The funny thing about June Gloom is that its characteristics have also been around for December, January, February, March, April and May, but since its title is formally tied to a particular month, many of us suddenly take notice and validate its moniker.

“Wow, June really is a gloomy month!” I heard someone say earlier today.

“Yeah, no kidding, it must be the cloudiest month out of the whole year,” was the other person’s reply.

Hm. Well, I don’t know about that.

And, really, we’re not being fair to June if we simply call it gloomy, because much of the time the gray matter burns off after the morning, leaving us with a glorious afternoon. When evening rolls around, so do the low clouds and fog. I’d be irked if I was June, as I’d much prefer to be remembered for my bright, sunny disposition that’s apparent for most of the daytime hours — not something the exact opposite of what my name stands for.

After all, when we think of June, we probably think of the official start of summer, ice cream cones, frosty beverages, school being out, beach balls, bathing suits, beach towels, campfires and s’mores — all things that we would likely not want any part of during, for example, December (except that school thing).

The bottom line is that we have expectations of June. And even though a foggy morning may be perfectly acceptable on the morning of May 31st, the first of June gets our wrath when it shows up in the same outfit.

I personally love June gloom, because it’s the best of both worlds for me: gray mornings followed by sunny afternoons, followed by gray evenings. I love seeing the low clouds rush by overhead, and I love that moment in the late afternoon when the clouds are indistinguishable from the fog. Suddenly they’re all just grayish-white tufts in the sky, or they’re colored in delicate pastel shades if a sunset has its way. Either way, they’re beautiful. I will always love December and our “winter” season more, but for now, the many faces of June are a nice way for me to ease into summer.

Tonight I am thankful for the beauty of June gloom and for the pale mornings which make me feel like December is tugging on my shirt, politely asking me to not forget about it. I feel the two months are kindred spirits, especially in SoCal — we’ve been known to have an 80-degree Christmas once or twice before, and here we are with our June gloom…gloominess that we’d rather have on those 80-degree mornings sitting around the tree. In my way of thinking, neither month wants to be forgotten while we’re busy celebrating the many things each month is known for, so they’ve arranged a kooky climate for us.

But at the end of the day, we’re onto them, and we know the shenanigans they’ll pull as they try to confuse us. It’s all good, though. We have our partnerships with friends and loved ones, and so they can have theirs, too.

I sell commercial real estate.

At least that’s what I thought I saw when I drove past a sign earlier this evening on my way home from work.

There was a contact name and phone number, and while I couldn’t make out the last name as I passed by, the first name was “Lauren” and the last name was something short — and started with a D.

I instantly did a mental do-over of my life. If I was really that name on the sign, then I:

Probably wouldn’t have majored in advertising.

Definitely wouldn’t have gotten my master’s degree in advertising, either.

Likely wouldn’t have interned twice in a corporate marketing department, nor interned at an ad agency.

Wouldn’t have been lured into the world of racing as part of my job, wouldn’t have moved to Connecticut for a stint in sports marketing, and probably would never have lived in Redondo Beach (since I moved there at one time to be closer to work).

Since I lived in Redondo Beach, I would never have started shopping for condos in Palos Verdes, which has since led to a non-stop love affair with the peninsula and its little mini-climates.

I definitely wouldn’t have met the people I’ve met over the years, and probably wouldn’t have dated the guys I dated, either, since they were in large part connected to my life inside an ad agency.

On the other hand, I assume I would still have the same hobbies — I just don’t know how much time I’d have to write, to play and create music or to take classes in screenwriting, playwriting or dabble in wine education.

As quickly as I ran through the scenes of how different my life would be if I was in any other profession than the one I’m in, I stopped and snapped back to reality. Nothing really seems to fit quite like advertising does for me — regardless of whether I’m at a full-service shop or a smaller, more focused agency.

I can’t fathom knowing all the rules and regulations surrounding commercial real estate, and I don’t know that I’ll ever want to learn them.

I can’t imagine the paperwork that I’d need to know inside and out.

I can’t picture myself showcasing buildings and being in a decidedly uncreative field.

Fortunately, there are others who can. And I was relieved that I don’t ever have to be one of them if I don’t want to be.

Tonight, for as much as life can and has changed in the last 15 years, I’m thankful to still enjoy the career that I picked when I was 20 and I’m thankful that I can see myself staying in it in some capacity or another for another 20 years. I’m grateful for every step of the journey that I’ve been on, including every misstep along the way, because it’s all led me here to this day where I was reminded that I chose well. I always hoped that I would.

If the computer’s already fired up and I have a little time to kill, I’ll cruise over to Redfin.com and check out houses, condos and townhomes.

The properties that I peruse are usually in this area — either elsewhere in Anaheim, or sometimes I’ll browse in Fullerton. Other times I’ll look at the listings in the Historic French Park or Floral Park sections of Santa Ana, or I’ll wander over to Old Towne Orange.

I love getting lost in the different homes that are for sale, and I love picturing my furnishings in them. I find the charm of a Craftsman-style home irresistible, and I’ll always adore a simple postwar era home that’s been neatly maintained. Some listings are a better fit for my loot than others, since the piano doesn’t always work — but dreaming is always a good time.

Tonight I journeyed up to Seattle since I’ve always had a fascination with that city. I visited once back in the early 90s, and it’s held a special place in my heart ever since. Perhaps it’s because I love the rain. Perhaps the breathtaking views are what draw me in. Regardless, the property up there didn’t let me down, as it was equally beautiful.

The thing I noticed missing in many of those properties, however, was a large picture window for displaying a Christmas tree. Maybe I wasn’t looking in the right areas, but many listings just didn’t have that element. Most of the places I’ve seen here in California, however, seem ready-made for a tree at the holidays.

It made me think about the fact that no matter where we end up living, we always seem to hold onto something from our past. I know I’ll never be without a piano, and I know I will also need a large picture window in which a Christmas tree can stand — tall and proud — while displaying glimmering ornaments (starting the day after Thanksgiving).

Have I ever mentioned I love Christmas?

Tonight I am thankful for the second reminder in as many weeks that, although there’s no place like home, there’s also no reason to leave behind that main home we hold dear in our memories. Regardless of zip code, climate, latitude or longitude, that picture window will always be near the top of my list.

We’ve all seen those signs posted by elevators that read, “In case of fire, use stairs.” Today, and I’m not sure if it’s because I didn’t sleep well last night or if it’s some sort of weird life foreshadowing, it started me on a train of thought that went a bit beyond the placard.

At first blush, the stairs would seem to be the slow way. After all, what if there’s a fire in the stairwell? One might argue that there must be another, non-flaming stairwell nearby which would still be smarter than taking the elevator. Fair enough.

We’ve become accustomed to technlogy, machinery and the latest development doing things more quickly, more efficiently. Taking what seems to be the slow way, especially when trying to save yourself, seems almost counterintuitive.

But when you think about the room for error in an elevator when time is of the essence, getting back to the basics is likely the best option. Thus, go with the stairs.

In times of crisis, we may find that we tend to go with a quick fix — we look for the elevator to get us out of a jam when the stairs are just a few more feet away and, while perhaps a slower process and one that leaves you more winded, might just get us back to a place of safety, of sanity, of security.

Money problems? The credit card is your elevator; a savings plan and strict budget are your stairs.

Relationship troubles? The silent treatment is your elevator; talking it out would be the stairs.

Job woes? A hasty exit is the elevator; taking your time finding the best fit for your next gig would be the stairs.

Tonight I am thankful for my strange pondering of the “in case of fire” sign. It was a nice reminder that faster isn’t always better, and that often times what you get out of something is exactly what you put into it. Hoofing it may seem tedious — but there’s much to be thankful for with each footstep.

I use the word “magic” a lot. It’s right up there with “spirit,” “soul,” “sparkle,” “twinkle” and “glimmer” for me. Sometimes I feel like I need to bond with a thesaurus for a few hours while I find other options, perhaps better options. But there’s something about the perfect simplicity of those words that generally sums up exactly what I’m feeling.

Today, I encounted a sprinkling of magic in tiny little events — one after the other.

For starters, Monday was bypassed. Always a good thing.

Second, I woke up sans-headache — and since I get them often, not having one is always a great start to the day.

I used to listen to Pandora a lot while working, but haven’t done it yet at the new gig. It would’ve been too distracting while learning new stuff, too procrastination-inducing. Last Friday, however, was a good day and one during which I didn’t need much guidance. I did, however, decide that I needed a bit of background music for the work I had to crank out. I fired up Pink Floyd radio and tackled some emails, two Excel spreadsheets, one Word document and worked on a PowerPoint presentation. I was on a roll.

Today I decided to continue my headache-free zen state by seeing if there was an Enya channel. Not surprisingly, there was. I spent the next few hours in my zone, until at one point I heard an instrumental, piano-centric piece that was so beautiful my head shot up from what I was working on and I almost started to cry as I sat paralyzed for a few seconds.

Such beauty in those notes! So fluid the phrasing, so emotional the melody. “Song for Sienna” by Brian Crain had me captivated immediately, and I clicked from my Excel spreadsheet over to Pandora to see exactly what was playing. As of this writing, I’m staring at the torn piece of paper I scribbled the song’s name onto so that I could bring it home and see if iTunes had it.

And it does.

My mom tells me that when I was little, I would watch Sesame Street and — if nobody moved me away from the television in time, turned the channel or turned the TV off entirely — I would start to cry at the sound of the chimes which ended each episode. I’ve tried to look them up on YouTube or anywhere else online, and I can’t find them. It’s probably just as well, though…because as much as I’d like to see if there’s any connection between the melody of those chimes and the songs that have moved me to similar emotions over the years, I know what it is: it’s simply the beauty in the notes.

After my encounter with the song, I had to borrow a magazine from someone because I needed to scan a feature in it for a client. I ended up thumbing through the magazine, which was an issue of Psychology Today, and there was an article in it with a headline that read, “Are You Single at Heart?” with a subhead that said, “Maybe some people are meant to fly (happily) through life solo.”

I’m not going to lie — I’m pretty happy flying solo. Or, rather, “content” is the right word. I appreciate the beauty of others’ relationships when it’s the right one and when their union shines a light of happiness, but sometimes it seems like you find those examples far too often. My parents have it, and I wish more people did. It might give me courage to go out and find it for myself, but for now, I’m not feeling the need to seek one out, nor am I feeling the absence of a relationship.

At any rate, the article was beautifully written and without an ounce of bitterness, which is often hard to do when discussing singledom. Sometimes stating a fact can come across as scorned or self-righteous when it isn’t intended to be. The article was one that was like a friendly hand on my shoulder at a time when I occasionally wonder if there’s something wrong with me for not wanting to be coupled up with another. I realize that I’m in a minority, but the way everything was articulated was calming. It gave me a playful, “Shush,” and made me feel normal. And with that, I finished reading, turned the page and moved on.

After the magazine article, I wandered into the agency kitchen and came across a section of the newspaper that was anemic, at best. Its content was shallow, lacking, and while this blog doesn’t contain such deep writing that it would ever be sought out, it gave me a shot of courage and made me want to contact the editor whose name was listed at the top. I spent the entire drive home thinking about how I would do that, what I would say, if I should go in with heart-on-sleeve, or keep my hand close to the vest. I haven’t figured it out yet, and then I started wondering if I should finish this blog first to be able to say I actually did it every day for a year so that I could have something to show. But then, why wait?

Why wait when there’s such magic in a day that can inspire, can propel and can buoy the soul to a place that it hadn’t been mere moments before?

Tonight I am thankful for the magic in a day that can masquerade as a mere moment to others. We all have them, they’re just different depending on our paths. What are your magic moments? What tiny events are the spiritual equivalent of a shift in the breeze? What seconds of time take your eyes from their focus on a paper or a computer screen and lift them up to the heavens?

My mom and dad met at Anaheim High School, fell in love and got married in ’66.

But, like most stories, theirs has a number of details that could’ve altered their lives — and I’d be remiss to not remember them on a day like today.

They continued dating after high school, he went to college in the area for a year and then enlisted in the Army. He knew he wanted to marry my mom, but also felt the Army was the thing to do. So he did.

He did his basic training at Fort Ord, then went to jump school in North Carolina where, as we all like to say when kidding around, he “learned to jump out of perfectly good airplanes.” We joke now, but he left North Carolina as a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division and ended up getting orders for Vietnam. Definitely not a laughing matter.

He made his way home to California, and he and my mom decided to get married.

They had a brief honeymoon in Palm Springs, then he boarded a boat out of Oakland a few days later; he was on it for a month as it cruised across the Pacific. I remember the first time I was old enough to comprehend their story, and I think I shrieked to my mom, “What?! You got married? You could’ve been a widow!”

True. But I absolutely adore the fact that their love was the driving force in March of ’66 — not necesarily the fear of him possibly not coming home (although I’m sure that was certainly in the mix of emotions).

While Memorial Day is a day for honoring the men and women who have died while serving our country, today I honor and am thankful for my dad who served and is still here with us. I’ve asked him before if he was ever in danger of being killed, and he says that he wasn’t. But accidents happen even during training, and a war is a war is a war, no matter how “safe” one’s role may be. There’s always that chance.

In the past few years, I’ve been fortunate to visit Washington D.C. in July and behold its beautiful Independence Day tributes, see Pearl Harbor and walk on the humbling memorial over the USS Arizona where the smell of oil which still leaks from her hull permeates the air, and behold the beauty of the National Cemetery of the Pacific with its view of Diamond Head. Each place managed to bring me to tears, and on days like today, I realize how very lucky we are as a family. I am aware of the memories that many were never able to make because a loved one was killed during their military service, and how many we are fortunate to have because my dad came home. 

I was watching something on TV earlier tonight (without giving too much away, my guilty viewing pleasure is The Real Housewives of Orange County) and one of the scenes focused on a sensitive topic that one person felt the other wasn’t taking seriously.

Details aside, it eventually came out that the person who felt they’d been trying their best to get something done for the past three years actually admitted he wasn’t giving it his best shot.

Reasons were given to explain the delay. Answers were had for all the questions that were asked. But when it came down to it, he realized he needed to not only make time to get something off his plate, he needed to devote time each day.

A set time.

Time that was his.

Time that wasn’t going to be subject to excuses — at least, nobody’s except his own.

He decided to tackle it between the hours of 10am and 2pm.

That’s a solid chunk of time, if I do say so myself.

In the context of an 8 hour workday, that’s half a day. (I rule at math.) It’s a drive from Anaheim to Yuma to visit my BFF. I’ve heard that some people have made it from LA to San Francisco (with the help of a radar detector, natch) in that amount of time. It’s a drive to Vegas from OC, assuming little traffic and no crazy accidents.

Even carving out a two-hour chunk of time would be commendable given everything that bombards us in the world each day.

For this blog, I carve out an hour and a half. For other projects, they get leftover time.

And it’s obvious.

I’ve never been a fan of leftovers. They get soggy and limp and aren’t as good as the real thing, and I inevitably throw them out. And I do believe that if I keep giving my precious projects my leftover time, they’ll be soggy and limp, as well — and also worthy of the circular file.

Tonight I am thankful for the reality check that “reality” TV gave me. It’s time for some renewed energy and dedication to the projects that have been waiting in the wings for too long, so that they can be given wings of their own.

For most of the day, I found the sky to be incredibly odd.

Since Thursday or so, it’s been overcast, cool and a bit breezy — three things which make me really happy.

Today the breeze was still lingering, but the overcast skies had given way to bright blue ones, save for the pure white, low clouds which sped by overhead. There was something about the light in the sky that made it seem like I should’ve been in another part of the country — namely the northeast.

My brief time in Connecticut was spent doing much driving when I wasn’t traveling for work. I’d drive up 95, down 95, up the Hudson River along Route 9, I think. The area was incredibly beautiful, and one of the things that will always stick with me is the way the light looked during the morning, afternoon and evening hours. It’s something as distinct as our smog-amplified sunsets in Southern California, and as unique to that area as the big, billowing clouds are in Michigan during summer thunderstorms.

The same way a song can affect a mood, so can the sky for me. Some days when the air is still and it’s warm outside, it makes me think of the day I found out my grandpa had passed away. I remember waking up that morning and walking into the living room where my mom was busy cleaning. I can’t remember if it was a weekend or weekday, but something was odd about her being home; it was because we’d gotten the call that my grandpa had passed away. To this day, whenever there’s a warm, stuffy and still day and the light is just right in the morning sky, I find that I’m more prone to being a bit down because it takes me back.

It wasn’t until I was outside this morning that I realized the skies had a certain northeastern quality about them. I immediately remembered one day about seven years ago when I drove north on I-95 and stopped for about 15 minutes at one point to look at the water, which would’ve been Long Island Sound. The water, a glistening, deep blue was beautiful, but it wasn’t home.

The view was peaceful, but I felt otherwise.

On that day, the sky was crisp and clear, but my thoughts were clouded. I suspect that I missed the LA/OC layer of smog.

Tonight, I am thankful for the memories that a certain sky can bring back, for the experience of the northeastern sky in the comfort of my own backyard, and for the reminder that it’s true — there’s no place like home.

And now, I shall await the return of our usual layer of air pollution.

I read something earlier today that was a nice reminder of a truth I think we forget.

“Your journey has molded you for the greater good. It was exactly what it needed to be. Don’t think you’ve lost time. It took each and every situation you have encountered to bring you to the now. And now is right on time.”

Some days — the days when you can almost see the pieces of your life fitting together like a puzzle — this feels like a no-brainer statement. You realize that had you not gone through this test or that rough patch, you wouldn’t be where you are today. And you’re OK with that.

Other days it feels like you’ve taken a break from the puzzle and gotten up to get something to drink, maybe to eat, or maybe you’ve left the puzzle to watch a movie for a few hours. The puzzle is still sitting there, and no progress is being made on it — but it’s still there. Its presence is annoying because you know you want to complete it, but in the meantime, it just sits there and watches you get frustrated while simultaneously beckoning you to come back.

I guess the point is that those breaks are mandatory. Why? Because it’s life. Regardless of the duration of the breaks we take, or the catalyst behind them, breaks will exist.

I used to beat myself up pretty good over the breaks I’d take from projects, from keeping things moving forward. I still do, but I’m trying to do it to a far lesser degree. Why? Because during those breaks, there’s inevitably something to be learned.

Something that we didn’t know about ourselves.

Or something that we needed to uncover to help us get back on track.

Tonight I am thankful for the reminder that each of us has a unique path, and that path is our own. It’s not to be compared to others’, and it’s not to be deemed as less important, less worthy or less exciting. I believe that so long as we continue putting one foot in front of the other in our pursuit of whatever makes us happy and whatever we ultimately want to do or be in life — regardless of the speed of those steps — we’ll uncover great things along the way. And those great things should be cherished as much as the idea of getting to that end goal.

Because we get those great things when we’re in the now.

And now is right on time.

I have a large, sepia-toned photo that’s framed and hanging on my wall. It’s called, “Racing at the Clarendon,” and it was taken in 1922. It shows auto racing on the sandy beaches of Florida — Daytona Beach, to be exact. And 90 years later, we’re still racing at Daytona.

But tonight’s post isn’t about the racing — it’s about the people in the photo; people who are so caught up in that moment. People who are standing on things they probably shouldn’t be standing on to get a better view, and people who will therefore be scolded by someone “in charge.” People hanging out windows of hotel rooms to see the action, people visibly enamored with the spectacle and thinking, most likely, that if heaven on earth exists, this must be it.

You can tell the green flag has just dropped, and already giant, billowing sandy clouds are erupting from the rear of each car. Fortunately, a breeze carries the dust away from the drivers so they have a clear, unobscured view of their course; the palm trees in the background and the American flag high atop the hotel also speak of the breezy day. Little boys are clinging to their fathers’ legs with excitement; three women are in the background sitting on top of a parked car. With the exception of the auto racing taking place, these women could very well be sitting on a park bench or enjoying tea together. But they’re not — and that’s pretty awesome.

The race cars — four of which are clearly visible in the photo — are mere feet up from the water along the beach, and the crowds of people there to watch are just 15-20 feet beyond the cars. The men are mostly wearing hats and ties; women are in bonnet-like hats and dresses. I don’t know that auto racing since then has seen a more well-dressed group of spectators.

There’s likely somewhere between 200 and 300 people in the photo, and I highly doubt back then that they had any clue they would end up in a photograph and be hanging on my wall 90 years later. I’m sure most, except for perhaps the smallest of children in the picture, passed away years ago. But the way their spirit lives on in this photo and the excitement in life that they clearly loved to witness is amazing.

Nearly a century later, we’re still the same. Some things never change.

We’re drawn to festivals, sporting events and anyplace that promises even a remotely good time. We gather in throngs to share the same moment in time and so we can all say, “I was there when.”

We gather with friends, family, with strangers and sometimes we go alone just to witness the magic of someone’s dreams coming to life, and to see someone’s passion played out on a field, in a car, or in whatever setting they love to be in.

It’s interesting to think how many photos each of us has ended up in. With the capabilities our technology has today, will we be at a baseball game where an historic photo is snapped, only to be looked at under a magnifying glass decades from now and discussed by journalists or historians?

Who will wonder about us?

Who will wonder about the lives we led?

I remember working at Disneyland for a few summers during high school. On July 17, 1995, I gathered with many other employees on Main Street for a photo in honor of the park’s 40th anniversary, and Main Street was so packed you couldn’t even walk. I was somewhere right in the middle of the pack, and I’m sure you can’t see me.

Or can you?

I’ve often wondered if anyone has such a great-quality photo that they’re able to somehow make out the faces of the employees who wanted to be part of the day. Apparently that photo was put into a time capsule (which Disneyland appropriately refers to as a “time castle”) that’s supposed to be opened 40 years from that date in 1995. It’s kept safe under a stone that explains the capsule “is dedicated to the children of the 21st century, who may unlock its contents on the 80th Anniversary of Disneyland: July 17, 2035.”

2035, my friends. Who would’ve thought?

Probably Walt.

The old 1922 racing photo on my wall has a very time capsule-esque quality about it, and it makes me want to make a current-day equivalent of it for my own life. How, I’m not sure, but how amazing it would be to have someone 100 years from now find whatever I left behind and feel the same things I’m writing about tonight? Very.

Tonight I am thankful for those little moments in life when I can say, “I was there when,” and am excited for those moments in others’ lives. We never know whose photos we’ll appear in, who will appear in ours, and who will see them 25, 50, even 100 years from now. But here’s to making those moments count, and to following — and finding — our passions every single day.