All the way home on my drive back from Las Vegas, the afternoon light was doing interesting things.

Around the California/Nevada border, it was high overhead. Sunny. Bright. Positive. Beautiful. Something about the way it cast shadows made them seem playful, not cautionary. Traffic, surprisingly, was light for a Sunday. People were heeding the speed limit.

Towards Baker, small clumps of dense clouds started to band together and diffuse the rays. The light felt a bit eerie, and drivers were starting to get anxious and agitated; they seemed to want to get home as soon as possible, but so did I. And I was hoping everyone would just relax so that we could all get there safely.

After Barstow, the sun was low in the western sky and neither visor nor my sunglasses could effectively block it. It urged me to take even more care in my driving, since the gold light was as piercing as a needle. Moments later, nearly on cue, two cars collided in the lane next to me. I wondered if one of them had been blinded by the sun.

At the Cajon Pass, low, dense gray clouds made for conditions that looked a bit like fog. It’s one of the more treacherous parts of the drive, as the steep grade and home stretch aspect mean people can fly home to the flatlands below at breakneck speed…not always a good thing. Pile-ups have happened there, trains have derailed, brakes overheat, trucks turn runaway — but today the sun was conspicuously out of sight at one of the more tense parts of the journey. Its perfectly-timed absence couldn’t have been better scripted.

Meeting the 91 freeway at the 15, the clouds parted and a saffron-hued warmth filled my vision. It was as though a welcome home carpet was being rolled out, and this particular light was also very telling. For a freeway that can be jammed for miles, there was none for the rest of my almost 30 miles home.

If you couldn’t tell, I found today’s light to be mysteriously delightful, full of quiet communication and comforting for my five-hour drive home. I am thankful for its presence, its strange connection with the goings-on along the highways and for its guiding properties.

Las Vegas is a beautiful town, but as a client of mine once said, it wasn’t built on winners.

I’ve been here a ton of times, but usually for work. Many Augusts have been spent at Las Vegas Motor Speedway filming commercials, and I’m back in the city again this weekend, but this time with friends – and it’s definitely better than being here with work to do.

Staring out the window, rooms in surrounding hotel towers look like sparkling jewels. Pools of blue, floors below, look like glittering topaz. A golden sunset silhouettes charcoal-colored mountains, its amber glow perhaps one of the few rays of hope that many in this town may have left.

Fremont Street was a haven for the homeless, and in front of some of the most posh hotels sit people making “sculptures” out of bits of trash they’ve found for whatever money people may be willing to pay. You can feel that the foundations of these sky-high hotels are built not only of the best building materials, but also the worst, most depressing broken hearts and shattered dreams.

Almost more plentiful than the buffets are people slapping small, laminated cards together – cards that claim to bring girls to your door 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I saw a group of guys earlier today who were giddy over the information that had just been shoved into their hands.

Really?

Yesterday at check-in, five guys wheeled in their luggage, and also brought with them four 30-packs of beer.

Seriously?

Our Vegas is a chill Vegas. A great dinner overlooking the Venetian canals, followed by retiring to the room early – so early that I was awake sometime during the 7am hour. Today’s breakfast was found at The Hash House, and with our food coma still lingering even after having walked around for over an hour, we’re looking forward to Cirque du Soleil’s “O” followed by a late dinner afterwards. Tomorrow I drive home.

Gone are the days of staying out all night, sleeping all day, losing every last dollar I’d come into town with and scrounging for the cheapest late-hour meal. It’s a far more civilized experience, and one that I’m glad to have embraced.

Today I am thankful for good friends, good times and good fun. Here’s to a good performance tonight and more good trips for years to come.

I left Anaheim a little later than I’d liked to get on the road for Vegas, and I was OK with that.

I had a productive morning and decided to take my time, not worry about drivers going too slowly and get here when I got here. Check-in time wasn’t till 3p, so really, what’s the rush?

I stopped in Barstow briefly for gas and to check email. Continuing on my way, I decided to hangout in the “slow” lane for the majority of the drive, even though the average speed was over 80.

Primm was ahead of me in no time at all, then state line. Suddenly, traffic came to a near-screeching halt out of nowhere, however, and cars scattered onto the shoulder. For a good three miles, we moved inches at a time.

At the rise of a slight hill, I could see emergency crews far ahead. When I finally reached the incident, it looked like a semi and its flatbed truck had run off the road, wrecked and also launched a large, maybe seven-foot square air conditioning or similar unit into traffic, on the highway, or both. The damage to it was staggering.

Not unlike when I’ve come across accidents before, I found myself thinking about the morning, my schedule and wondered if I could’ve been caught up in it had I left “on time.” I’ll never know, and it’s just as well. More important to me is the timing that wasn’t lost on me.

Tonight I am thankful for a safe arrival, for not having been involved in any part of the accident and for taking it slow on a day off – the very kind of day that demands such a pace.

Have you ever thought repeatedly about someone that you haven’t seen in a long time, and wondered why that individual kept coming to mind?

On my walking route in the evenings, I pass by a home where one of my childhood friends lived. I’m not sure if any part of her family still lives there or not, but whenever I pass by it, I vow to look her up.

A while ago, I finally tried. I can find nothing about her, and very little about her mom — assuming her mom’s remarried last name back in the 80s is still the same today. I remember going to Angels games, maybe to Disneyland once or twice and helping her mom fold laundry in their living room. Towels, actually — we folded towels. And I wasn’t folding them the right away, apparently, because her mom would refold every towel that I’d just folded and handed to her.

It’s weird. I obviously think of them because the house that I pass is one that I used to visit, but then I think back to some of the summer camp pictures we have together and it interests me how some people just vanish from our lives. Not in a bad way, necessarily, just in a, “Hm, that’s interesting” kinda way.

Sometimes we do the vanishing, other times they do. In the end, it is what it is. Everything for a reason, everything has its own lifespan, and everything has an impact on us — regardless of whether that person is still around.

I think the impact she had on me was to not judge a book by its cover. Someone’s physical appearance can often times be 180-degrees different from what’s on the inside. So perhaps I’m not meant to find anything out about her and her life these days, but instead I’m meant to just remember her and promise to continue that lesson of not judging a book by its cover in my adult life, as well.

Tonight I am thankful for childhood memories, remembering lessons learned and realizing their validity and importance in my grown-up life, as well. Sometimes it’s less about reconnecting with someone on your mind, and more about keeping a long-ago lesson top of mind in the days, weeks and months to come.

We’re used to smelling things that are supposed to have a scent. Perfume, flowers, orange blossoms, the smell right after you blow out a candle.

A cake baking in the oven, firewood burning, the lingering smell of fabric softener on just-dried clothing, sugar that’s caramelizing on a stovetop.

Coffee brewing, bacon frying, the salty sea air, even snow — I think snow has a very distinct smell.

Tonight, I smelled adjectives. I walked outside and I could smell damp; I could smell cold. It smelled like there was heaviness in the air, and sure enough, you could see it.

Tonight’s air encourages sounds to be lazy. They take a bit longer to reach the ear, and when they do, they’re put off a bit; they’re not eager to deliver their message in a clear manner, but instead they’re slightly weary and the words are slurred. Case in point: the distant sound of the Mark Twain Riverboat whistle at Disneyland seems burdened as it travels through the night, but when it reaches me, it’s pure beauty.

The stars which were practically magnified by crystal clear skies over the past few nights now had a misty ring around them. Airplanes could still be seen stretched out for miles as they lined up and prepared to land, but tonight they looked fuzzy against a backdrop that was no longer inky, but more of a murky obsidian.

A streetlight confirmed the atypical scent in the air; ribbons of something slightly less dense than fog swirled in their amber glow. It was as though you could see a new season arriving.

One of the worst things that could happen would be for tomorrow to usher in an 80-degree day; the magic of the evening would fade with each millimeter the mercury rose. If I could bottle tonight’s weather and keep it around for the next few months, I would. Tomorrow’s high, however, will only be in the 60s, so I can get on board with that. Somewhere in the 60s is plenty warm enough for me — particularly for November.

Tonight I am thankful for the beautiful shift in our weather, and for the spell the dampness has cast across the county. Here’s hoping it decides to stay around for a string of consecutive weeks, and that another Indian summer or balmy December isn’t just around the corner.

When I’m in the car, I like listening to my own mix of music. Sometimes I’ll switch to AM radio to try to catch a traffic report if there seems to be unusual slowing/stopping, but for the most part, I’m a non-radio person.

This morning’s drive down the 5 freeway was nearly as unbearable as yesterday’s. Monday’s diesel spill caused a pretty nasty gridlock situation a few miles long, but today’s was more of a mystery.

I tuned into KNX to see what I could I could find, but nothing relating to the 5 freeway was mentioned. I continued on at a snail’s pace for a few more miles.

Cars darted in and out between other cars as soon as they had a large enough gap to do so. They’d gun it for a few feet, then slam on the brakes; it was obvious that their swift maneuvering was the most speed they’d likely be seeing for a number of miles.

People were getting agitated.

The sun was blinding.

Planes were not-so-high in the sky on their approach into John Wayne Airport; as they lined up with the runway, each would make a slow, sweeping turn over us all. Their colors glistened and shimmered in the morning light like fireflies headed home after a long night out.

Today’s traffic issue ultimately was caused by two young drivers who seemed to have connected during a failed attempt to merge, or just to slow down; they were off to the side of the road exchanging information, and they appeared to be getting along famously. Nothing like a fender-bender to bring two people together.

As I passed them, I realized I was still stuck on the same annoying radio station full of useless (to me, anyway) traffic reports. I’d been “listening” to it for the better part of 20 minutes, and I had no idea why. The occasional static was only mildly annoying, the content mind-numbing but not grating. Good music was nowhere to be found. Not only was I parked on the freeway, but I’d been parked on the station — and I wasn’t really aware of it.

Have you ever gotten up one morning and thought, “Is this all there is?” or “Is this what I really want?” That’s a radio pause moment, just like one I had earlier today. While I wasn’t enjoying my time listening to KNX, nothing about it was so off-putting that I felt the need to turn it off, either. Life becomes that way, too. We’re in a groove, and we’re fine. Not good, not great, not amazing — just fine. But sometimes, if we were to really stop and think about it, I’m sure we could find at least 10 things we’d like to change about our existence. 

What are yours?

Tonight I am thankful for realizing I was having a radio pause moment, for taking to heart its importance and for vowing to ask myself as often as possible whether I’ve paused in the right place — or whether it’s time to move on.

When I was little, my mom used to drive me up to the Fullerton hills so that I could feed the horses. The ones we’d visit belonged to a family that had a vast expanse of property, complete with a ravine and a multitude of shade trees. Back then, you could see all the way down to Newport Beach from this particular location high above the city lights.

The horses would come up to the fence near where we’d stop the car, and I’d feed them carrots — the kind of carrots that still had their long, bushy green tops attached. I’d use the foofy greenery as a handle of sorts, and the horses would gladly munch away until I could no longer hold their treats. Within seconds, both the carrots and their leafiness would be gone. We never seemed to bring enough with us, so I’d always look forward to the next trip when I could deliver more.

One of the trees on the horse property was a magnificent weeping willow. The tops of the carrots reminded me of the tree, as well, since its greens were flowing and graceful. Ever since my younger years, I’ve associated weeping willow trees with the horses up in those hills.

The horses are long gone, and large estates complete with tennis courts and swimming pools have taken the place of my equine friends’ and the landscape on which they used to roam; it’s somewhat sad to see how things have changed up there. I don’t exactly remember the last time I saw them, but I do know that I didn’t get my fill of them before they were gone from that property forever.

On my walk tonight, I passed a home that had a weeping willow tree in its front yard. All of my memories came rushing back, and I looked at this particular tree in a new light — literally. It was softly illuminated by a home sitting about 15 feet behind it, and there was family activity inside. The dinner hour was upon them, and they looked happy to be together. The tree took on a sort of protective quality, as though its branches were enveloping the home in love and happiness.

If it could talk, I think the tree would tell us that it would like to shed its sad moniker. It would say that it is happy to provide plentiful shade during the warmer months, and that in cooler weather it is decidedly less stern in appearance than other trees. It would say that it grows so quickly not to get to the end of its life in a hurry, but instead because it has so much compassion to give that it can’t wait to give to others. I think it would proclaim its joy, and weep only tears of happiness.

Tonight I am thankful for the memories tonight’s weeping willow brought back to me, and for the shift in perspective that I have for such a familiar tree. I know it probably takes many a decade for those majestic trees to grow to a truly awe-inspiring height, but I’d kinda like to have one of my own someday. Or at least one nearby that I can enjoy. And maybe with a horse or two.

A ball of lint is a peculiar thing.

It’s essentially deemed worthless and “nothing,” but it always comes from something. We wear a prized article of clothing, and inevitably it yields a wad of lint.

We put our clothes in a dryer, and before you know it, there’s a plethora of soft fuzz that’s been pilfered from our garments. I’ve always wanted to try to donate the goods from my lint trap to a family of birds so that they could make a toasty nest for winter, but I imagine them seeing it drifting across pavement or concrete, then promptly scoffing at humanity for thinking they’d want our throw-away fluff.

I did three loads of laundry this weekend, and I decided to clean out my lint trap before putting clothing from the third load into the dryer. I figured it wasn’t really time yet, judging by the amount of stuff I’d previously dried, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to clean it out anyway.

Holy nest-liner!

I’ve never seen a blanket of lint as thick and massive as the one I pulled off the wire screen. Then I remembered I’d washed a new towel, and man, it was shedding up a storm. The lint was so thick that I almost couldn’t close my hand around it when I wadded it up to take to the trash; I wondered if the towel had been reduced to half its original size. And the lint must’ve been trying to escape my clutches, because I spotted tiny balls of fuzz covertly zooming around my kitchen floor earlier tonight.

Awesome.

So how does this resolve? Lint, if personified, is always up for adventure — it’s always on the move. Lint cannot be held down. Lint divides and conquers, and lint can be swayed by the slightest movement of air if it wants to be. Lint can be warm and fuzzy (especially when fraternizing with the warmth from a dryer), and lint likes to hang with its own kind. Sounds like us a little bit, yes?

Tonight I am thankful for my massive ball of lint that revealed little truths about us all. Here’s to more adventure, to finding a softness in our days and to going with the flow.

When I was little, I remember my dad making coffee for holidays, family gatherings and the occasional lazy Sunday morning. It wasn’t the usual instant coffee he’d enjoy during weekdays, it was the product of an on-the-stove thingamabob that seemed to take forever.

I’d stare at the contraption, knowing that my gaze wouldn’t make it do its job any faster. I usually wouldn’t partake of it when the adults did, but the process leading up to its consumption by others was always a little fascinating.

“Is it ready yet?” I’d ask.

“No,” my dad would say. “It needs to percolate.”

Huh? Perco-what?

“You’ll see,” he’d continue. “It’ll perk. You can see it start to bubble up right there in the dome.”

Over the years, the word has taken on alternate pronunciations. “Perk-yoo-late” has become all too common, and I recently heard, “per-kally-ate.” (Really?) I want to bestow my childhood memories of the stove-top percolater to those who utter such atrocities.

The coffee would finally start to bubble up, but it wasn’t ready just yet — it always needed to go a little longer so that the coffee strength was just right. What I thought was a process that took forever was, in reality, a process that was exactly as it should be. Take it off too soon, and it’s no good. Leave it on too long, and it’s still no good. Give it time, be patient, watch its progress closely, and all can be right with the world.

Good lessons for life.

Tonight I am thankful for the lessons a stove-top coffee percolator can teach and for its encouragement to give everything time. Time to get better, time to be just right, and time to exercise patience.

Tonight is one of our chilliest nights of the season, and it’s nothing short of delightful.

The Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland has “clouds” that have fascinated me through the years. They’re a crisp white against inky bluish-black surroundings, and on nights like tonight, it’s as though those clouds have made their way out of the ride and into real life.

They seem rather low. Their whispy tufts are illuminated by the city lights, and they move fast across the sky; every so often, they give way to a sparkling group of stars, then the clouds gather again.

It made me think about the advice a cloud would give if it was able. Here’s what I’m guessing it would say:

1) Look around. Nobody has the perspective you do. Look side to side, look down, and look up. Enjoy the view.

2) Express yourself when you need to. Cry. Get big and rise up in the face of whatever, whenever. Throw a lightning bolt here and there, glow, share a silver lining with someone or disappear in the blink of an eye. Do what you need to do.

3) Whenever possible, allow people to see beauty. If it’s the blue sky they love, show it. If it’s the stars, reveal them. If it’s a sunset, try to adapt to the colors. Step aside when the moment calls for it.

4) Turbulence will inevitably come into your life, and you may get tossed about. You may become dark, moody, ominous — and that’s fine. Just spare people the tornadic activity, and stick to being a plain ol’ cloud. They’ll thank you.

5) Remember to have fun. When people look at you and think they see one thing, morph. Change it up. Some people see more than just a cloud — they see duck heads, rabbits and celebrities in the white, puffy shapes. What do they see when they look at you? Add whimsy wherever possible.

6) Plan all you want, but sometimes it’s simply about where the wind takes you.

There are lessons in most things, but without a voice we need to actively seek them and not wait for them to come to us. Tonight I am thankful for clouds — delicate ones, looming clouds full of fury and every cloud in between. I am thankful for the reminders contained within them, for their beauty and for their simple presence often overlooked as we try to do more, feel more, think more and say more — instead of just trying to “be.”