number of things about my current trip to which I give two thumbs up.

If you have to travel for work, may your travels — particularly the flight portion — be uneventful and lacking in the stress department. Turbulence on the ground is bad. In the air, it’s even worse.

If you have to travel for work, may you always have an aisle or window seat…but if you don’t, may you not have an overly-cologned, still-drunk-from-the-night-before man sitting next to you and leaning in your direction…which, unfortunately, made today’s middle seat a tad smaller.

If you have to travel for work, may your travel partners be most excellent like mine are. They’re doing their Fantasy Football draft with beverages in hand. I am blogging, also with beverage in hand. Bliss.

If you have to travel for work, may your bed not mess up your back, may your shower have fantastically powerful water pressure, and may your in-room A/C provide just the right amount of white noise. Two of these have been confirmed in my abode for the night. The third will be known tomorrow morning.

May the coffee stash in your room not contain only decaf, may the bottled water be sans-fee, and may your next day meeting not be at the crack of dawn. Check, check and check.

Tonight I am thankful for a day of good travel, for the chocolates on my pillow which I promptly devoured the moment I set my bags down, and for a work trip that’s light (so far) on work — save for the email-checking at 41,000 feet. Here’s to a good meeting tomorrow, and hopefully a new client in the coming months.

Here we go.

Look around.

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Tomorrow morning, I’ll be on the same flight I was on exactly three months ago.

So much can change in what seems like the blink of an eye. Three months ago it wasn’t officially summer yet, although Memorial Day signaled the unofficial beginning. Today, we’ve said goodbye to summer as Labor Day, the unofficial end, has come and gone.

Three months ago I was wishing fall could hurry up and get here. Now it’s just around the corner.

Three months ago we were heading into our busy season at work. Now, it’s still busy — but the majority of it is in our rear view mirror.

Three months ago the evenings were still brisk. Now the night air is heavy with humidity. Three months ago an evening walk sounded pleasant. Now it’s close to torturous. If the cool could return to the dusk, if be more willing to hoof it, more often.

Realizing that the last three months have passed in a flash is a nice reminder that — in just three more — Thanksgiving will be over and Christmas will beckon.

It also reminds me of the Ferris Bueller quote. You know the one, right?

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

I’ve never been the biggest fan of summer, generally preferring cool nights and rainy days above all others. But today I am thankful for a good summer, albeit one that was equally trying. Here’s to keeping our eyes wide open as we head toward the fall, lest we miss anything in life’s haste. Here’s to looking around once in a while.

Midnight Madness

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It took me while last night to figure out a blogging topic. Tonight, not a problem.

Almost 24 hours ago, I finished writing and figured I’d turn in for the night. I went in to wash up, passed by the living room on my way to bed and noticed quite the commotion outside. “Commotion,” in this case, is defined as 11 cop cars with lights illuminating the cul-de-sac, a woman handcuffed and sitting on the curb, a minivan up on my neighbor’s lawn and gang unit officers everywhere.

I had only been in the bathroom for about five minutes, and this is what happens? Sheesh. There weren’t any sirens to tip me off, but apparently the chase began just a few blocks away. The driver didn’t realize the street lacked an outlet, so he was blocked in by cruisers galore. In his desperation, he ended up jumping the curb and hitting the tree in front of my neighbor’s bedroom window where she was sleeping.

The driver ran but officers tackled him in my neighbor’s backyard, the female passenger was cuffed and questioned, but also eventually released. She left on foot to call a taxi.

Midnight came and went, and things were finally dying down. A flatbed truck removed the minivan, and its operator swept up the grass, dirt and tree bark that had been disrupted by the chaos. That tree has been there for years — it’s a lovely tree, though the morning light revealed it’s also quite a bit banged up. Rumor has it my neighbor was thinking of having it removed. Being that it likely saved someone last night, I’m guessing the tree will get a giant bandage and new lease on life. I’m sure it will be around for years to come.

I’ve written about them before, but I’ll say it again. I’m a pretty big fan of the Anaheim PD. When they’re in front of your house talking amongst themselves, with neighbors and with the woman in handcuffs, it’s impossible to not let the desire to eavesdrop get the better of you. Two words: true professionalism. So aside for being thankful for the mighty tree and a life it saved, I’m once again thankful for those who protect the city I’m proud to call my home.

The Giveaway

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Have you ever watched a movie, concert, visited a museum, been in awe of natural beauty, done or even seen something so moving to the point where you’re keenly aware of your heartbeat? At any second, it feels like it might just jump out of your chest. It’s pulsing and pounding, as if to tell you, “This — this is what you should be doing with your life…somehow, and in some way.”

I’m this way with music. With the exception of rap or super-sweet, bubble-gummy pop, I’ll watch a concert or listen to a song and occasionally be moved to the point of tears. If it’s a concert, everything from the audience’s reaction to the lighting, the stage design to the musicians’ instruments — all of it captures my attention. It could hold it for hours on end, if I let it.

Billy Joel was my first concert. My mom took me, and we had pretty good floor seats right next to the massive soundboard. When the lights dimmed, the first notes were played and the soundboard techs went to work, I cried. I had no words — it was simply a huge, awesome, moving and magical moment. I didn’t know why I was crying, but it didn’t matter. I simply suspected at the time that the whole experience was related to my life’s calling.

I think we all know that we’ve each been given gifts, but sometimes those gifts may not be immediately clear. When it comes to a gift, you’re supposed to do something with it — spread it around, share the love. It’s not meant to be kept to yourself. A gift is meant to be packaged beautifully, tied with a bow and then given away.

While I do play and write music, this isn’t a gift that I’ve turned into a career. And when I watch or go to a musical, a concert, listen to a new song or revisit an old one, I find myself wondering about this gift of music that I have. Not necessarily the “I play music” part, but the part that’s deeply moved by it. That’s a gift in itself. But what do I do with it? How do I give that away?

I took years of piano lessons growing up. I can’t give my knowledge — my gift — away through lessons, though, because I don’t have the credentials to teach. I could give someone my favorite music, but that’s merely a hand-off; it’s too literal, it’s lazy. Do I try to make music part of my advertising job? There’s a connection there, however loose. Or do I simply tell young people about it, and how amazing it is to be in the same arena, on the same stage, in the same concert hall and in the same airspace as people who took a dream and gave it wings? Do I rave about my own experiences and hope they feel the same fire? Do I put together a small band of my own, or continue on a solo path and hope that one day my on-the-side hobby becomes a bit more public?

I’m still trying to figure out how to use this particular gift, but in the meantime, I am beyond thankful for it. Realizing a gift exists is half the battle. Knowing how to properly give it away to make the most of that gift is the other half, but I have a feeling that figuring out the giveaway will be a gift in itself. To others, yes, but also to me.

The Pedestal

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I don’t know what made me think of it this morning, but something made me think of my dad and his gentlemanly ways.

I met my mom tonight for dinner and told her about it. He’s never been the type to ogle other women, comment on them — it’s like he doesn’t have eyes for anyone but my mom. Sure, he can differentiate between a male and a female in a room, but it’s as though that’s it. Done, period, the end.

The few times (I’m certain I can count them on one hand) he’s commented on another woman, it’s generally after my mom comments, is usually about someone from their generation — an actress or musician, and he always takes the high road. Example yonder:

Mom: “Oh, I loved watching her in movies when I was younger. She’s aged so beautifully!”

Dad: “She’s a very pretty lady.”

See? Mom first, then dad. A female of celebrity. The high road? She’s a lady — not a chick, broad, POA (does anyone’s dad say that? Wait, don’t answer…), etc.

I’ve been single for forever and a day. 98% of the time, I am more than fine with this and quite content. The other 2% of the time, when I’m ready to take in the scenery, I look around and realize that while my dad has been such an amazing father and a tremendous role model, they just don’t make ’em like they used to.

And, in a weird way, I’m thankful that they don’t. Because after having spent years with the wrong types of dudes, the one real man who measures up to my dad — full of honor, respect and who is a true gentleman — will be so easy to spot.

Project.

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When you start something new, whether by your own doing or because someone asked for your involvement, the project takes on a whole new meaning. Why? You’re attached to it. Your name essentially defines it.

What you put out into the world comes back to either bless you, or haunt you. What you offer up to your fellow man can build generations up, or tear them down; we’ll never know the lasting effect, but it’ll be a domino one…so make your offering good.

A stamp leaves an imprint. So will your hands, your time, your effort.

A plan of action steers the ship. So will your heart, your vision, your goals.

You begin to project — as in, the verb. To project: to estimate or forecast (something) on the basis of present trends.

Your project is as good as your past efforts. It’s as good as the trend you’ve created up till now.

Are you satisfied with your abilities if you’re called upon? Do you have faith in your trajectory if you take on something just because?

It’s never too late to start. It’s never too late to turn the ship around, to do better, to be better, to try harder.

If you don’t like your track record, project confidence, capability, and project a can-do spirit. Your project will thank you.

Tonight, I am thankful for knowing that not every every successful project began because someone knew they could — some began because someone figured, “Why not?” Confidence can go a long way.

Time to project.

The Going

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On my way home this evening, I saw a sign in front of a building that read, “If the going gets easy, you might be going downhill.”

I chuckled to myself, since I’d realized — mere seconds before — how tense I was. Something isn’t right these days, and I can’t really place my finger on it.

Perhaps I’m not meant to instantly work through my tension, as maybe it’s meant to linger and be a catalyst for change — change which might be hard, change which will be anything but easy. Perhaps I’m supposed to learn how hard the going really can be, and perhaps I’m meant to learn more about being truly thankful.

We might have it easier than many in the world, but that doesn’t mean that our own challenges don’t present unique mountains to climb. Our own mountains might seem easy to some, but “difficult” is all relative. Given our backgrounds, our experiences and our knowledge, we might not be able to handle someone else’s mountain. Similarly, they wouldn’t be able to handle ours, either.

If the going gets easy, the challenges stop. The learning stops. The understanding and appreciation of trials and tribulations will stop, because there will simply be no more. A cake walk might be perceived as one’s final day — the final day when you exhale and look back across a lifetime and see your peaks and valleys clearly illuminated.

Easy? Nothing is ever easy. If not one’s final day, a cake walk might also be perceived as a life where everything is done for you. And, truthfully, there’s death in that, too.

Tonight I am thankful for the going and its occasionally tough-natured temperament. I’m thankful for all the lessons it bestows, and for those days when the going isn’t necessarily easy — but just a little less bumpy. The sign was a nice reminder to not seek the easy, but to never lose sight of the learnings.

The Art of Thanks

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It’s a small word that can mean so much. “Thanks” is one syllable that, sadly, occasionally catches us off guard because we don’t hear it as much as we could — or should.

I think it could be used far more in the business world, and I think everything in its wake needs to be tied to it, too. What does that mean?

“Thanks” implies that we’re grateful for or appreciative of something. And if we appreciate something, shouldn’t we treat it like gold? “Thanks” shouldn’t be a word uttered because someone else is watching you, it should be used liberally. It should be the salt in our life, enhancing the ordinary and making situations that much more delicious and worthy of savoring.

How often have you received an email — say, at the office — which asked for something and, when you replied with the information, the response you received was something like, “Well, what does such-and-such mean?” or “What about [insert unrelated request here]?” How often have you wanted to reply and say, “You’re welcome,” before moving on to their next question? Passive-aggressive, yes. But also human? Sure.

“Thanks” is often forgotten by those at the top. They’re there, therefore others will worship them regardless of whether they ever thank anyone. Right? Wrong. At least in my opinion.

“Thanks” is also forgotten by those at every other level, myself included. Why? Are we really that busy? No. We simply don’t think.

…or maybe we do. “Thanks” is frequently pushed aside and replaced with “great” or “awesome” — anything that doesn’t allude to the personal, or which may link two people together in a meaningful way. Heaven forbid.

“Thanks” can make a day. No “thanks” can break a day. It can inspire someone to do better, be better, try harder and — when not used sarcastically — can inspire consistency from the person you’re thanking. Ignoring a chance to thank someone can deflate them; their efforts haven’t been properly acknowledged, so why would they give the same effort moving forward?

Tonight I am thankful for the thanks I’ve received, and for the reminder that it’s good to not only give thanks to others, but to treat them as though we continue to be appreciative of their time and efforts. The opportunity to thank someone accompanies everything we receive, and with every expression of thanks comes the opportunity to grow that connection into something more. Define “more” as you will, but so long as we define it somehow, the art of thanks will be alive and well.