My homemade mashed potatoes are pretty excellent.

Sometimes they’re fairly virginal, with just a little butter, a splash of whole milk, some salt and pepper.

Other times I’ll bust out the sour cream. Or the blue cheese crumbles. Maybe even a little bit of crushed garlic. Perhaps some asiago cheese. Or fontina. Or maybe even some of that cheese-in-a-tub fluff, also known as Rondele or Alouette. Fresh herbs can be a tasty addition. And don’t even get me started down the bacon path.

Whether you make your own or you go the instant route, you know that moment when you’re scooping heaping spoonful after heaping spoonful into a separate serving dish? There’s that dense, delicious near-thud of a sound as they fall into their new — albeit temporary — home, and you can’t wait to dive in. The steam is rising, there’s still a good amount of texture to them, and you see flecks of goodness dotting the rolling, white landscape.

Anyway, I don’t know how else to say it, except to say that I’ve felt rather “off” for a few weeks. I feel like I was standing in the middle of that empty dish and someone started spooning mashed matter on top of me. Of course, after that first spoonful, I’m flattened like a pancake under the weight, and all I can do is bear the pressure of spoonful after spoonful.

The weight is akin to a sort of darkness, or sorrow, in a way. Again, can’t really describe it, and mashed potatoes seem to make light of it. Then again, perhaps it’s not so off-base, after all.

It’s been said that we should bear and endure the tough times that come upon us, because the sorrow will one day prove to be for our own good. Seems like that’s the last thing you’d want to hear at the time, but if there’s something good in it, something that can ultimately bolster us, better us or make us more complete, more in tune or more aware, then I am thankful for the time-consuming trials and the sorrow — particularly if there’s a delicious outcome on the horizon.

It’s been said that the purpose of life is to live a life of purpose.

Often I think of “purpose” as being similar to “serving” — serving friends, family and even strangers. In this case, I think it’s important to realize that service can be directed toward oneself, as well.

Service doesn’t always require helping the masses, although doing so is admirable.

It doesn’t always entail leading the multitudes, although if someone does, this can also be a noble endeavor.

It doesn’t always point to someone who’s inspiring others, although we certainly do need those people around us.

If there’s someplace we’ve always wanted to travel, do we not owe it to ourselves to check it off our list? If there’s something we’ve always wanted to do, shouldn’t we be able to say that we actually did it? If there’s something we want to become, shouldn’t we do everything in our power to achieve it?

Tonight I am thankful for knowing that a life of purpose can mean focusing inward just as much as others focus on those around them. I am thankful to know that a life spent continually improving, evolving and bettering ourselves in order to offer more to the world can be just as valuable as lives where dreams are shelved in order to help others attain theirs.

“Faith is to believe what you do not see. The reward of this faith is to see what you believe.” -Saint Augustine

There are so many things that we can’t visualize or touch in life, and they’re usually the things that make us explore emotions that we haven’t explored in a long time, or which catch us off guard.

Belief — something inherently intangible — in something else that’s intangible. Or tangible. Regardless, we can’t touch belief.

Compassion. We can’t touch that, either.

Concern.

Admiration.

Honor.

Devotion.

Fear.

Sadness.

Desperation.

Shame.

What else catches us off guard? Michigan sunshine in January which, surprisingly, doesn’t mean it’s warm outside. That one always used to get me. Who else, besides me, would take their trash outside in shorts and flip-flops when it’s 15 degrees? Oh, yeah: nobody. Anyway, warmth can’t be touched, either.

Felt? Yes, to all of the above (except for the last one, apparently). Seen? No.

What else?

Love.

If faith is to believe what you do not see, is the reward for believing in “happily ever after” seeing someone walk through the door that you can picture the rest of your life with?

Is the reward for believing in admirable people seeing someone before you who does the right thing first instead of putting the bottom line before all else?

Is the reward for acknowledging fear seeing the path that will take you from the darkness into the light?

I’d like to think that it is.

Tonight, I am thankful for faith. I am thankful for its hope, for its encouragement and for its urging to never give up. I’m thankful for its undying energy, for its relentless forward motion and for its comfort when all else seems lost.

In the evenings, I pass by a house that I refuse to call a home, simply because its location is full of sad memories for me.

The lot used to hold a run-down, sad little frame of a house, and one that was in tremendous disrepair. It sat on a generously-sized piece of land with many trees but, despite this, the tiny, crumbling dwelling took any beauty nearby and sucked the life from it.

I remember walking past it on my way home from elementary school a few times, which is a strange memory since that particular route was out of the way. I tried to always busy myself with something else as I approached – conversation with a friend, fidgeting with something in my backpack – anything to keep from noticing it. Again.

There was a dog that looked somewhat like an Irish Setter. I remember its coloring matched the rust-hued paint on the rotting wood siding, as well as some of the bricks that made up the fence around the property. I don’t know if it was a he or a she, but it had the most gentle eyes. At least that’s what I thought they were. In hindsight, they were probably pleading eyes – eyes full of sadness, eyes that seemed to dwarf its gaunt body. Eyes that probably wanted nothing more than a warm bed, a substantial meal and an owner that was kind to it. All I know is this man scowled at passersby on more than one occasion, seemingly daring them to tell anyone of what they saw. I don’t know details about his interaction with the dog, but I’m assuming he didn’t show it the kindness that it so desperately appeared to want since it seemed to retreat and shrink in his presence.

One day, I noticed the dog was no longer there, and – years later – every trace of what used to be on that lot is gone now. The old, deteriorating house is a distant memory, razed and replaced with another house which I still don’t consider a home, only because it’s scarred by the history of what used to be on the lot. I can picture the dog, curled up on patchy, dead grass – grass since replaced by lush sod.

I’ve often wondered what happened to it, and I wish I could’ve given it a voice that it didn’t have. The memory of it, and others, has made me hyper aware of animals in need, and probably explains why I seem to have a rescue gene embedded deep in my soul. I know I can’t save them all, but today – even though I’m trying not to wish ill on anyone else – I’m thankful for knowing that karma can be a pretty big B, and for knowing that what goes around usually comes around.

I don’t know how many of you believe in God, but for those of you who do, have you ever felt closer to Him on some days, and less so on others?

I have.

I don’t know why it seems to go in waves, but for me it feels that way. I can’t think of any other way to say it, except to say that some nights when I’m in the middle of my prayers, just before I drift off to sleep, it’s as though I’m curled up in the bend of a giant arm, quietly confessing, quietly hoping, quietly wondering, quietly releasing. That arm is His arm, and those are the nights when close doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Then there are nights when I feel like I’m nearing the edge of a precipice – teetering, almost – and my saying prayers mostly out of duty. It’s like I can feel the gaze of someone who knows I can do better, and who expects it of me, but I can’t bring myself to look at Him or talk with much sincerity. But I continue, even though I’m sure it’s coming out as more of a mumble. I don’t feel close, and in fact I feel a bit ashamed of something – something I can’t identify. It’s as though I suddenly have no right to pray, even though I know I do. It’s the strangest thing. Sometimes I just feel there’s a chasm, a great divide – even though I know He isn’t far away at all.

The feeling of distance is likely a function of being human. Knowing my struggles, knowing which ones get the better of me, knowing that I try to handle them on my own far too often, and not leaning in His direction often enough. I hate this feeling of separation, and I wonder why it feels like it’s testing me. After all, I try to be good, I read from the same two daily devotion books each night and I try to identify things to be thankful for each day. But some days the space between us feels debilitating. It leaves me feeling somewhat directionless, but a lot hopeful that the pendulum will swing back the other way before too long.

Which I guess brings me to what I’m thankful for: the pendulum that inevitably shifts. It may take only a few hours or days, or it may take months. I don’t know how long it’s been this time, but knowing that I’ve been here once before and that the closeness is on its way – even if it’s moving at a snail’s pace – is comforting. And isn’t comfort what He’s all about?

Some days I feel like turning my life upside down.

Lately I’ve been noticing just how routine my, well, routine is. I like it and all, since I’ve always been solidly in the creature-of-habit camp. But it’s nearing that “something’s gotta give before I go crazy” stage.

Wake up, make the bed, guzzle some water, feed the cat while frying an egg, eat the egg while making my coffee, pack my lunch, mosey in for a shower while letting the coffee cool down on the counter, preen while drinking cooled-down coffee, dress, drive to work, work, drive home, exercise, sleep. Repeat.

I asked my dad a number of years back if he ever thought to himself, “Is this all there is?” in the context of routines, morning or otherwise.

“Yep,” he said.

Hm. A short and simple answer.

I’m getting fidgety. Antsy. In fact, I think I have my own multi-year itch happening. It’s not necessarily a seven-year itch, since the time period varies, but it’s an itch nonetheless.

Do they make a cream for this?

Seven years ago, I moved back to California from Connecticut. Five years before that, I moved home to California from Michigan. If history tells me anything, it’s saying that it’s about time for something to change yet again – and it’s speaking in a relatively loud voice. Hopefully it’s change for the better, and not change due to a death or earthquake or what have you. Hey, just being realistic.

Over the last few years, I’ve filled my time with things to ease the itch. An acting class, screenwriting classes, playwriting courses, bartending school, a sommelier course, photography here and there, a cover band and – assuming I stick with it – there’s a calligraphy class I should be starting next month. But classes only go so far.

Not long after the “yep” from my dad, the winds of change blew my parents 25 miles away. They left their home of 33 years – the only home I’d ever known – and started anew in the town where my grandparents lived for a few decades.

I don’t know quite how to put it, but it’s almost as though the short answer was indicative of big change. Perhaps a longer answer would’ve hinted at a bit of complacency and they’d have stayed put for five or ten more years, but – even then – the “yep” struck a chord deep inside of me. They were undeniably ready for change, not that either of them knew what the change would ultimately end up being.

If you’d have asked me last year if I was ready for change, my answer would’ve been rambling, perhaps a few sentences or even paragraphs long. It would’ve spoken of the desire for an entirely new job , for a trip here or there, or for even a new class. If you ask me now, it’s a short answer not unlike my dad’s was a few years ago. What it will be, who knows. But today I am thankful for knowing I’m ready for it.

One night after work last week, I had to stop by the salon where I buy my shampoo and conditioner. My coif is somewhat particular.

As one of the ladies was ringing up my purchase, she said to me, “This is great stuff. Have you ever used it before?”

“Every day,” I said. “I love it.”

She proceeded to tell me how to use it, as though I didn’t just convey that I was more than familiar with said product.

“You’ll want to use only a quarter-sized amount, at most, because it’s pretty concentrated.”

I nodded and added a “got it,” acknowledging and accepting her direction.

“And it helps if you wet your hair first,” she continued. “Otherwise it won’t lather.”

Really? People try to shampoo without wetting their hair? In that case, yes, I can absolutely see how wetting one’s mane first would be a good idea, because I imagine that quarter-sized amount wouldn’t go very far otherwise.

“And be sure to rinse the conditioner out completely,” she said. “It’s not meant to be left in.”

Again, more direction even though I’d told her I was a fan of the stuff, thereby implying that I’d used it before.

On my way out of the salon, I checked out my hair in every mirror I passed, convinced that something had happened to my ‘do during the day to have prompted the woman to give me pointers about how to properly shampoo and condition. Nothing seemed amiss, although I supposed it’s possible that my idea of normal hair is someone else’s cringe-worthy cause for concern.

When I got in my car, I replayed the entire — though brief — conversation. Was my answer of “Every day/I love it” heard as something else, specifically something that indicated I’d never used that product — let alone shampooed a day in my life? I didn’t think so. She was a sweet woman, so I was by no means irritated, but I was completely confused. All I could figure was that her head was somewhere else…and then my confusion turned to complete amazement that despite her brain being in another dimension, her customer service skills never faltered.

Sometimes people will respond to us with a bizarre answer, a mean answer, with a sour expression, no expression, a blank stare or a rambling monologue of know-it-all proportions. Sometimes nothing we said or asked makes any logical sense for what we get in return, and it leaves us confused.

“Huh?” is sometimes all we can muster, or maybe we’re relegated to nothing more than a few blinks or a deer-in-headlights look. Other times we fight back — a normal reaction, but one which indicates the other person clearly got the better of us when perhaps they didn’t mean to. Maybe they’re simply fighting their own battles and demons, and we happened to wander into the middle of the attack.

Had my shampoo expedition been anything less than delightfully confusing, I might’ve taken any other bait and snarked back. But my encounter with the woman at the salon was a good reminder that sometimes the things that don’t add up to us are merely an indication of the weight that’s in the process of burying another person. And while it might seem like a dismissive thing to do, sometimes the best thing to do is simply smile and nod.

Not unlike the way we become desensitized to some things we hear about on the news, I find I’ve become desensitized to the number of people on the planet.

Then again, I’ve probably never been at a place where I ever really understood how many other human beings are out there. Daunting and near impossible to imagine, right?

You can tell me how many people live in the US, in Canada — even in the entire world — and I’m good with it. “Good” meaning they’re all pretty big numbers, and since I can’t really wrap my head around how many people there are, my brain moves on.

Then there are those times when I look something up online, usually a word. After I scroll through the various definitions, I see it towards the bottom of the page: the section of replies from everyone else about what inspired them to look up the same thing. The often amusing, sometimes ridiculous and occasionally snarky comments get me every time.

“Wow. There are a lot of people in the world,” I think to myself.

It’s ridiculous that something so mundane makes me finally begin to fathom the number of people around us at all times. All with different beliefs, different likes and dislikes, different hobbies, different histories and different paths. It’s never a picture in a book, in a newspaper or on TV to make me take pause. It’s a comment, and something that gives a voice to the numbers.

We talk of local legends, often in the context of a storefront, eatery or person of some sort of prominence, but there’s so much room for us to put our own stamp on our tiny, individual corner of the world. And assuming that everyone makes their own life exactly the way they want it, adding flourishes here and there and painting it whatever color they wish, I am thankful for the staggering number of little side streets, nooks, local legends and out of the way places all around the world that exist to be experienced.

It’s funny what people do for attention. Bad mouthing, disrespecting, trash-talking.

It’s funny that people buy into it. They believe it, they feed off it.

It’s funny the people who accept it, who condone it, who perpetuate it, who seemingly ask for more of it.

It’s interesting the people who overlook it, who turn the other way, who pretend it never happened.

It’s so easy to be any of the above, and tonight I am thankful for those who aren’t, who swim against the tide, who speak out against it and who inspire us all to be better, more honest and more true.

It’s so easy to look around and wonder why we don’t have what others have, or why we have some burdens to bear while others seem to skip through life without a care.

It’s easy to wonder why we’ve been saddled with a particular task, a duty or an obligation while thinking that others have no idea what we deal with.

It’s easy to ignore all the good around us and focus only on wondering when things will change.

It’s easy to feel like the weight of the world is on our shoulders, and it’s even easier to wish that we could pass it off to someone else so that they could walk in our shoes for once.

In the darkness of your life, it’s easy to wish for the light that friends and acquaintances seem to bathe in daily. At night, it’s easy to let the happiness that does exist in our lives be stolen.

At night, it’s easy to not notice the sun that’s beginning to come up for us.

“Comparison is the thief of joy” is one of Theodore Roosevelt’s most well-known quotes. It’s also painfully applicable in our own lives – painful because it can force us to do some serious thinking, often times with a heavy heart. But today I am thankful for its reminder that we often have it far better than we ever bother to think about, and that we need to do it more often to keep the darkness at bay.