So I’ve been listening to Christmas music daily since the day after Thanksgiving, and I’m pretty sure that if they played it year-round, I would probably be OK with it.

I never really realized how repetitive the playlist is, however, until today. It’s not like it should come as a surprise — after all, there’s a limited number of classics. They just happen to be recorded and arranged in different ways, therefore they’re treated as distinctly different songs, and before you know it you’re on your third version of “Frosty the Snowman” in less than an hour. Seems like they’re trying to pull a fast one on us, but really, it’s all good. And if the carols could, I think they’d agree. In fact, here’s what I suspect they’d tell us about life in general:

1) Don’t discount the tried and true — they’ve been around a long time for a reason

2) If you think you’ve heard it all before, give it a chance — there might be something new that you’re not expecting

3) Christmas isn’t the only time for carols — playing one in the middle of the summer can do the soul a lot of good, too

4) You might know all the words, but you may not know the harmonies. Give ’em a shot, and be OK when you don’t know exactly what they should be.

5) If you’re missing the season, jingle a bell or — better yet — a clump of tiny bells, and it’ll come right back

Tonight I am thankful for the 24/7 Christmas carols and the 24/7 cheer they bring. I’m thankful that the tried and true have resonated with so many, and that each year we seemingly get a new, sparkly batch of the old classics to enjoy.

Some days are just too much.

Too much trouble, too much to handle, too bothersome. Too unreal, too ridiculous, too tiring.

Some days have things that come our way that we didn’t ask for, but we have to deal with them. Other days have a lot of good in them, and instead of being grateful for those things, we consume them without giving them much thought, and we go merrily along our way; it’s almost as though we think we deserve them, although that’s not a conscious thought, either.

When the trying, the bad and the challenging come back into the picture, we fret. We complain, we bemoan, we avoid — all of which we do consciously.

Sometimes I think that something bad has pulled a fast one and snuck past me because I forgot to say thanks for the good stuff. I know it’s silly, but it’s the truth.

Some days it feels like the only spring in your step might come in your dreams. It’s the spring not yet affected by your waking hours, free of reality and which comes before you’re fully awake. Then you come to, and it starts. “It” is the weight — the weight of the gravity of a situation, the weight of what might be, the weight of truth.

But it is what it is. Isn’t it always?

I was browsing a website earlier today and came across this quote. It helped, if only for a while. But when I revisited it and read it again, I was thankful for it.

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.” -Emerson

I wear black.

A lot.

If I’m not in all black, there’s something black somewhere on my person. Some people say head-to-toe black is an advertising thing, but, for me, it’s simply an ease-of-getting-ready thing.

I remember the first time I threw on all black before heading out the door for work. It was 2003. I remember the apartment I was living in, I remember sunlight streaming into my bedroom window, I remember being short on time and I remember spotting a black skirt and black sweater hanging in my closet. Great. Done and done in record time, and sans any color coordination issues.

Rushing in the morning is one of my least favorite things. It makes me flustered; beads of sweat are proof of my agitation. I’ve been known to snag a migraine if the rushing is epic in size. So when throwing on all black took the what-to-wear-ness out of the morning equation, I was elated. From that day forward, black has made its way into my closet on a relatively consistent basis. If not black, then gray. White is a distant third place. Unless denim counts…in which case white follows denim.

Shopping for this year’s holiday party presented a unique challenge, however. I have a large selection of black cocktail dresses that I thought I’d dust off…but they were too big. Not the worst problem in the world to have, I admit.

Still married to the idea of continuing my black theme, I figured that going for something dripping with black sparkle would be different enough.

…really? Nah.

What to do…what to do.

I browsed. I browsed some more. And then I found it.

It was blue.

Not the most festive holiday color, but the shade reminds me of a stormy ocean. It’s a calming color, a soothing color.

I was drawn to multiple black options in the store, but I figured that I can wear black any day of the week. What’s wrong with a little color? Why not veer away from the expected? How about pushing the ol’ comfort boundaries?

Who knew that lessons exist while dress shopping? Not I. Tonight I am thankful for them, and for their gentle nudge back into the world of color. Even if only for one night.

All around the neighborhood, homes are lit up. Some rival the sun, as the amount of Christmas lights they’re drenched in helps cast shadows across yards when it’s otherwise dark outside.

One home in particular has the big, old-style opaque bulbs. White, red, green, orange and blue dutifully repeat, but then something catches my eye: it’s a stray bulb.

A hot pink bulb.

A hot pink, transparent, blinking bulb.

It’s a little jarring, but the blinking is terribly inconsistent so, for the most part, it just looks like it’s burned out. And then there’s that pop of pink.

A few of the original bulbs have clearly perished over the years, and while I’m appreciative of the efforts made to replace those that have, I am confused by the color choice, not to mention its dynamic nature.

As I passed by this house tonight, I scoffed, then figured that the hot pink bulb has a few characteristics that probably aren’t so bad after all.

Dynamic versus passive?

Stand out versus blend in?

Make people do a double-take and wonder why?

All good things. And I wouldn’t be surprised if my strands of plain white bulbs had a few blinking hot pink ones tossed in next year for good measure.

Tonight I am thankful for the delightfully quirky nature of the blinking hot pink transparent bulbs, and for their playful addition to the expected.

Each time I write one of these blog posts, I leave the “caption” field for last. It doesn’t seem appropriate to fill in when I haven’t written the body yet, plus there’s the fact that titles are something I’ve always struggled with.

Observing people, the look in their eyes tells us much. Their body language and expressions say a lot; everyone has a caption at any given moment. Airports are good places for this type of reading.

Focused. Disheartened. Anxious. Sad. Excited. Concerned. Happy. Hopeful.

My own captions ran the gamut between airports today. Frustration dominated my morning, followed by exhaustion, then calm. Staring out an airplane window and thinking in circles, thinking about things upcoming, things past and thinking years down the line uncovered more:

Nervous. Irritated. Sad. Happy. Regretful. Empty. Blessed. Fearful. Positive. Negative. Positively negative. Deliriously positive. Alone. Supported. Unsure. Assured.

Bouncing all over the place is draining, as is the habit of being avoidant, which I usually do quite well. But when time comes back around and places a trial in your path, avoiding it is the last thing you’re able to do, even though it’s the thing you may want most. Time is ticking, and for the first time in a while, I’d like it to stand still. Maybe even go in reverse. But it can’t.

Everyone has a caption. Whose do you see? Whose are you acutely aware of? What are yours, and who can enhance them? Who can fix them?

Tonight I am a bit out of sorts from wading through stuff – stuff years in the making, and stuff that has implications on the future. But it’s stuff that’s mine, and if I’ve come this far with them, maybe the bad captions stand a chance yet of being righted someday. And for that possibility, I am thankful.

Look around at anyone, anything. Look at homes, cars, possessions. It’s clear that people cherish their treasures, and it’s fascinating how varied they are.

“A quantity of precious metals, gems or other valuable objects” is how treasure is defined. I suppose that value is in the eye of the beholder, as treasures are visible and on display across the seasons, across the years.

An old ornament that’s seen better days but which still graces the tree because, once upon a time, it was made by tiny hands. Plates that have a chip here and there, but which belonged to someone no longer with us. An old sweatshirt. A ceramic votive holder that’s been repeatedly re-glued over the years and which would never sell at a garage sale…which is fine, because you’d never dream of doing such a thing in the first place. A car that no longer runs, but which you dream of fixing up because of all the memories you have in it from decades earlier. A new car bought after years of saving.

Some treasures didn’t always start out that way but, over time after we gave them a chance, or maybe after we just never remembered to toss them out, the old can take on a new sheen – one that puts its former patina to shame.

Tonight I am thankful for the new in the old, for the life and nostalgia in the inanimate and for the charm in the rough around the edges. There’s no treasure like the treasures that have a special place in our own hearts.

I sometimes find it amazing that our world is plagued by copycats, imitators, version 2.0s, 3.0s, redesigns and all-new these or those, when in reality the best thing ever is that which can never be copied:

Us.

It feels like we forget how unique we are; it feels like we forget what we can be capable of if we’d only give it a shot. People we admire didn’t get to where they are through complacency – they got there because they thought they’d try.

But here we are, day after day taking a page out of someone else’s book and copying the passive, copying the procrastination, copying the lazy. And the more we don’t do, the more we’re all alike.

“Try” is one of the shortest words, but it can also be the most intimidating. It means we’ve willingly opened ourselves up to criticism, speculation, to being judged and scrutinized. But at least we’d be doing something – something unique to us. Not sitting by doing nothing, like so many others.

Tonight I am thankful for the reminder that in a world full of new this, sparkly that and coveted things everywhere, the best, most unique, most ground-breaking and world-changing things are inside us all.

We make a lot of plans, all the time. We do it because we’re human, and because “looking forward to” something is right behind breathing — we do it naturally, and we do it to live. Bright spots in our lives are as essential to our existence as air.

We may get to a point after thinking, imagining, wishing, planning, preparing and dreaming, however, where we say to ourselves, “Wait…this isn’t what I pictured. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

All the planning in the world might make us feel better in the interim, but at the end of the day, things will be what they’re supposed to be. The may not be what we expected, but they are what they are. And they’re that way for a reason.

Tonight I am thankful that things aren’t always what we want them to be. They’re sometimes frustrating, sometimes trying, sometimes educational and sometimes enlightening. But sometimes life’s best lessons take place outside of the classroom and inside the days and scenarios where they’ll most resonate with us.

Sometimes things happen that really leave us stunned and confused. Often times they’re the things that don’t happen on our own terms that get the better of us.

These things present hurdles for us to overcome, and when they’re first placed in our path, we look at them with bewilderment. We wonder how they got there, because they weren’t there a day before. There wasn’t even any indication they’d be coming.

Our life hurdles tell us to question ourselves. They practically mandate that we go back over every hour of every day of every week with a microscope; they demand examination, and we give in. We exhaust every possible scenario and, as such, we end up exhausting ourselves.

Hurdles tell us that even though we want to get over something, we might not. The hurdle is a time-suck, and the hurdle is OK with that.

The horizon, however, is not.

It’s off in the distance, and it’s waiting for us. The horizon has many offerings, and we can only know what they are if we stop focusing on the hurdles and fix our eyes on the landscape ahead of us — not on the barricades surrounding us nor on the potholes currently encircling our feet.

The horizon tells us to pick up the pace; to walk briskly, deliberately, and with courage.

The hurdle reminds us of the bubble we were so used to living within, and tells us that we can’t go back to it. It offers us a cave for a brief respite, but the cave is cold, damp and disheartening. The cave is exactly the break that a hurdle wants us to have, because the cave, too, is a hurdle. On the surface it is safe; in reality, it’s a hole that’s more difficult to climb out of.

The horizon and the hurdle will always duke it out, and one will always win. But it’s up to us to determine which one will be the victor.

Tonight, while they are some of the least happy times in our lives, I am thankful for hurdles. I am thankful for our mettle they force us to prove, for the blessings they force us to count and for the horizon they force us to fix our eyes upon.

Aside from it being a completely bizarre day, it was also completely busy.

It was a little chaotic, a little frenetic. A little exhilarating, a lot exhausting.

It was filled with new stuff to be learned, and also with projects that I’d planned to crank out but which didn’t get done.

It was full of coffee, but which didn’t deliver the energy for the amount that I’d consumed. Fail.

When I got on the elevators tonight, I inhaled deeply then exhaled, excited to be heading home for the day. And then I realized something. I wasn’t smelling the finishes inside the elevator. I wasn’t smelling cleaning solution from the crew that had been moving from floor to floor. I didn’t smell our dinner that had been delivered an hour or so earlier, either. I saw little specks of glitter on the carpet, and I smelled pine.

This morning I walked into the lobby and it was business as usual. Twelve hours later, I exited my elevator and walked through the same lobby, where a massive Christmas tree proudly stood. It shared its holiday scent with all who passed by. It invited them to leave their stress on the ground in front of it. It was glorious.

Its smell erased the day’s chaos and my exhaustion. It energized me in a way that my day’s worth of coffee wasn’t able to do. I looked around to make sure nobody was looking (except for the security cameras, natch), and approached the tree to take a big whiff of one of its branches.

Weird? Probably.

But heavenly? You bet.

Tonight I am thankful for the Christmas tree which sprouted over the course of today, and for its therapeutic qualities — qualities far better, in my opinion, than any scented candle or aromatherapy product on the market today.