Sometimes it’s in the form of a feeling. You think to yourself day after day, “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

Or, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Even, “I’ve always wanted to try.”

And then one day you do.

Sometimes it’s in the form of a person. You have a dream in your head that you think, just maybe, hopefully — you’ll get to someday. And you never do. Somedays gradually become years. But then someone comes into the picture and turns everything upside down.

They say, “Hey, do you want to do this with us?”

Or, “We really need you. Why don’t you give it a shot just this once?”

Even, “We’re so glad you’re here.”

And then you realize that upside down is actually right side up.

Better yet, you’re suddenly aware that your dream is now; it’s being lived.

Sometimes is in the form of parents, too. You know you’ve had their support since day one, but somehow you manage to hold on to all the negative the world has to offer; all of the instances of you can’t, you won’t, you shouldn’t and you’re not good enough. And then you wake up one day to realize that — hey — only your parents can really tell you what to do. And you finally start believing them; you finally start to know you’re good enough.

Tonight I am thankful for the nudge that can come out of nowhere, from practically anyone and — interestingly — at precisely the right time. Something that takes years to sink in sometimes needs a final ounce of encouragement, a final push in the right direction. Sometimes not even a push.

Sometimes only the most gentle of nudges.

Odd day.

It began and ended with fire in the air.

I went outside briefly during the late morning hours and, despite the clear blue sky, I could smell a fire somewhere. I wasn’t sure if it was a structure fire nearby or if it was something a bit more distant that had been fueled by the Santa Anas, but there was a distinct smell of smoke.

Over the course of the afternoon, my head felt like it was going to explode. I don’t know if it was the wind, the pressure, the light, or all of the above which amounted to gnarly — but still very beautiful — weather. My head is finicky, and today wasn’t making it happy.

I napped. I woke up and felt worse. I napped again. By that time is was 4.

Seriously? What a way to spend a Sunday.

Laundry was about all I could bring myself to do this evening, and as the night began to wind down, I found myself marveling at another fire in the sky: the Disneyland fireworks a few miles away, and I was thankful for today’s end that they ushered in, and for their promise of a new, hopefully less odd day tomorrow.

Once while I was in Manhattan on business, I looked out a window 30+ stories above the ground; though high above everyone else, including the noise of traffic and deafening din of importance, I didn’t feel settled inside. I felt tiny; I felt insignificant.

At work, I’ll often sneak a peek at the outside world as I pass by our 14th and 15th floor windows. Neighborhoods stretch for miles; homes cover every square inch of land. Smog hangs heavy in the sky on some days, and other days we’re lucky to see downtown Los Angeles, a city synonymous with throngs of people. Some parts of California can feel incredibly claustrophobic at times.

If I need to do a Google image search for something, I sometimes find that I’m overwhelmed at the variety of people that show up in my search results. Same thing goes for the ol’ Facebook newsfeed; people tagged in pictures that we’re seeing, strangers’ pictures visible to people they don’t know…it’s mind-boggling.

There are so many of them. So, so many. People I’ll never know, and — admittedly — people I don’t want to know. Some pictures I come across seem to not need any description, and the things that come through in the eyes of these nameless souls are the things that would suffocate my world: desperation, hurt, pain, people who are purely attention-seeking.

People who are simply looking for a chance, people who are beat down. Lost people, broken people, people who have only known struggle and not peace.

I tend to be a relatively avoidant person most of the time, and while I’d love to help more people than I do, I can’t. It would kill me. I do what I can, when I can, and I am amazed by people who are on the front lines of the world helping those who clearly need it. They’re made of something that I am not, and that’s OK. We’re all made of things that other people aren’t, and in time we’ll all know our gifts, if we don’t already.

Tonight I am, quite simply, thankful for the people who are in my life. My bubble isn’t large, but it is the way it is by design. I’ve no idea how many more people might make their way into it in the coming years and decades, but given the billions of people out there, I’m sure there are a few new ones who float in, and perhaps even out.

Here’s to the multitudes we do not know, the gifts they have which we are unaware of, and here’s to being open to allowing them into our worlds when being avoidant would be the easy path to take.

300 days ago, it was all new. Shiny. Intimidating. Sparkly.

I remember the first post that I wrote; I wondered who would judge, who would wonder, who would form a conclusion. By the end of that first week, I couldn’t have cared less; I was writing, and I was saying what I wanted to say. And I loved it.

I didn’t know that 300 days later I’d still be here doing this, but I hoped I would be.

The first 30 days needed a recurring reminder; I set one up on my Blackberry, and by day 31 I knew I could delete the reminders for the rest of the year because the routine had become so normal; it was ingrained in me.

Many of my posts have been meaningful. Many more have skewed a bit ridiculous; writing about my boobs and my obsession with cream of mushroom soup isn’t exactly prize-winning material. Others have been what I call throw-away posts; the latter is something I’ve written to meet the nightly deadline — not indicative of any post that I’ve felt has been one of my better ones.

At first I thought that every post had to have deep meaning to me. Then I realized that every post simply has be to one that I’ve enjoyed writing; between the comments, the calls, the emails and the Facebook messages, I’ve also realized that most posts resonate with at least one person, on some level, in some way. And that’s more than I could ever have asked for.

Tonight is my 300th consecutive post, and I am thankful for the addiction that this blog has become, for the focus it has brought to my evenings and for the desire it has instilled in me to keep something, even a weekly blog, going in the coming years. I am thankful for your comments, your feedback and your appreciation.

300 is a big number, but it’s not the final number. Here’s to 66 more Thankys.

Sometimes I’ll begin my posts by writing the end first; tonight is one of those nights. I know where I want to end up, but the path to get there isn’t always clear when I first sit down at the computer.

When I left my last job, a friend gave me a pink coffee mug with some simple text on the side: “Do what you like. Like what you do.” I love that line, and I find that I check in with myself on a quarterly-ish basis to make sure I’m at least pointed in the right direction. Sometimes I’m not, but I like to think that the checking matters a lot.

There are these things called the trappings of life that sort of scare me. Exactly what those trappings are changes every five years or so, and I moved on to a new batch recently. Regardless of what they are by name, suffice to say that the biggest concern I have is that someday I’ll no longer be able to do what I like — which will then affect how much I like what I’m able to do in light of those trappings. It seems like it has potential to be a fairly vicious cycle.

But just how I sometimes start at the end and write forwards, and just like how I’ve always read magazines and books from back to front — more or less, that same approach can also be applied to life, yes? The trappings seem to be commonplace, expected. All the fun stuff is deemed childish and unnecessary; it gets put on the back burner. But why can’t we move that burner forward a bit?

As yourself a question: what do you love to do? Then ask yourself if you’re doing it. If you’re not, it’s time to carve out some time and get on the path to doing it. Sign up for a class. Kick one of your trappings to the curb. Tell people what you want to do, and hold them accountable for helping you — in some way, shape or form — to start doing it. If you think you’re out of time, you’re not. Less Facebook. Less TV. Even 30 minutes less of sleep can really add up. The trappings are plentiful, but not insurmountable — they just want you to think they are.

I have a suspicion if we start with what we love to do, everything else — those trappings, if you will — might just start to shape up or ship out. And if it ships out, all the better; if it shapes up, same thing. It’s essentially a win-win. Everything falls into place because of our backwards-yet-momentum-gathering plan.

“Do what you like. Like what you do.” It seems like such an obvious thing, but it’s somewhat of a tease because it can be the hardest thing to ever really wrap your arms around. But tonight I am thankful for remembering that sometimes it’s not what you do, but instead the order in which you do it.

Sometimes we’re in the line of fire, and they’re things that we’d really rather not have hit us.

A dirty look. A snarky comment. A guilt trip. A rumor.

Hurtful words fly our way. Aggression for no good reason comes out of nowhere. Lies and the twisted truth flood our ears, and some days it’s all we can do to wonder what we did to the universe to funnel its wrath in our direction.

I stopped off at Sephora on my way home to pick up a few items that I’m nearly out of. As I was in the process of paying, I took note of the digital display in front of me.

“Press Accept to Complete,” it said.

When we’re prompted by a transaction screen to complete our purchase, we clearly have the option of not completing it. More often than not, however, we do. We buy it. And even though we know we don’t have to, we usually don’t consider cancelling and declining what we’ve started. And especially not at the very last moment.

It made me think of things that we find ourselves in the middle of for no other reason than because we assume it’s too late to turn around. We assume that we’d be the bad person for removing ourselves from a situation that isn’t making us feel good when, in reality, extricating oneself is the very thing that would be best. We absorb the negativity because we don’t want to add to the fire, and we shoot back our own nasty commentary because — hey, they started it. We allow ourselves to be guilted into something because, somehow, we assume that we owe it to that person anyway, and we get sucked into a vortex of…gray. Plain ol’ gray. Nothing happy about it, nothing light, nothing uplifting. Just heavy, draining, depressing gray.

Coming back with a forked tongue is certainly a way to shut down a situation, but so is walking away. So is simply not having any more words to say. So is smiling in the face of hatred, and so is saying “I’m sorry you feel that way” to the person who wants you to know that you’ve let them down. (Hint: the last four words of that statement are key because, usually unbeknownst to them, you’re not accepting the guilt.)

If life is always telling us to hit accept to complete — and we’re obeying more often than not — perhaps it’s time to decline more often. Declining doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re suddenly incomplete, however. Instead it’s a testament to the fact that we’re in the mood to find our center, to strip away all the junk which, interestingly — in time — will probably make us more complete than we ever could have imagined.

Tonight I am thankful for a digital display capable of tangible, life-changing results. What will you choose to decline the next time everything is telling you to accept it?

I was on track to leave the house on time — total score. I hadn’t slept well last night, so I was up and at ’em earlier than usual. Backing out of the driveway this morning, I noticed the front porch light was still on. I pulled back in, ran inside, turned it off and got back in the car. The delay was only about 20 seconds.

Getting onto the freeway, I noticed the on-ramp meter had been adjusted. Each green/red cycle used to require drivers to consistently wait five seconds before they could hit the gas and begin to merge into traffic. Today’s lights were super speedy, and inconsistent. Perhaps they’re trying something new out, trying to keep us on our toes; maybe the old rhythm had become too predictable. Never one to argue with speed, I got after it when the green quickly greeted me.

I passed the Disneyland exit, then Harbor. The traffic around me was suddenly light, and I was wondered why. In the rearview mirror, I saw a couple of cars and a large truck getting smaller as I drove further. And in between them all was a downed motorcycle.

I don’t have a bike, but back in ’97 I took a safety course through the Motorcycle Safety Foundation. I passed the riding portion and toyed with the idea of taking the written test to get my license, but…nah. There are some things that I don’t trust myself around, and bikes are one — as the one in control, that is. Passenger, no problem.

Since that course, I’ve become hyper-aware and even a little protective of motorcyclists on the road. Drivers oblivious to them irritate the bejeezuz out of me, as it feels second nature to look for them at all times.

So when I saw this morning’s carnage, it was frustrating. Depressing. Infuriating. Who’s to say who did what, when, and how it all went down, but I know that the area around those two exits is one giant cluster of mayhem. And with cars and trucks jockeying for position and partaking in some sheet metal jousting, any motorcyclist in the wrong place at the wrong time doesn’t stand a chance.

Chill, people. Chill.

When I got to work, I wondered whether my porch light delay kept me out of the mess. Maybe it kept me from being stuck in the snarled traffic or, worse yet, maybe it kept me from committing the unthinkable and contributing to the biker’s accident. Maybe I was just meant to catch a glimpse of the scene and that’s it.

Who knows. Regardless, I was — in a small way — thankful the delay gave pause to the morning. I’m thankful for the scene stuck in my head and, at minimum, that it’ll make me look twice (but probably even more) in the coming days as I travel the same route. Be safe out there, people.

I woke up an hour before my alarm went off this morning and, despite my sans-alarm start to the day, there was still a startling element as I came to and started to focus:

The Bee Gees’ “I Just Want to be Your Everything” was stuck in my head. I have no idea why.

I don’t even like the Bee Gees. I mean, I might’ve enjoyed a song here or there — most likely on a Saturday night during my post-university 20s while getting ready to go out, but they’re not really in my musical repertoire these days.

In college, I needed to satisfy a stray final credit or two, and an easy way to check those off the needed-for-graduation list was to take a music appreciation class.

The instructor was a riot. He was in his late 50s, lean with a sleek comb-over and a polyester-centric wardrobe with quirky, retro glasses to match most every outfit. Each time he wanted to teach us something, he’d excitedly scoot his boom box to the center of the room, place it upon a wobbly desk and press play.

The Bee Gees would always be his go-to band for teaching. Our instructor would close his eyes, start snapping his fingers and begin conducting a band-less room. It felt like disco was but a few shuffles away. We’d stare in awe of the spectacle in front of us and, when the music died down, he’d open his eyes and say, “Now THAT is a perfect example of what I’m trying to explain.”

I used to imagine a Bee Gees support group, and that he was its neediest, most fragile member. But, desperate to get back into the rhythm of society, he convinced them (whoever “they” were) that he was cured, and then conned the fine faculty at Michigan State University into believing that he was the perfect candidate to teach music appreciation to a steady stream of pliable minds. In reality, it was all a front for him to embrace his BeeGeeness in broad daylight. And that he did.

Again…I imagined that was the case. Absolutely not trying to hate on the Bee Gees, nor disrespect any support groups which may exist.

With that song stuck in my head, it was a little annoying during my morning primping routine and even during my drive. During breaks in between [non-Bee Gee] songs, it would pop into my head again.

I got to work and figured the band would work their way out of my head, but no dice. Even after firing up Pandora, I could still hear them.

Long about 2 or 3, they’d moved on. I felt badly for the next person whose brain they would manage to commandeer, but they’ll get over it.

Repeating Bee Gees song aside, I realized what an upbeat mood I was in all morning long. You might think that listening to dudes’ high-pitched crooning would be aggravating, but the peppy melody made sure the effect was anything but frustrating. So tonight I am thankful for starting off the day off on what ended up being just the right note to sustain me through the day.

I’ve never seen a store more crowded than I did today. And while they already have the garden center un-gardenized and bursting at the seams with holiday decor, the place was more busy than I’ve ever seen it — even around Christmas.

Sundays are my shopping days, grocery and otherwise, and I tend to visit my neighborhood Walmart for such an excursion. Where else can a girl find a squeegee, cut flowers, potting soil, taboule, a star-shaped glass bowl and storage bins made from fabric and seagrass under one roof? Exactly. And given the shenanigans that often take place at this particular location — fights, thievery and panhandling — security is pretty high. Thus, I feel more safe venturing to Walmart than I do my dimly-lit, sketchy Vons.

The number of people wielding their carts like weapons was overwhelming. I was trying to snag a new tube of toothpaste, but got a few feet to the entrance of the aisle and was rammed in my surgeried knee by a basket being swung through the air by a screeching, seemingly demon-possessed child. I froze; I couldn’t breathe. The pain was so bad I was rendered speechless. I couldn’t even curse. F! I’m pretty sure I almost passed out. I decided I didn’t need a new tube for another few days, so I scrapped my mission, hobbled away and decided to get my mintiness on later this week.

Storage bins for my home office desk were next on the list, so I made my way around the perimeter of the store to get to their stash — “perimeter” because I assumed it would be safer than wandering through the thick of it all.

I was right, but found myself in the middle of a candy fight. A bag of Halloween candy had suspiciously come open, and kids were having a good time feasting and flinging the stuff while shoppers scurried past. In the midst of it all, one aisle called my name. Yes, the fishing/bait/tackle section provided much-needed respite and solace, not to mention a place to lick my wounds. The knee was throbbing, but I suppose it will be better tomorrow.

I made it home, more or less in one piece. It wasn’t one of my more pleasant trips to Walmart, but it was productive. The way I look at it is this: if you want something specific, you’ve gotta go after it and expect a few bumps along the way. If you’re OK with whatever happens to come your way, then it’s usually easier.

Who’s wandering through life? At times, I find that I am. They’re the easier times, but not necessarily the most fulfilling. When I’m on a path, I’ll get some push-back here and there, some naysayers, but at the end of it all — everything was worth it.

Tonight I am thankful for the life lessons Walmart reminded me of earlier. I could have done without the child clubbing my knee, but anything worthwhile, productive and fulfilling usually takes a little out of you.

Even shopping.

I was reading something recently about vulnerability, and how it can lead to so much good in life if you just allow yourself to let everything in.

“Everything?”

I don’t know about you, but vulnerability scares the hell out of me. And I’m going to call BS on that line. Who wants to be vulnerable to everything? I’m not a fan of the word, although I wish I was. There’s something beautifully, achingly evolved about people who are vulnerable.

I’ve learned to associate “vulnerable” with “ready to take a dagger to the heart,” when in reality I know it’s not always such a brutal concept. I liken vulnerability to waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’ve been open and vulnerable before, and it seems like someone inevitably realizes it, swoops in, takes advantage and then heads off into the sunset. Not everyone does, but many have. And just like that, the other shoe is on the ground.

There’s friendship vulnerability, love vulnerability, financial vulnerability…all different kinds of vulnerabilities. I imagine there’s good in everything, and I know this is true because I’ve experienced good in all of these. But the flip-side of good, particularly in these three areas, can really wreak havoc. The flip-side reminds us that vulnerability often times feels like nothing more than going into battle without armor. Why would we? Sad that we always need to be ready to duke it out, but such is life sometimes.

Back on the brighter side, however, is the vulnerability that comes knocking on your door when you least expect it — and when you seem perhaps most likely to deny it. But it has a way of getting in your head and saying, “Come on, take a chance. This could be really, really good. This has potential.”

Potential.

It’s what makes you take a chance when you swore you’d take no more. It’s what inspires you to utter words of counsel to someone who’s going through a hard time and, the minute you hear yourself speak, you wonder where the sudden light and optimism came from. Vulnerability and potential are those two things that play off each other in a balanced way. On their own in time, they can kill. Together, they’re tempered by hope. Tonight I am thankful for both, and despite the harm each is capable of on its own, I will work on being more vulnerable for the sake of unlocking hidden potential within.