Many a bird, duck and what have you are taking flight as of late. The southland skies are their highway, and they maneuver it gracefully.

Last week, I saw close to 100 backlit by the morning sun. Today, a more nimble gathering of 20 was framed against the ocean; from my view on the 15th floor, it looked as though they were just skimming the top of the water.

The lead bird apparently changes and shares the burden with the others, and the V formation is for good reason, too. It helps the birds stay rested by decreasing wind drag…sort of like NASCAR in the sky, with all that drafting.

Seems like there’s no distance we can’t cover so long as we’re in it together, and when we realize we need help. Those in our lives are there to give support, relief and to step in when our wings tire. If we allow them.

Tonight I am thankful for the lessons that come from above, and which remind us that we can limit our own distance, or grow it exponentially with the help of others.

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.

The same way I’ll have earthquakes on the brain for a few months leading up to a seismic event (which has been the case for a while now — you’ve been warned), I’ll have a feeling about my car.

Within the first year of owning it, I took a rock to the windshield during my morning commute. It was bad enough to where I had the whole thing replaced at the dealership.

The next year, an uninsured motorist who spoke no English rear-ended me. Thanks. At least the new bumper cost me nothing.

The year after that, I got two speeding tickets in two weeks’ time. Alright, so that was my fault. And for what it’s worth, I fought both and won one. Not bad odds, although the money I got back has since been eaten up by my insurance increase.

A few months later, a large rock hit the windshield again, but only left two uber-tiny chips. Irritating, but minor. I didn’t bother getting it fixed.

Last year, it was hit while sitting in one of my beloved end spots in a parking deck. For anyone who remembers the story of the pirate, it happened the night of our first date. Looking back, it really was some awesome foreshadowing, and there was some good comedy in that it completely negated the fact that he paid for the evening since I was stuck with the $500 deductible afterwards. Bumper number two would soon be mine.

Yesterday I went to the carwash, and I randomly remembered being approached a number of months back by a guy who was there handing out business cards for his windshield repair business. He mentioned he saw the chips in my glass and said that if I wasn’t careful, they’d spread and get larger “probably within a week or so.”

“Well, they’ve been there for about two years, so I think I’m fine,” I said.

“Oh,” was his reply. He scurried away.

While I was sitting there waiting for my car to be finished and with nothing in particular on my mind, I suddenly realized it had been a while since something “happened” to my car.

Great. Now that I’ve thought it, something is bound to happen.

Driving on the 5 freeway earlier today, I found out what it was: another rock to my windshield. This time, it was the tiniest thing imaginable, but it left one heck of a star crack for me to ponder. Where did it come from?! The closest car was about 15 vehicle lengths ahead of me and two lanes to the right, while the next closest car was coming up behind me on my left. Unreal. The least busy day I’ve ever seen SoCal freeways and I get a cracked windshield. In a star shape, no less. I love stars immensely, but that was definitely one I could do without.

Since I strangely expected something to go wrong, I mumbled a simple but disgusted, “Are you kidding me?” and continued on my way. Aside from the disgust, I felt pretty zen about the whole thing, since it could’ve been worse, obviously.

When I stopped a few minutes later to pick up some groceries, I saw one car parked with its driver’s side mirror held on by what must’ve totaled 40 feet of duct tape; it was the thickest wad of silver I’d ever seen in my life. As I cruised down the next aisle, a van had a rear window completely missing, and there was a plastic bag taped to the frame instead.

Right. Suddenly the small star crack was even less of an issue. And the duct tape displays were two nice reminders about how easy I really had things. Today’s thanky is pretty easy: I am thankful for the damage that could’ve been worse, for the expense which could’ve been far greater and for the means to quickly repair a minor cosmetic flaw. I’d rather not have taken anything to my windshield today, but if there was something that had to happen, I’m glad that was it.

Let’s hope.

My subjects were plentiful and diverse, cooperative and encouraging. The light was behaving.

I’ve had it in my head for about six months now that I’d tackle another photography day. The last one was far too long ago — Laguna Beach in 2011. I thought I’d take more pictures than I did, but what I got was more than I had when I woke up this morning, so I guess that’s something.

I parked in the old, familiar parking deck where I’d been so many times before, but this time I was solo. I wandered despite feeling semi-exposed, and went wherever I pleased; down alleys, down sidestreets, without caring who was looking or who was wondering what I was up to. I had a camera, and they didn’t, so there. Neener, neener.

Details, trees, plants and signage filled my memory card. I eventually left the parking deck and switched locations three times, each time hoping my move would allow the sun enough time to shift in the late afternoon sky; I really wanted a picture of the twinkle lights lit up along Harbor, but it didn’t work out today.

After making my way over to the train station, I came upon a memorial for Kelly Thomas. Three younger homeless men were interested in my presence, and I admit that I felt slightly uncomfortable when they tried to make conversation; I was surprised that I forgot about my surroundings for a moment and stumbled into their territory, but was thankful for the daylight. I mustered a faint smile and made a beeline for the tracks, which probably wasn’t any better of a choice. The sun’s position in the sky backlit the trees and illuminated the rails…a perfect photo. Moments later, a freight train sped past the station and the distant sounds that I’ve heard for years, both morning and night, were now accompanied by that distinct smell and rumbling of massive engines. I shut my eyes and inhaled for a few seconds.

As the sun continued its journey toward the horizon, I figured it was time to head home. It wasn’t the most productive day, but it was one that I could finally check off my to-do list, and I was grateful for the time I had which allowed me to do so.

Tonight I am thankful for local adventures and for being able to cross off a 2013 task. I’m happy to have seen new details mere miles from where I live, to have captured them and to be able to have record of today’s events.

Sometimes the unexpected moments in a day are the ones that you end up being the most thankful for.

Maybe they’re things you didn’t see coming that surprise you with a moment of happiness.

They could be things that you know you need to do at work before you leave for the day, but you’re deftly avoiding them with all the skill of a bullfighter. Oddly enough, once you sit down and dive in, you find that those things are actually interesting. And enjoyable.

Perhaps they’re things that you keep putting off, hour and hour, day after day, week after week. And then one night when you sit down to write your daily blog post, you find yourself perusing computer folders and dusting off unfinished projects. Before you know it, you’ve ended up finishing a play before you’ve even started blogging. (Definitely didn’t see that on the radar today when I woke up.)

Maybe your most thankful moment is the quiet one you thought you wouldn’t be able to take for yourself at all…but which you ended up finding anyway.

Some have said it’s the moment the kids fall asleep; others have said it’s that moment in the morning when they’re first awake. For some, it might be in the gentle pawing of a cat, or in the comforting nuzzle of a dog.

Whatever moments you’re thankful for, whether unexpected or not, we can usually find at least one to be grateful for each day — despite the fact that not all moments in our days are great. Tonight I am thankful for those moments that make ordinary days extraordinary.

The start of a new year often shines a spotlight on the things we know we need to do over the next 12 months, or on the path to doing those things.

My weather app informed me a while ago that there is no rain in my future for the next week. On one hand, this is disappointing. I love the rain, its soothing qualities and its renewing ways. On the other hand, the forecast is quite fitting.

No rain so that our to-do lists can get some sun and get done.

No rain so that our path can be clear to us.

No clouds to deter us, no gloomy weather whispering to stay in bed a little longer and tackle things later.

Sun. Just sun.

You can’t easily hide in the light of day, and the new year wouldn’t have it any other way for us right now it seems.

For as much as I love inclement weather, tonight I am thankful for the year’s momentum that’s practically tangible to me. I appreciate its timing, and I am grateful for its motivation. We have the green flag and the course is wide open. What will you tackle?

Nothing like starting off a new year by accidentally almost killing my beloved, spry Golden Pothos I lovingly named Eggs.

Eggs and I were united a few months back after our agency moved into our new building. I went over to the nearby Lowe’s to add some life to my stark white office, and saw Eggs needing assistance. It had been unbearably hot for a few weeks straight, and even though he was in the shade, he was fainting.

“Just give him some water and you’ll be all set,” the checker told me.

Always one to rescue things in need – especially when offered at the excellent price of $1.97 – I snatched him up and promptly watered his trailing stems. He perked right up, and within a few hours looked as good as new.

Eggs came back to the agency with a buddy that day, a healthy-from-the-get-go Pothos named Ham. And this morning when I returned to my office, Ham was still in fine shape, while Eggs’ early beginnings may have set him up for [cardiac?] failure.

His once bushy frame was all spread out, as though a bomb had gone off in the middle of his poor little pot. I could practically hear him gasping; he seemed to be hoping that his delirious vines would somehow encounter a drop of water on their quest for, well, life.

I squeaked in horror and threw my purse and car keys on the ground so that I could scurry into the kitchen unencumbered. Thirty seconds and a giant cup of water later, Eggs’ H2O CPR was underway and all I could do was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Long about 1 o’clock, I remembered to peer around my monitor and beheld the sight before me: Eggs was back.

Like a citizen parched after dehydrating New Year’s Eve revelries, all he needed was a little TLC, some rest, and good old fashioned, non-alcoholic liquid love to return to his old self.

Today I am thankful that Eggs will live to see 2013, and that his scraggly little corpse was resuscitated. From the corner of my desk, Ham looks on protectively, and also received a substantial drink this morning. Partners in crime they shall remain.

Just like me and this blog…which will continue indefinitely.

Earlier this evening, I couldn’t help but notice how many people were still in the holiday spirit, while others were clearly ready to move on from Christmas.

The remains of sad, discarded Christmas trees littered the streets; branches had been de-tinseled, and every tiny ornament had likely been lovingly put away until next year, but the trees got the boot — banished to the cold night while families carried on inside warm homes.

Others still had their trees up and fully illuminated, framed by picture windows and with house lights proudly glowing (and thumbing their nose at January’s arrival).

I split the difference. Although I didn’t get around to de-treeing the living room today, I did take the seven strands of lights off the timer, and refrained from turning the white house lights on this evening). I figure a few more days of Christmas in the house won’t kill me.

In a weird way, I dread the coming of Christmas because the moment it starts, the clock is ticking and it will eventually have to come to an end. This time last year, I’m fairly confident I was going through a depression of sorts. I had a good two and a half weeks off of work, I was reveling in the decorating, the cooking and the music; I tried to cling to every last bit of Christmas until one weekend I knew I had to get a grip. Every last piece of wrapping paper and glitter speck was tossed out and vacuumed up and, just like that, the page was turned.

This year it felt like Christmas came and went far too quickly. The season snuck up on me and, likely because of working in between Christmas and the new year, its magic faded quickly, as well. I did stick with tradition and spend the better part of today in my jammies watching the Rose Parade, enjoying a few cups of coffee and flipping from movie to movie, but while I expected I’d not be ready to go back to work tomorrow, I suppose I am. Or rather, I’m not opposed to it.

Back to work, back to routine, back to structure. Back to full days where most of my minutes are planned out and accounted for, and back to looking forward to the rest and relaxation a weekend can bring after a long work week. While this is a short week and one in which I can ease back into the year slowly, I am looking forward to 2013 — and I am thankful for the anticipation that I have for this year that I didn’t have for 2012.

Here’s to a new year, full of adventure, full of promise and full of hope.

My brother is seven years older than me, which means that when I was little, I was the annoying kid sister that had crushes on most of his friends. It also means that a lot of what he liked, I liked — because since he’s older, he’s therefore wiser when it comes to the ways of life.

I remember he gave me his old Journey cassettes one year, and I cherished them for a long time. And while I don’t remember it, he apparently taught me how to blow through a straw — presumably because I was envious one weekend morning of the bubbles he could blow in his chocolate milk, while my glass was still and serene, albeit diminishing in quantity.

When he was 19-ish, he moved out and went to flight school; this terrified most of us. It scared my parents because their son was sprouting wings, and it terrified me because he’d share little bits of knowledge; the more I knew about flying, the less I ever wanted to do it again.

In the fall of 1995, I moved to Michigan for college, and he ended up moving back to California shortly thereafter. I finished grad school in December of 2000, and so with the exception of my year-ish in Connecticut, we’ve both been back here in the state since early 2001.

I was thinking earlier about all our times I remember. Camping when we were kids, s’mores, me wanting to learn how to play the piano because he was taking lessons, him trick-or-treating with me and us going to see “Scrooged” one Christmas but never actually seeing it. I’ll explain: some fool came bursting through the swinging double doors as we were walking into the theater, and the door slammed straight into my right foot, popping my big toenail up and off my toe. Since this was the 80s and the double-sock trend was in full swing, we sat down, I removed my shoe (L.A. Gear, natch) to see the pool of blood, peeled off both socks (one seafoam green, one peach) and almost passed out in my seat. He wanted to go beat the guy up (aww); instead I told him that a wad of napkins from the snack bar would be great. Shortly after that, I hobbled to the car, and we headed home. To this day, I have yet to see “Scrooged.” Oh — but my toenail regrew, and it’s lovely.

I remember us going to visit him in Oklahoma when he got his pilot’s license, and we all hopped in a tiny Cessna to fly somewhere for dinner. He’d set things up so that Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly” was playing through our headsets, and the flight was magical.

On another trip to see him when he lived in Florida, he made me a mix tape of Genesis and Simon & Garfunkel, and when we turned in our rental car and headed to the airport, I realized I’d left the tape in the vehicle we’d just dropped off. My heart sunk — not because it was an awesome tape that I’d been so careless with, but because I knew the danger of his job, and that tape was a little piece of him that I wanted to keep close.

I remember him taking me to see my first concert — Queensryche at the Long Beach Convention Center. My mom was a good sport and said she’d take me, but at the last minute he was able to. I think she was excited about that.

I lived at his place after college before I moved into my own apartment, and — being the kind of guy who can pay off a 30-year mortgage in ten years — he made a budget sheet for me to stick to once I was on my own. Except that I really didn’t stick to it at all. Sigh.

I value his influence, his focus, his attention to detail and his character so much, and I don’t believe I’ve ever told him as much. He’s getting married in 2013, and I can’t think of anyone else who has such a good heart in the present, such a sense of commitment to a partnership and such an eye on the future. I am so proud to call him my brother.

I have two more days left of my commitment to “Thanky,” but for 2012, I thought it most appropriate to close out the year with some posts about those who have been here through all of mine: my family. I love them all so much.

I’m sure she remembers it, as well, but one of my earliest memories is of my mom lifting me up and putting me in the child seat attached to her bicycle. That thing terrified me, as I never felt super stable in it. When I look back on it now, I see a mom in her early 30s who just wanted to get out and enjoy the air, maybe get a little exercise and have her kids with her while she did it. My brother rode alongside on his own bike.

There are other things I could tell you stories about, but sometimes I don’t know what’s really a true memory, or whether I’ve just heard the story so many times that it feels as though I remember it.

I remember my mom taking me to Merle Norman for my first few items of makeup, and her taking me a couple years before that to get my ears pierced (which I’m told I backed out of a few times before I was finally ready to do it).

I remember her taking a cake decorating class when I was in elementary school, and subsequently copying her as she practiced making roses out of frosting. They were tricky, but with a little patience, they could be quite beautiful.

When I was 12 or so, I remember sleeping later than usual one morning and, upon waking, wondering why she hadn’t come into my room yet to tell me to get up and moving. I remember walking into the living room where I found her quietly cleaning every surface — perhaps because it needed it, but more likely to pass the time and participate in an activity that was cathartic, and which allowed for quiet thoughts and the contemplation of loss. The day was warm, and I remember the windows were open. There was a stillness in the air, and my grandfather had just passed away a few hours earlier. To this day, if the air is too still, the light is a certain way and the temperature is just so, I feel unsettled, uneasy. It might be why I prefer rainy, cold days.

She roadtripped with me when I made my first drive to Michigan State, and I’ll never be able to hear any reference to “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'” without remembering our neverending haul though eastern Colorado and Kansas. It’s a long, flat stretch, and we sang that song whenever we passed a field.

There are a lot of fields along I-70.

A lot.

I’m pretty sure it’s one, giant field, in fact.

I could tell you about how she took a second job and worked nights to save up money for a family vacation when I was little. I could tell you about how she slaved away at the sewing machine to make my dream dress for a winter formal dance, then barely batted an eye when — after it was finished — I decided I wanted to buy one after all. (I’m still sorry about that.)

I could tell you about how she carted me to and from piano lessons every day for years, when I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded a little quiet time to herself, or a little more money in the bank account since money was tight with a mortgage, family cars, school, pets and the trappings of life.

I could tell you about how she was a good sport and dutifully loaded up the kids, the dogs, the dogfood and all the foodstuffs as we set off on family camping trips a couple times a year with trailer in tow. I could tell you how she was an even better sport when we’d overheat along the highway in the same spot, trip after trip.

I could tell you that she’s an only child and that I’ve never really thought about what that must be like for her, but I’ve thought about it a lot this year. This year is the one that has seen my grandparents’ health on the decline, while their dementia incidents are on the rise. I wish she had a sibling to help her shoulder the burden, because even though all moms have a lot on their plates every day of their lives, I wish she could enjoy the years that she’s in instead of still taking care of people. Not me, not my brother — but her parents, who are perhaps far more needy at this stage in life than any child ever was. I am in awe of her strength on a daily basis. I imagine she’s laughing at this right now and thinking, “What strength?” But she has a ton of it.

I could tell you that when I started my current job, I was overly cautious about sending and receiving personal emails from my email account since I’ve never signed more paperwork about a company’s computer policies. But having the year that she’s had, and knowing how sitting in a corner of a room and hammering out an email as a form of grandparental stress relief can provide a much needed release, I will now tell you that I don’t care how many emails I get…I save them all. The long, the short — all of them. It sounds a bit morbid, but holding onto them is holding on my mom, and none of us will be here forever.

Tonight I am thankful for my mom, my best friend and for all of her patience, wisdom, guidance and direction she’s given to me. I know I’ve given her a number of gray hairs in return, but that’s what we kids do best.

Love you, mom.

If honor was money, I’m fairly certain my dad would be the wealthiest man in the world.

Heck — if patience was money, he’d be even wealthier. He’d put Gates to shame. He’d put Buffett to shame. If only honor and patience could ever outweigh one’s efforts in the telecom, oil, real estate, technology and/or sports industries, he’d be retired and living it up on on a golf course. Or beach. Or a golf course on a beach.

My mom has wondered on occasion what she did “to deserve my dad.” Given my grandparents’ shenanigans and antics, I like to say to her, “You lived with your parents for 18 years. That’s what you did.”

The answer isn’t meant to seem as mean-spirited as it comes across at first, I promise you. It’s meant to simply acknowledge what a great guy my dad is. He’s never been that guy to ogle another woman, to be rude in his responses, to shirk his duties. I remember growing up and having taco night; fixing the taco meat was always his job, and he prepared it expertly — even throwing in a rhythmic tap-tap-tap-tuh-taptap-tuh-tap-tap on the side of the skillet with the wooden spoon occasionally. He showed me how to drive, and how to change a tire. He showed me how to light a match safely, and how to prune rosebushes. He skews quiet, so when he talks, people listen. He’s held my mom on a pedestal since day one, and I think it’s a delightful thing to behold in this day and age.

I can recall numerous instances from grades 6-12 where my accountant dad pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and patiently explained — then re-explained — countless math problems to me. I’d rarely do them his way or the teachers’ way when it came to test time, but I’d usually find my way to the right answer.

When I went to Michigan State, I’d just started getting migraines two years before. Wouldn’t you know it, come test day when we needed to sit in a large auditorium and take a test to determine what math level we’d start in, I got the largest of migraines. As the Scantron sheets were being passed around and hundreds of other would-be students sat around me, my head started to throb…and the last thing I really cared about was a math placement test. I probably should’ve cared, but I didn’t. I cared about my head, particularly about my cranium not malfunctioning and exploding — thus spewing brain matter around the hall.

As best I could, I looked the form in front of me, then looked at the lengthy, multi-page sheet with the questions on it…and I knew what I had to do.

C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C. C.

I repeatedly filled in the same bubble, and figured I’d probably somehow place into the level above remedial math. After all, isn’t “C” always the right answer?

Fail. I placed into a remedial math class of 20 people…as did four of the guys who were on the football team.

In reality, it was a lame strategy — if “C” really was “always” the right answer — since I could’ve placed into the most difficult level possible. Fortunately, the answer wasn’t “always C” in this case, and I got what I deserved…and, frankly, what I was capable of.

But I digress. I have a pretty healthy — yet rational — respect for marriage. They (whoever “they” are) say that 50% of marriages fail. Well, eight out of 11 weddings I’ve been to since 2006 have ended in divorce. If you do the math, that’s better than 50%. Part of my fear of marriage is that I see my parents’ union going on 47 years, and it seems so daunting. Granted, my parents got married when they were 19 and 20, but 47 years from now, I’ll be 83.

83.

My parents aren’t anywhere near 83 right now. Yes, some generations start later. But regardless of the age I am when I tie the knot — if I tie the knot — I pray that the person on the other end is someone who makes me feel as comforted, as secure and as happy as my dad makes my mom.

Tonight I am thankful for my dad, for his guidance, his wisdom, his counsel and for his drumming when preparing taco meat (I do that very thing when I make my own taco meat these days). I’m thankful that we’d have such a wonderful rock in our family, and such a role models to look up to across the decades.

Love you, dad.