Dense morning fog giving way to clouds, and an unseasonal, paralyzing cold front. Possible clearing in the afternoon, unless your name is Lauren, in which case the clouds will stick around through the evening. Bonus: a chance of drizzle.

Clouds.

Clouds.

More clouds.

I’ve always been amazed at the effect things can have on my mindset, on my personal forecast. The way the light looks in the sky, the temperature, a phone call, an email, a memory, things that fill the airspace — even silence.

A Green Day song boosted my spirits. My favorite Nina Gordon song brought them down again. Despite this, I replayed it again.

And again.

And again.

And again. Something about the way its harmonies, lyrics and yearning filled my ears was healing. Raw, but healing.

Tonight I am thankful for the gamut of emotions that leaves us reeling, feeling, unsure and hopeful, all at once.

I swear it was broken.

It reminded me of one of those heart-shaped necklaces that had been split in two, with one side reading “friends,” and the other reading “forever.”

Only it was in the sky. And I couldn’t figure out why it was broken.

There was a huge crack running through it, from top to bottom. I thought that maybe it was something on my windshield, until I noticed three people waiting at the crosswalk looking at it, too.

Yep, definitely broken.

Maybe I should get a picture of it, I thought, and send it off to The Weather Channel or something. It was sure to bring 15 minutes of fame. Or at least 15 seconds. OK, or none.

I rifled through my purse, found my iPhone, navigated my way to the camera, opened my moonroof and was ready to capture the magic when I noticed that it was gone.

The crack was no more. Suddenly, it was whole again.

The moon had recently risen and was hovering over Saddleback Mountain. The sky was a pale turquoise, and the moon was a calming shade of ivory; there seemed to be a soft, fuzzy glow around it.

An airplane’s contrails had merged and formed a single, thick, barely visible line just outside of the moon’s shape. That must’ve been the culprit. It was such a dense strip that seeing through it was impossible; it did a wonderful job of tricking the eye into thinking that there was no possible way it was obscuring any part of the moon. The moon had simply cracked, but each side remained with the other. Broken, but together.

Stuff breaks. All the time, every day. Sometimes it’s broken for good, other times it just seems like it is, but an indicator lurks nearby and tells of something else that is afoot. We tweak and prod and tinker and adjust things all the time — things that aren’t broken, but which we think need fixing. They say we shouldn’t do this, but we do. We meddle. We’re human.

For continuing education in the area of broken vs. not, and for the lessons that roll in on a daily basis regarding what to mess with and what to leave well enough alone, what to try to capture in the moment and what to let pass, I am thankful.

One of the higher points of my day was getting a crown on one of my rear molars. That should tell you something.

I took my 18th needle (above the shoulder, and since Valentine’s Day) this morning at the dentist, thanks to having cracked a tooth God-knows-how-long ago. I tend to postpone getting things looked at (the knee after two years, the shoulder after one), so the crack might’ve been lurking for quite some time. All I know is that I ate sushi — a soft enough food, right? — a month or two ago, and even that irritated an already irritated tooth.

It was my first dental issue ever; everything else to-date has been a simple cleaning. The needle wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but the numbness was beyond ridiculous.

Going in, I didn’t know what to really expect so I figured I’d embrace the whole experience sans-distraction. No work email, no magazines, no iPhonery. Just me, the needle, some foul-smelling goop they used to get an impression of my tooth and one bright light, directly in my eyes.

An hour later, after they messed with the temporary crown no fewer than six times to get it to a not-too-high position on what was left of my whittled down stump of a tooth, it was on. Next step: to come back for the real one in a couple of weeks.

Although numb, I was pleased at how their handiwork felt. I motored to the office where I proceeded to wonder every 20 minutes how much longer it would be before I could drink my coffee like a normal person and not have to cram a tissue down the front of my top in order to, well, catch things that didn’t stay put in my mouth.

Long about 1:30, the anesthetic wore off in what seemed like mere seconds, and I was back to normal. I whipped out my compact for a good view of my molar, and there it was: a blue dot, right in the middle of my faux crown.

Growing up, we had a dog whose tongue had a black mark right in the middle of it, as though she’d been playing fetch with a Sharpie. I suddenly felt like her.

I guess it just goes to prove one thing: there’s usually an issue in our lives that needs dealing with to some degree or another. Maybe it’s a recent development, maybe it’s a long-standing pain in the neck. Maybe it’s a thing, a situation, a circumstance or a general feeling of malaise — whatever it is, we can be numb to it and try to turn a blind eye only for so long. Sooner or later, we’ll have to face reality. Whether reality manifests itself in that moment or a few weeks down the line, though, is up to us.

My blue dot will be here for another few weeks, but there are lots of blue dots that require our attention — and they’ll get it in time (either in theirs, or ours). I recommend the latter, as often as possible. For this realization I am thankful.

It’s easy to spot sadness, strife and chaos on a daily basis. Just look around.

Look next door; listen to how some husbands, wives and children interact. Look at the people around you — the people in line in front of you, the employees who staff your dry cleaner, the people mopping up the floor or stocking shelves at your grocery store, the employees at the post office, the car wash, your mailman, the sign-spinners on the corner trying to make a few bucks, the people working at the Goodwill, the person in the next office over, and even your favorite fast-food joint. They may put on a brave face every day, but we really don’t know what the next person is up against. And even if they tell us, there’s usually a little bit of editing that goes on. Nobody wants to be a burden; I know I don’t.

The opposite can be true of these people, too. They might’ve pulled themselves up out of a hole so deep that we’d never wish it on our worst enemy; they might be quietly thankful for their life every day. We just never know.

I remember telling someone in the last year — it might’ve been my mom — that all I really want to find in life is peace; peace, nourishment for my soul, and things that make my heart happy. It’s not that I haven’t had it thus far, because I have. I’ve had big, heaping spoonfuls of it. It’s just that I’ve been out of the nest for quite some time, and with each passing year, I see more sadness, more angst, more negativity around me; it’s a wonder it doesn’t swallow us all up. I realize how blessed I am because of the nest I grew up in, and I want to maintain it for myself. 

Week before last, I opened up a fortune cookie at lunch. Like all fortunes that I get, I saved this one; it’s pinned to my corkboard in my office.

“Your life will be peaceful and fulfilling,” it reads.

I think any fortune can be true if we want it to be. And for this one, I am thankful. It’s a nice, daily reminder to do what I need to do to find that peace and to find whatever makes me feel fulfilled, because only I have that power. Not anyone else.

Not the chaos, not the strife, not the world.

Me.

It’s not that I dislike you because you seem to do things in a half-assed manner on the surface (I think we all know you’re smarter than that). It’s because I think you’re too calculating.

I like you, but only a little. I was tied to another for so long that when I first met you, I was confused. I felt like I didn’t really know which was way up, but I told myself I needed to get used to it. You were the type that everyone was gravitating towards, so gravitate I would, as well.

Every time I feel like I’m making progress, however, something else comes up. Something new. Something I don’t really want any part of, so I pull my ostrich move. My head goes into the sand, and I forget the things that make me a little uncomfortable. I figure I’ll ride it out, and that things will get back to normal. That’s just like me, you know — and it’s also just like me to ignore the fact that what I consider ‘normal’ will always be a thing of the past.

You have a lot of people wrapped around your finger, but it makes me wonder about those of us who aren’t. Do we have commitment issues? Or are we just suspicious of your ways since we know you’ll pull a fast one and morph into something else, something better, in no time at all? I highly suspect that you could very well lay most cards out on the table now, but what’s the mystery in that? You need to keep them coming back. I’m onto you. But, for the record, I can appreciate your strategy.

I hear you’re coming out with more new things this year. You have a lot of people really excited, but not me. You make me want to run back to the warm embrace of my flip phone, and I’ll probably keep my current work-issued iPhone for as long as possible until they force me to upgrade to a new one. I’ll dodge our IT guy for a while until the new arrival simply shows up on my desk one day. And then I’ll have no choice but to adapt. 

I was listening to the news the other day on my way to work, and some of your new products were the topic du jour. “What’s the point?” I thought. I’d just have to keep up, year after year, after I dipped my toe into the i-this or i-that arena. And then it would be years of wondering what I’ve gotten myself, and my bank account, into.

There’s a fairly well-developed avoidant side of me that wonders about the Apple Effect — the notion of “Why bother? Things will inevitably change” — in other areas of my life. It’s certainly not the most uplifting thing to think about, but it made me think that for as safe as I feel I’m keeping myself by protection through avoidance, it really only delays the inevitable. And by that time, it’ll be hard to catch up.

Tonight, for that realization and for recognizing that I need to change that part of my life, I am thankful.

Finding a new tool that maps crime in your neighborhood is a good thing.

It’s also really, really scary.

It’s amazing how much goes on in broad daylight. And while I don’t mean to make light of crime, one of my favorite surprises was seeing how much tagging goes on while the sun is shining. Really? Were you hoping to get caught?

Then there are the things that hit way, way too close to home. Literally. Sex crimes within blocks of where I live, assault, battery, child endangerment — it’s beyond disheartening.

Apparently I live in a bubble. I’m sure it will burst before too long, as I see instances of shady activity at all hours of the day, but nothing in the streets nearest to me shows up on the crime map — except for some sort of vehicle break-in a block or so away. I like to hoof it and do a four mile loop around the area as often as possible, and all of the streets that are on my route are crime-free, according to the map’s graphics. I know it’s not true, however, since I saw a guy in a car chasing down a woman in one of the nicer areas nearby, so I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before reality is reflected in the icons.

When I say I have a bad habit of occasionally tempting fate, I don’t mean it as anything other than fact. I’ve been known to do the incredibly stupid thing from time to time, and usually I emerge unscathed. The map makes me wonder, though, how many more four-mile loops I’ll log before I witness a crime and realize that its addition to the map was something I saw personally. Maybe it will only be someone drunk in public, and at a “safe” distance away. Maybe I’ll see someone pulled over for a DUI. Fingers crossed I never witness a shooting, a murder, and God forbid one of those little crime icons ever involves me.

Sometimes we acquire knowledge to expand our minds, to see things differently, to let our heart grow a little bigger or to do good with it. Other times, knowledge is solidly in the educational camp, and it’s meant to add some volume to the little voice inside that tells us to be careful, to not turn down that street, and to perhaps stay in tonight instead of going out. For the tools that make us a little more aware and for the information that reminds us of our own vulnerability despite the bubble that’s holding strong — though only for the time being — I am thankful.

Last summer, I was at Disneyland on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad when it broke down. The train sat, stuck, on one heck of an incline. Ride operators eventually came around and helped us off, then walked us down the faux, red clay steps just to the side of the track. We carefully made our way into the bowels of the attraction.

Having worked there during high school, I’m familiar with the carefully crafted sheen that’s prevalent in every nook and cranny within the park. I’m also familiar with the inner workings, the shortcuts, the “cast member” entrances and the putrid smells behind the scenes that are often covered up by the guest-friendly aromas of sweet, sugary churros and buttery popcorn.

That trip down memory lane reminded me that things aren’t always what they seem. You think you’re getting one thing, but all you can really count on is the facade.

The shameless act of selling is something we probably all see on a daily basis. People say the right thing to bring you in, then they wow you with their sparkly ways, their colorful aura.

In the evenings, if the night air and the breeze are just right, I can hear the Mark Twain Riverboat. It’s as though it’s calling people to come inside and visit — to be captivated by its sights, sounds and smells of a theme park that’s been creating magic for almost 60 years.

I can still see that magic when I go, but I’m always aware of what’s behind the scenes, just waiting to bring me back down to reality. It’s a balance, escape is, but so long as we’re aware of the truth underneath it all, we’re all that much more prepared. And for awareness of the facade, I am thankful.

I often say that I have no problem writing (stories and the like) about things that are dark, depressing, negative, catastrophic. There’s something about the drama that I like, although I try my best to shun it on a daily basis in my own life.

I like a lot of movies that aren’t all sunshine and roses. Some of my favorite characters are the bad guys who have a shady side and intentions that are less than honorable.

But when it comes to my own offerings, I try to put something better than that out into the world; I consider it an obligation. It’s too easy to keep the bad going — to keep it festering, if you will. It feels like far too many enjoy paying forward the chaos, the trauma. If we all have our own gifts that we’re supposed to use for good, then good I shall focus on.

Thanky came to be after reading from a daily devotional book I started at the beginning of 2012. More than a year later, here we are. Not every story is positive, and not every story is a good read. Some of them are hastily written as the moments just before midnight are ticking down, others seem impatient to maybe their way onto paper — er, screen. Funny or boring, sad or ranty, I’ve found that trying to see the positive in all of them and identifying that for which I’m grateful has shaped my mindset for the better over the last fourteen months.

Obligations are something we all know a lot about. They’re the result of life, of choices, of circumstance or of honor. Some we gladly take on, day in and day out; others we resign ourselves to. Then there are those things that we turn into obligations because we recognize them as gifts. We see their potential to give light to the darkness, hope to the weary and reassurance to a world full of broken dreams. It’s not always easy and the effects of Thanky may not be far-reaching, but maybe in time my offerings will be more. Until then, seeing the positive and being grateful is always a good thing.

And I think we need more good.

I realized something the other day: I sell myself short on a daily basis, and I have a fear of finding Mr. Right because I assume that once he gets to know me, he’ll pull a, “Oh, this is the real you? Just kidding. Bye.”

I’m tired of goodbye. In my 20s, it was never something that got me down; moving on wasn’t an issue. Around 30, goodbyes began to head in the direction of heartbreaking; I took them personally, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Now, the concept of “goodbye” is just one of those things that makes me not want to go there at all. I’m tired of them because they’re draining, and because they make me think too much.

I’m a fairly quiet person. I like to sit, think, listen, think some more, wonder things about the stuff I’m thinking, and take everything in. When I’m in a social setting, however, the other me comes out to play. No, there isn’t anything split-personality-ish going on here, it’s just a different side of me — the side that realizes that people are uncomfortable around other people who don’t really talk a whole lot. I’ve been perceived as bitchy, stuck-up, better than — you name it. People who don’t know me think these things, and they couldn’t be more false.

Anyway, I’ve never reconciled the those two people in me — the quiet one, and the more social one. At home, I don’t have to — and since that’s where I am a lot of the time, I probably could use more practice at this. I think I’m short-changing myself to the point of it being detrimental to personal and emotional growth in the meantime. Why?

Because I think I’m good enough for things, but not people.

I think I’m good enough for experiences, but not relationships.

I tend to think someone’s flaws can often be the best, most colorfully rich parts about them, but I have a hard time thinking that anyone would feel that way towards me.

I’ll gladly talk to anyone and everyone, but when it comes time to consider the possibility that someone might be interested in me, my reaction is generally, “Really? Nope, not likely at all.”

Oddly, if you told me I don’t have much to offer, I’d argue that point passionately. But when it comes to a guy, I immediately think, “Why would he want me? There isn’t anything special about me at all.” Case in point: a friend at work recently told me that I’m a catch; I laughed at him, then I wondered why I was laughing.

It’s a ridiculous, interesting — yet terrible — cycle. Some might call it simply “terribly interesting” but, no, there really is an element of pure “terrible” to it all. I don’t get it, and until I do, I’ll probably think there’s no Mr. Right to my Ms. Wrong, and I’ll assume that “every pot has a lid” applies to everyone else except me.

None of this, by the way, means that I’m not happy. I’m content with the way things are, and I’m fairly at peace with them. It’s just that I wonder if he’s out there, and — assuming he is — I go back to what I do best again: I think. I wonder in how many ways I’ll grow before we’re meant to meet, how long it will take for that feeling of “I’m ready” to take shape, and I wonder whether he feels the same as I do.

I wonder, but I am thankful for being content in the meantime.