I saw a commercial today that featured a Queensland, Australia helicopter rescue team that saved 43 lives during flooding caused by Cyclone Yasi.

The team was given street addresses of those in need, but with water obscuring the roads, addresses were useless. Turns out they had a phone with them and used Google Maps and the built-in GPS to be led directly to the flood victims.

The story got me thinking about rescue, which can come in so many shapes and sizes, and at all times of the day.

Smile at someone who may quietly think the whole world is against him and you’ve just rescued someone.

Tell someone who’s dealing with a severe case of writer’s block a funny story and you’ve just rescued them.

A care package for someone who’s homesick.

A simple “thank you” to someone who longs to be appreciated.

A compliment to someone who knows a steady stream of criticism.

A promise of faithfulness to someone who has never known it.

A hug for someone who has known many hits.

A phonecall to someone who is constantly amazed that, despite all the people in the world, his phone never rings.

A warm “good night” or a cheery “good day” to someone who has known only good-byes.

An open hand to someone too familiar with closed doors.

While not as outwardly dramatic as a helicopter rescue, all of these can have a lasting effect on someone. The team said that because of their rescue the flood victims had a chance to go on to live long lives, have families and watch grandchildren grow up. But a simple act of kindness can also extend someone’s life — not to mention warm their soul, uplift their spirit and bolster their sense of self.

Tonight I am thankful for the little acts of rescue and kindness dispensed by so many people, many of whom don’t even realize the saving they’re doing.

We may all often feel like ships passing in the night, but if we’re down and out, we need to remember to send up a flare for assistance every now and again. Here’s to being inspired by the acceptance and help that so many give, and to paying it forward for so many others in need.

I read a news headline tonight about a 29 year-old Southern California Army officer who was killed in Afghanistan as a result of his helicopter crashing. I have no idea how many similar headlines I’ve read in the last 10+ years. I have no idea how many more I’ll read, and I have no idea when they’ll stop — if they ever will.

I read that he was 29, and some quick math told me he was born in the 80s. I started to remember my time growing up in the 80s and imagined us doing similar things as we grew up an hour or two away from each other.

I wondered if we grew up watching the same cartoons, if we had a penchant for the same fast food and how close I ever came to him all the time my family and I would go to Palm Springs in my younger years.

I wondered if he and his family ever ventured to the Orange County beaches during the long summer months and if we played in the same surf, dug in the same sand and used the same fire pits to roast hot dogs or make s’mores.

I remember lighting fireworks on the cul-de-sac I grew up on — back when fireworks were still legal here. I imagined him doing the same thing in his neighborhood and wondered of something about the patriotic nature of the Fourth of July is what inspired him to enlist in the Army.

I wondered if he had a brother, sister, father or other family member who inspired him to follow in their footsteps.

I imagined his family’s concern when he enlisted, and I imagined him telling them it’s what he truly wanted to do.

There seems little to be thankful for when someone is killed serving his country. But tonight I am thankful for his service, for the media who — while sensationalism is often the name of their game — dutifully cover and report on these tragedies our fellow Americans are part of, and for the emotion and action these instances can create in everyone who reads about these tragedies.

I can’t imagine the loneliness that must be felt by Americans overseas, and how much they must often wish to be home breathing this country’s air again, walking on our soil again and enjoying the company of close family and friends. Tonight I can only hope that the soldiers they served with were as tight a family as is possible to have while away from our country, and I’m grateful for the dedication and service they give for us all.

They say practicing moderation is a good thing.

They say less is more.

They tell us to know when to say when.

Consistently, we go too far. We indulge, we stay up too late, we forget moderation.

We swing like a pendulum, one day abstaining from all things indulgent, the next day seemingly doing our best to satisfy every corner of our lives as though it’s our last day of living. Inevitably, we swing back the other way, we repent and the cycle repeats.

I’ve had a splitting headache for the better part of the afternoon, so I finally broke down and took a couple ibuprofen for it tonight. As someone who gets headaches often, I decided at the store tonight that I’d invest in the econo-sized bottle o’ pain reliever. Reading the back of it a while ago, however, brought a few things into perspective. One, follow the dosage instructions. An issue in one area of your life can quickly become two or three if you overdo the solution. Two, adhere to the remedy’s recommended frequency. Too little and the ailment won’t go away. Too frequent and that can have implications, as well.

Last, avoid high humidity and excessive heat. Amusing, since we’re in August and all. But if our remedy doesn’t like the high heat, perhaps we should stay out of it, too. Done and done, I say. Sometimes life’s guides are found in the most interesting of places. Tonight I am thankful for the advice given to me by the back of a bottle of ibuprofen. For now, I’m off the hit the hay…right after I turn the A/C back on.

This morning while I was still in bed and not yet fully awake, I had a thought that made me think, “Hm, well…maybe when I’m in my 30s.”

I can’t remember what the thought was, but I do remember my shock at momentarily forgetting I’m 35. Maybe I thought I was in my 20s for a second – I’m not really sure.

Seconds later, I was awake for good. I stayed in bed for a few more minutes and thought back to 25, then thought back to 15. And I don’t know how exactly it happened, but somehow the last 20 years passed in the blink of an eye.

I realized that 20 more would do the same. And by then I’d be 55.

While it’s not possible to slow time down, there must be things to make it seem like it’s passing more slowly. Right?

There’s no guarantee that we’ll be around in the morning, next week, next more or even next year. But I hope I’m around till 55, then 75, and maybe even 95, depending on how the aging process goes.

I can’t imagine the things I’ll see. The change in the world, the change in my life. The change I may see with jobs, with friends, with family. The changes I may experience in myself, in my views, in my beliefs, in how I’ll vote. The changes in how I spend my spare time, in how I spend my money, in how I view love, life and the pursuit of happiness.

At 15, I couldn’t have imagined what 35 would bring. And at 35, I can’t imagine what 55 will, either. But to think of the possibilities is nothing short of exciting.

Tonight I am thankful for this morning’s brain fog which sent me back in time a bit, and also helped me look forward. I’m thankful for its reminder to take every day one at a time, to cherish the ups and the downs and to never be surprised at what’s just around the corner. The last 20 years have been an adventure, and I look to the next 20 with anticipation.

I don’t have decades of knowledge or experiences under my belt yet — only three and a half, to be exact. But there are things that I do know.

When I said I’d never eat liver and onions, only half of that statement ultimately came true. I now adore an onion — caramelized, preferably.

When I thought at 20 that I’d be married by 30, I realized at 28 that a wedding was pretty far off. And I was pretty OK with that.

When I said that I’d never fall victim to the infamous slowing-down of the ol’ metabolism that was rumored to plague my 30s, I scoffed and said that would never be the case. Oh, such foolishness.

When I said I’d never quit a job without having another one lined up, I found out one day in 2006 that I was wrong. And it was one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself, for my spirit and for my life.

When I think I can’t live without X, Y or Z, I realize how fortunate I am to have A, B and C. Instantly things are put back into perspective.

Tonight during my pedicure, I overheard two teen girls chatting about boys, school, clothes and friends. “I would never” this, and “I would never” that peppered their conversation. I smiled.

I’ve thought a lot of things, I’ve hoped for a lot of things, and some have come true while others haven’t. But one thing I know is to never say never.

About anything.

Tonight I am thankful for overhearing a conversation which reminded me to keep the faith, to keep an open mind and to always be ready for any mention of ‘never’ to turn into a possibility.

As much as I wish I could have another two or three lives to live beyond the one I’ve been given, and as fun as it can be to think about, I don’t believe in reincarnation.

That said, I’m pretty sure my cat was an opera singer in his past life.

I sing a lot — not always well, but I sing frequently. I have a few default songs that I’ll turn to at random times: when I’m walking into work, cleaning the kitchen, sorting mail or waiting for my car at the car wash. The Four Seasons’ “December, 1963” is one of them, and “Silver Bells” is another. Songs from Phantom of the Opera also make an appearance a couple times a month.

My cat, also known as “Babe” or “The T,” likes to lay under the kitchen table and scope our the happenings around him. While I’m cooking or cleaning, he’s sprawling and watching. And when my quiet but audible singing starts, he joins in.

His big green eyes stare at me with an intensity that’s telling me he’s interested in what I’m doing. He wants to make the same sounds, and appears frustrated that he can’t.

He flops onto his back and twists around a bit. Perhaps he’s in the mood for a massage. As quickly as he flopped down, he pops back up and sits at attention.

And then, from his little spot on the floor, he lets out a giant, soulful meow that speaks of a yearning for something beyond his furry, lizard-chasing, bird-catching life.

I face him and sing quietly, maintaining eye contact. He meows some more, then lifts his head toward the ceiling as a long, multi-second howl comes out. I reach down to pet him, and he seems quite pleased with his vocal stylings. As he begins to purr, I sing some more and he’s suddenly inspired to much on some cat kibbles. Yes, that’s our evening routine.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wished I was a better singer, I’ve loved cats and I’ve been fascinated by performance. With that trio in my head, tonight I pictured The T as an opera singer-turned-cat, perhaps on his way to being a human in one of his next nine lives — given how much he appears to want to sing. And if his next stop is going to be in my world, would my next stop be one of an operatic nature?

No. But it’s fun to think about. And tonight I am thankful for my singing
Babe who unintentionally reminded me that another life can always be lived during the one that we have. It may not be the life we were meant to have as our primary role, but so long as we simply try our hand at something that makes our spirit soar, our heart can sing with pride and contentment at trying.

The telephone lines stretched across the freeway, attached to poles flanking the city streets. The setting sun was behind me and, as I looked up, I could see a flock of pigeons hanging out and watching the cars speed by underneath them.

Since their faces were illuminated by the afternoon light, I could practically make out the expression each one had. Some had their eyes shut, seemingly reveling in the warmth and golden glow washing over them. Others’ heads were cocked as though they were wondering why some people were going so fast, so slow, who was honking and why.

Only the part of the telephone line over the freeway had birds on it; either side was completely bird-free. I wondered if birds ever became dizzy and had a fear of falling like we do, and then I remembered their wings. Duh. They probably fear other things — people who dislike them and call them “rats with wings,” or I’m sure they get a little spooked when a feline or other predator makes its presence known. But this afternoon, they were quite content and happy to be clinging to the telephone wire with their little feet.

If they were capable of articulating any thoughts they may have (but probably don’t) about us, I’m guessing they’d tell us to slow down.

To look towards the heavens more often.

To remember to build a solid nest that you can take comfort and pride in at the end of a long day.

To enjoy the evening sun with friends and family.

To spread our wings frequently.

And to never forget how to be a good homing pigeon and return to the abode when it’s time.

This evening I am thankful for the birds on a wire whose sweet presence reminded me of all these things, and whose late afternoon gathering reminded me that its the simple things in life that are often the most enjoyable.

Earlier today I was looking online at real estate listings in Greece. It’s amazing what you can get for your money, and in such an amazing climate, such a beautiful part of the world and with such history everywhere you turn.

I started doing some savings calculations and quickly realized that if I want to purchase at least one place here in the US — as well as in Greece — I probably should’ve started saving when I was 6.

All the Greek abode browsing put me in the mood for HGTV this evening, and there happened to be an episode of House Hunters International on. Score.

There was nothing Greek about it, but instead a painter from Scotland was in the process of identifying a home to buy in Guardia Sanframondi, Italy, a picturesque medieval town full of ruins, some newer places, homes decorated with window boxes and winding pathways — all in the shadow of an ancient castle. Breathtaking beauty.

A starving artist of sorts, she longed for inspiration in her surroundings. She felt that her work was feeling confined, and that if she moved and found a new environment, she would paint and create with more freedom.

She had pulled together all her savings and had $15,000 to spend on a place with a living area separate from a more public space for showing and displaying her art. Her agents showed her three places, and at the end of the day, she found one that would make her heart sing…yes, for her tiny budget.

Unlike the US-centric episodes which seem riddled with would-be homeowners who fixate on the most ridiculous “shortcomings” (e.g., “I don’t like the light fixtures,” “I don’t like the paint color,” or “The showerhead is too low”), the artist was captivated by her chosen residence’s flaws. She embraced its character that others may have found archaic, she was overjoyed by its battle scars and couldn’t wait to make it her own.

During the episode, her Italian agents took her to a local winery for a sampling of its offerings. While they were tasting, she commented on how she made so little in Italy from her art that she never really had enough extra money to purchase even a good bottle of wine.

It made me realize not only how much we take for granted, but how little this woman had and how willing she was to risk it all by exhausting her savings and uprooting her life to move 1600 miles away and to try her craft in a new environment. All because she believed in it.

I think we’re all lacking belief to some degree or another in our own lives. That she found it in a distant locale, was ready to take a leap and discover inspiration outside of her comfort zone was exactly what I needed tonight.

This evening I am thankful for Guardia Sanframondi, its magic which captivated a stranger and for the desire to find my own version of that little town. I hope that starving artist has found a niche in Italy that’s providing frequent bottles of good wine, and I hope we can all find similar delights to enjoy.

I’m exhausted. It’s only Monday.

All day long I felt like I had endless energy. I felt focused, I felt like I was crossing things off my list left and right, and I felt good.

I arrived home and instantly felt beat. Weary. Defeated. Odd, since my day was super good. I changed into my walking clothes for a stroll that was going to be my first since last year. But then I made the mistake of sitting down on the couch for a moment, and here I sit…almost three hours later. I’ve gotten up to do minimal work in the form of turning on the backyard sprinkler, I’ve enjoyed maximum calories in the form of an extra rib-eye that I was going to cook then ration out over the next five days by topping salads with it. But nope. (Don’t tell the other four days they missed out.)

I feel like my age has been multiplied umpteen times and like I’m wading through dog years. And I’d like someone to at least throw me a bone.

There’s no human reason to feel this tired, as least not that I know of. And I don’t remember signing up for this. I stepped outside a while ago and noticed a faint pink hue in the sky from the sunset. Then I noticed my eyes were burning looking at it, even though it was a sunset made up of the most pale shades in the rainbow.

When they said my metabolism would change once I hit 30, I scoffed. I thought it was a terrible rumor. Well, it’s certainly terrible, but it’s no rumor.

When they said I shouldn’t rush to grow up, I thought they were being silly and didn’t know what they were talking about. But now as an adult I relish my silliest of moments and give that same advice to others.

It’s funny how we spend much of our early life wishing we were older to do this or that, go here or there, date this person or that, be respected by him or her. We wish we could multiply our age — maybe by a dog year — and jump ahead to the good stuff.

But once you reach a certain age, even the simple things take more energy than they used to, a routine is more draining than it should to be and I’ve heard people say it only compounds year after year. Our dog years are here to stay, but whenever a bit of energy finds us, let’s remember to fetch a great adventure, chase an enchanting dream and chow down on a terrific meal. It’s all the stuff that helps our dog years seem distant, and our now years seem full.

Tonight I am thankful for the knowledge that for as ridiculously, impossibly exhausted as a random day can make me feel, I can throw aside my dog years and be assured of a day just around the corner where frolicking will replace fatigue, and where chasing will replace challenges.

I’ve mentioned before that summer is my least favorite season. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous coming from a California girl, but it’s the truth. August is especially bad, as all the heat that we didn’t get from the June gloom seems to wait to come out to play till August. It can’t be bothered to politely spread itself out over July, no… So August sees spikes in my A/C use, subsequent spikes in my electricity bill and spikes in my consumption of refreshing cocktails.

I’ve been meaning to spread fertilizer on the lawn for about a month or so now, a request from my dad to help with the summer heat and bolster the root system up a bit. Of course it got put off for various reasons — until this evening, that is. I felt guilty about having neglected the friendly green blades for so long, so I dug out the Scotts spreader, tore open the bag of Turf Builder with SummerGuard pellets and went to work. I knew I was supposed to adjust the setting on the spreader before starting, but I wasn’t able to figure it out…until I got done with the front yard and had moved on to the back, at which point I saw that the setting I should’ve been on was one which spread the pellets more densely. Awesome.

I went back out to the front yard and reapplied the stuff, sweating profusely in the process. It was 7:30 in the evening, and 92 degrees. Yep, I definitely should’ve done the fertilizing a month ago when the request first came my way.

After the front, I finished the back yard, then cruised out the back gate and onto the back parkway to give it some love, as well. Here’s hoping the grass doesn’t get all crispy and crunchy from my uber-application this time the way it did in the spring. That time, my fertilizer-con-weed-killer burned the lawn — although it burned it in nice, even stripes since I rule at using the Scotts spreader. Oops.

This particular lawn feed is one which needs to be watered into the grass after application, so that’s where I’m currently at in the process. And in a way, it’s not unlike us when we have the chance to learn something.

We’re given the tools, and we may need to marinate on things for a while before the material really takes hold. It’s not enough to just sit in a class or read a book and start doing. Instead, we need to grasp the real-world application and let it sink in before action can occur.

And when action occurs, ideally the outcome is one where we’re stronger not only from the initial learning, but also from our experiences after putting it into motion. Tonight I am thankful for the reminder that growth doesn’t happen simply because we want it to — it happens because we take the necessary steps to have something come to fruition. We can delay and fall a little behind until we’re guilted into action one day, but once we finally do it, we owe it to ourselves to let it sink in — and we also owe it to ourselves to own its benefits. Here’s to remembering that anytime is a good time to grow, and here’s to giving our own lives some feed in the coming months.