On my way to work yesterday morning, I passed a bus stop where a young man was sitting, waiting. He looked tired, perhaps a little tattered. With both hands, he was holding a cup of what I assumed was hot coffee; he seemed to have a fixed stare on nothing in particular — just a downward gaze looking out at the ground in front of him. There was a chill in the air. He wasn’t dressed for it.

In that moment that I took everything in and continued on, I wondered what his story was.

Was he down on his luck?

Had he been up with a friend all night, trying to help them through a tough time?

Perhaps he was simply going to work and he’d given his car to someone else to use for a while.

Did he head out from his home early that morning because — despite his lack of a jacket — the cool morning air provided more warmth than his homelife would have?

Did he take the bus every day?

Was his current situation better than an earlier time in his life? Or worse?

I hoped that the quiet bus stop, his coffee and him sitting in the cool morning air wasn’t going to be the best part of his day. He looked like he needed so much more. More hope, something to smile about, his own transportation or maybe just a feeling — however fleeting — to take his blank stare and turn it into eyes uplifted with optimism.

We don’t know what others are up against, what they’ve been through, what they’re going through or where they’re headed. We don’t know if they’ll be around tomorrow, if we’ll be around tomorrow or how many more days we really have to do whatever it is we think we need to do, want to do or are obligated to do. We don’t know a lot about people, but we should know that our ability — even that young man’s ability — to see, observe and wonder can lead to a U-turn that we’ve been meaning to take, a journey down the road we might’ve always wondered about or to a personal transformation. It all starts with being aware of what we have and what we’ve been dealt. And it gets better when we wonder if there’s more out there.

While I am thankful for all that I have, today I am also thankful for my curiosity to see what else can be. We don’t know until we seek.

I stepped outside this evening and the air was cool, but not chilly; clean, but with no hint of dampness. There was a familiar scent on the slight breeze, and I recognized it in an instant:

It smelled like the grounds of the Arizona Biltmore hotel.

If you’ve never been, you need to go. I’ve had the great fortune of staying there a few times for work, and — year after year — vow to go back for some personal R&R. Its architecture is influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright, consulting architect for the hotel; its grounds are divine and its “Jewel of the Desert” status almost doesn’t do the property justice.

An orange tree’s fragrance drifted lazily in my direction as I stepped outside my back door a while ago, and this is the scent that has warmly enveloped me each time I’ve stayed at the hotel. The Arizona Biltmore’s property is dotted with them — on the patio where guests enjoy them during an exquisite dining experience, along the driveway as you enter the property, and probably in a myriad other locations around the premises. If you have a sliding plantation shutter door in your room, leave it open a bit to let the perfumed night air in (and the moonlight, if there’s anything close to a full moon above). It’s nothing short of bliss as you drift off to sleep.

I’ve always loved the smell of orange blossoms, especially on the evening air, but when that fragrance combined with the sights and sounds of the Biltmore, it’s a staggering experience for the senses.

Tonight’s thanky is short and sweet: with yesterday’s headache still lingering and a few random thoughts today that reminded me I need to carve out some downtime in the next few months (without really knowing where to do that), the orange blossoms were like a familiar friend stopping by for a brief hello — and an invitation to come see them when my schedule permits.

There are some days where the culmination of a simple, otherwise inconsequential string of events has the most fascinating, most interesting impact on my life.

Some days I’ll run late for work, and I’ll come upon an accident that has just happened. If I’d been on time, would I have been in it?

A few times in recent years, I’ve gotten a spontaneous call while on my way home; a friend asks to meet for a drink or a quick bite. Deep conversations ensue about a difficult time they’re going through, and I’m grateful that I was going nowhere but home — for perhaps I helped that friend go anywhere except deeper into a hole.

Sometimes we happen to be in the right place at the right time to overhear conversations that aren’t accurate or which need some guidance, and we’re there to lend our expertise or experience.

Other times we may simply be doing our usual routine when something manages to find us.

I headed home from work tonight and my head felt like it was in a vice. A massive headache came out of nowhere this afternoon and it was manifesting itself as a pounding in my forehead, throbbing behind my eyes and tension in my neck. Always a good time.

After making it to the freeway, I tuned into a station on the radio. Traffic was heavy, which meant my speed was nearly nonexistent and the road noise was more hushed than normal. I had a chance to focus on the lyrics I was hearing.

They talked about the bigger picture, and “what if” there’s a greater purpose. “What if” there’s more beyond our own little world?

I wrote recently about how I love advertising, but sometimes I think about what I do (make ads, sell cars) and it all seems so…weird. You know? All the stress, all the tense meetings, all the meetings before meetings and meetings after meetings, all the politics, all the document-creating, document-shredding and document back-pocketing. It’s not that I don’t get enjoyment out of my career, because I absolutely do. It’s just that I wonder sometimes: is there more?

Of course there is. I see people post about their time volunteering, their time traveling or their time giving back, and it makes my heart glad. Maybe this writing thing is it for me — I certainly find it rewarding. Or what if it’s not? Maybe my “it” has yet to be found, or maybe it’ll come to light one evening when I’m sitting here plunking away at the keyboard, trying to make my daily deadline. What if a simple post is read by someone who knows someone who knows someone, and some connection is made that could be life changing?

That’s the awesomeness of “what ifs.” They’re infinite. They just require one step in a chosen direction.

The song resonated in me in a way that nothing else has for quite a while. It brought tears to my eyes. Maybe it’s because I felt like I was hearing my innermost thoughts in song form, as if my subconscious had been busy pulling all-nighters recently to craft a tune to surprise me with (might explain why I’ve been sleeping so poorly as of late). Or maybe it was a sense of relief that at least one other person out there felt the same way as me. Maybe it was a little bit of frustration, as though something was lyrically slapping me in the face and saying, “You want some inspiration to do more? To feel more? To see beyond your world? Alright, how’s this?”

It’s feasible that I could’ve stayed at work for two or three more hours beyond when I left this evening. And if I had, I would’ve missed that song. But everything from leaving when I did, to flipping through other stations and finding nothing else that I wanted to listen to, to landing on the station that I did to being able to hear the lyrics without the burden of road noise was the greatest gift I could’ve gotten.

Tonight I am thankful for the small events which added up to a great, emotionally powerful and inspiring one this evening. Now, to pick a direction in which to step.

Year after year, I find myself in awe of the fact that mankind can build pyramids, launch satellites, rockets and missiles, perform surgery with tiny cameras and tools of precision, and turn a grape into an alcoholic feat of goodness. Yet the one thing that will always evade me (I’m confident of this) is finding a good bra. 

Wait — two things: a good bra, and great window treatments (minus the highway robbery prices).

I fully realize that I could walk into any number of stores and find a nice valance, pretty sheers or some mini blinds. But the key word above was “great.” And the options are not great, they’re frustrating. Frustrating in a I’d-rather-have-ten-perpetually-bleeding-hangnails-than-have-to-look-for-window-treatments-ever-again sort of way. Frustrating in the sense that I could purchase something easily enough, but I know I’d get home, put them up, then spend the next clump of however many years being unhappy with them — after I take them down, stuff them in a corner and glare at them in my free (ha) time.

Boo.

I walked into a department store earlier looking for a specific brand of bra. I’d seen commercials for it recently, and its claims of having straps that never slip off your shoulders were enough to make me bawl (another key word) tears of hope. Not just cry, bawl. That’s how you know my two-decades-long plight is serious.

I was on a date once, and I was super proud of my uber-cute sleeveless top. Proud, that is, until my bra strap just decided to slack off. It fell down. Out of nowhere.

Really?

If I was missing, you know, a shoulder or something, I might’ve understood. It was as though the darned thing had hopes of its own and was trying to speed the night along. As for me, I was no longer hoping for a second date (or anything else that evening). I was, however, really wanting to do an angst-laden burnout on my way out of the parking lot, get home, strip, and burn it in the backyard. Maybe even while doing a dance. Bra-burning for a whole new reason, ladies and gents.

So I’m at the mall earlier and couldn’t find the brand I was looking for. I sleuthed out a saleswoman to see if they carried it, and she directed me to a single shelf of packaged…things. Not a rack of frilly, foofy cuteness in assorted colors and styles, but instead things that could’ve passed for old, crusty, brittle duct tape that was shrink-wrapped. The style was even better: the picture on the packaging showed a confident woman (she must’ve lacked, oh, I dunno…eyesight?) wearing what was likely the inspiration for Coneheads across her chest.

My eyes darted from the bra to the saleswoman, back to the bra, then back to the saleswoman.

“…that’s it?” I asked her. The not-so-thin veil of depression was beginning to lower.

She gave me an equally sad look and shrugged as if to say, “Yep, sorry. May I interest you in a bra with inferior straps?”

My bra mission this evening was on the heels of my window treatment mission which began on Saturday. Both were, you could say, a bust.

I high-tailed it home (as much as one can high-tail in a rental Camry, that is) and hopped online to FIND (note the confidence) window treatments o’ joy and bras o’ wonder.

An hour later, after browsing grommet top, pinch pleat and rod pocket options, plus roman shades, cellular shades, horizontal and vertical blinds, I had a new plan: bite the bullet, fork over some cash and continue the plantation shutter look around the rest of the house (thanks to my mom for starting the gorgeous trend in the casa in the first place).

And without going into detail, bras are on their way.

All this might leave one to wonder what there is to be thankful for this evening. What isn’t there to be thankful for? My two biggest issues this weekend were bras and window treatments. If I had to, I could go without the former and tape newspaper up for the latter. (Alright, maybe not.) But considering everything else in this world, those two little things made me thankful for their insignificance.

And for the Internet, without which there would be no blogging.

Sometimes I’ll be talking to a friend about an idea for a play, a movie, a business or a song, and they’ll say to me, “You know you could totally make that happen, right?”

The question is as though they’re aware of my long-standing — yet occasionally amusing — relationship with self-doubt.

Do I know I could make it happen? Eh, I dunno. I’m confident I could put forth a good effort, but some of that beneficial cockiness has always eluded me. But I’ve always believed there’s never any harm in trying, so I do.

One of my favorite quotes is from Epictetus. “If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid.” So I have. Most of my life.

I’ve never had a problem being the odd-man out, the quiet one, the one who likes to be left alone to create. I don’t mind being the music nerd or the writer who stays in on a Saturday night, the wanderer who happens upon a quiet restaurant and stops in for a solo glass of wine and a chat with a stranger, the inspiration gatherer or the dream chaser. 

The amusing part comes when I happen to glance over my shoulder at something I wanted to do –and did. After spending weeks or months preparing for it, studying for it, stressing out about it and losing sleep over it, once I apply myself, the moment has finally come. And it’s done.

Accomplished.

A box that’s checked off the list.

I cast a backwards glance and practically laugh at myself. “What did you think you’d do, fail?” Don’t get me wrong — failure is always an option. Lord knows I’ve done that enough in my life so far, with more to come. But so often I forget to be content in my preparation that I’ve worked so hard at.

I believe that preparation is the key to most things, while dumb luck covers the remainder. Sometimes I wonder if I worry too much, or if I worry to the point of spooking myself, thus guaranteeing that I’ll put in some long hours which ultimately pay off in the long-run.

Maybe shorter hours would’ve gotten the job done. Most likely they would’ve. But if they hadn’t been as long, my worries would’ve been that much greater. It’s how I’m wired.

The annoying part of my wiring is the part that comes right before those long hours. The hemming and hawing, the overthinking, the planning for Plan B, C, D, as well as E, F and G. I liken it to a pile of documents that needs shredding. The mountain looks intimidating and you know it’s going to take time. The machine might jam or burn up. You might get a papercut or, worse yet, a finger caught in the darned thing. But if you take it a few pages at a time, slowly and steadily, you get through it.

The job is done.

Nothing overheated, nothing burned up.

It’s done, and you look at the new pile you’ve created and think, “That’s all it took?”

Tonight I am thankful not for my personal victories when it comes to checking off the things I put on my to-do list, but instead for the reminder to be content during the entire process. If preparation doesn’t pay off, perhaps it’s because the time isn’t right. Maybe it’s meant to spur myself into trying again, and trying it in a different, perhaps more efficient manner.

And if the preparation does pay off, it’s a reminder that those people really were right. I totally could make it happen. And I did.

Today I found an old mix CD that I made about 11 years ago. In typical fashion, I hadn’t written anything on it so I had no idea what it contained. I gave it a listen.

I was slightly embarrassed by a few songs, surprised by others, a few I’m still a big fan of and apparently I was going through somewhat of a country phase at the time.

It’s funny to me how we think we know the words to some songs at certain points in our life. When I was little, I sang the words to Juice Newton’s “Queen of Hearts” — or rather, I sang what I thought were the words.

Fast forward 20 years and I remember when I sang the song again after not hearing it for two decades. Suddenly my childish take on the lyrics was improved, and the words were correct. It was as though I’d been reprogrammed with some innate understanding of the lyrics. Weird.

When I made today’s CD 11 years ago, some of the songs held special meaning to me at the time. Some were pining for love lost, others were more bolstering and renewing in their message. Today, none of those songs hold any meaning to me, except for the ones I still like and which have stood the test of time. But even the meaning of those doesn’t venture much beyond merely reminding me of good times, hot summer sun and maybe a cold beer.

Some of the songs I can still sing along to without tripping over lyrics that have spent years gathering dust, while others I’m suddenly able to harmonize to when I never tried before.

Finding that old CD was a lot like thumbing through an old journal. You remember the situations at the time, and you remember the power they held over you. Their aftermath, either rife with happiness or a somber spirit (there seems to be little in between during one’s younger years, no?) affected the way we sang our tune then, and it had a direct impact on whether we were able to harmonize with it — in other words, whether we were able to see things from a different perspective and look at all sides objectively.

Words we thought we once knew but which we now know, harmonies we couldn’t sing then but which we’re able to now and the singing of lyrics that have never faded from our memory — the same way some of our strongest habits will never leave us — is what makes life a symphony that we’re able to enjoy, find a new arrangement for, record, re-record or scrap entirely. The beauty of music is that it can be composed however we want it to be, and the beauty of life is the same.

Tonight I am thankful for the shared bond between life and music, and the common thread that reminds me to write my own tune. Whether I choose to keep a few bars from younger years, add a new melody in my current years or find new harmonies with others to make up my soundtrack for life is the joy in each of us being our own composer.

Sometimes I sit down to blog and I know what I’m going to write about.

Other times, I don’t.

Tonight is an example of the latter.

You’d think, given the simple “Thanky” focus of these posts, that something should easily and immediately come to mind on a daily basis that’s riff-worthy. Well, it’s a little slow in coming tonight, although it might find its way to this screen the longer I sit here. I can see how it might seem that I’m ungrateful this evening, but that isn’t it at all. The brain is just a little slow; it is weary.

It’s easy enough to come up with a list of things that I appreciate. I appreciate the presence of Advil PM in my life. I appreciate that things like bacon and sausage come in a healthier turkey option. I appreciate the refreshing, tasty beverage that is Barefoot Wine’s Sweet Red deliciousness (low-brow, yes, but pair it with cranberry juice and it’s nearing sangria territory). I appreciate that Netflix delivers me a red-sheathed DVD promptly, and I appreciate a good, rainy day. I appreciate down time, quiet time, my trashed Uggs that I won’t wear anywhere else except in the comfort of my home, driving aimlessly and those three-to-a-pack Madeline cookies, peddled in most coffee shops, that are always suspiciously soft and spongy. (How do they do it?)

Appreciation is one thing (for me, anyway). Being thankful is entirely different, and implies a richness not easily obtained when gratitude is absent.

A few moments ago, I wandered into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a side of inspiration when I noticed my roll of paper towels was down to its last one. I grabbed a replacement roll and it had a delightful theme printed all over, with quotes written in an undulating manner and butterflies dotting the sheets.

This is where I explain that tonight’s inspiration has come from that roll.

Of paper towels.

(Yep.)

One of the quotes said, “There’s a whole lot to be thankful for if you take the time to look.”

Never before have I felt so connected to Bounty. I’d be shocked if I bought another brand after tonight.

I guarantee you I didn’t buy the pack because of that quote. In fact, I didn’t even know it was on the roll. I bought the six-pack because it was literally the last printed option in the aisle, and as much as I love the purity of a plain white sheet, printed paper towels are far more my speed.

As I sit here with my deadline minutes away, I’m currently charmed by the fact that I happened upon this new roll tonight, and right as I was looking for inspiration to come from tea rather than something that used to be a tree. I laugh at its well-timed nudge that tonight makes me thankful for the little reminders we’re given in our lives. If we think we’re at a loss, take a breather, keep your eyes open, and you might be surprised at what you find.

I hopped online to write tonight and was greeted by a Posterous screen I hadn’t yet seen before:

“Down for maintenance.”

I missed a heartbeat (possibly two), then calmed down. Down for maintenance? No bueno. I have a [self-imposed] deadline. What’s a girl to do?

It dawned on me that perhaps the old-school route was in order. Unfortunately not in the pen and paper sense, but rather writing in a Word .doc and hoping the site would be fixed in the nick of time (read: by midnight) so that I could undertake a swift copy and paste job.

If the copy/paste route was thwarted, I did happen to notice the Posterous homepage said email posts were still working just fine. All well and good, but unfortunately my blog account is tied to my work email…and there’s nothing graceful about the hunk o’ legalese that would appear with a post sent from my Blackberry.

That said, while not the best option, it’s saved me before with other blogs. I’d take that route if it came down to it.

As a near-last resort, I figured I could always start a new “note” on Facebook and post that, since these posts also automatically populate my wall once I publish them (Randomly, I’ll never get used to talking about my wall, by the way — at least not in a manner that indicates I’m referring to anything other my guardedness and hefty batch of well-honed defenses.)

Needless to say, the site was back in tip-top shape as of a 30 minutes ago, and here I am.

It made me think about how many times in life we come across a roadblock of sorts. Do we take it for what it is, calmly turning around and taking a different direction? Nudge it and hope it gives way enough so that we can squeeze through a small opening? Perhaps we scale it. Or maybe we try to kick it down. Some may opt to enlist the help of friends. Or maybe we just sit and consider it a forced breather.

The latter is my first go-to. Something’s in the way, and so it must be there for a reason. Maybe it’s just to force me to slow down and make sure my I’s are dotted and T’s are crossed. Whatever the reason, I’m fine with waiting it out for a while. Often, I feel like I’ll come across an obstacle that quickly makes me discard the vehicle by which I was traveling. I don’t know what to do about the obstacle, but distilling the matter down into a bite-sized chunk is mandatory. Thus, farewell, vehicle.

I then like to deliberately and carefully dissect everying. This rational concern goes here. That other one, the more emotional response, goes in the corner. Implications and ramifications are clumped together based on their degree of potential impact, and the opinions of others are gathered into a little box.

And then I stand back.

My arms are folded, and the issues surrounding my obstacle no longer have the best of me. I’m eyeing them, and they know it. 

Some of my best, most calming solutions have come to me in my quietest of moments. I’ve put everything aside, I’m staring them down, I’ve managed to silence the brain, and just when I think I’m about to reach some zen-like state, the answer is found. (Which, I suppose, is zen-like in itself.)

Within moments, I’m back up and running. The brain is no longer quiet, but instead is back to its buzzing. It’s firing on all cylinders. It’s good to go.

Tonight I am thankful for the ability to see a situation for what it is, and to be able to methodically pull it apart and show it who’s boss. While I appreciate the lessons an obstacle holds, we’ve all got better things to do than to be had by them. Let’s get back up and running.

One of my best friends said to me tonight, “A star is brightest right before it burns out.”

Someone who’s on the verge of a life-altering career change, Friend was talking about the underlying current of energy that’s been felt as of late. Friend is close to moving across the country, and this is something that on one hand makes my heart leap for joy, while on the other hand, my heart is heavy.

I will miss my friend.

Friend’s current of energy has been missing for many months, and its return has clearly brought forth a set of viable options. One of my favorite sayings is that if something isn’t going your way, it’s because you’re not quite ready for it.

I like to think my friend was in this boat. Friend wanted to be ready, but the landscape of the world wasn’t yet correct.

For as hard as things have been on my friend, I believe that everything was meant to be — every bump, every ditch, every high and every low…every euphoric sensation, every ounce of exasperation, every bit of desperation, and every moment of elation has all been for this place in time where the tides have turned.

The world is ready, and the landscape is at Friend’s feet.

Tonight I am thankful for the good fortune that has come to visit my friend. I wish him the best, most personally rewarding and inspiring experience ever. My friend is more than worth it, and he has waited long enough.

If joy was a tangible object, for me it would be a strand of twinkle lights.

When I lived in Connecticut, I remember visiting stores like Anna’s Linens or Home Goods, trying to find things to make my place, well, more like home. On one particular trip, I came across a medium-height, faux palm tree-in-planter, drenched in strands of twinkle lights.

It was divine. No other item was capable of such double-duty: it simultaneously reminded me of home, and was draped in sparkling goodness reminiscent of my favorite time of year.

Bliss.

Tonight, I drove through a quaint, nearby downtown area and was instantly reminded of the joy I found in my faux palm. I would plug it in on cold winter nights as the snow fell outside and all I could see and feel was the warmth of California and the promise of a festive holiday.

As I drove down the narrow streets this evening, all the trees were lit up, traffic was calm and the lights — if you squinted your eyes just enough — could pass either for ribbons of tiny bubbles floating upward in a champagne flute, or for a million Christmas trees.

Either option is more than excellent in my book.

Regardless of season, they are always there. In January, they tell you to not forget the magic of Christmas. In the spring, they glisten like the last hint of sunshine on the ocean, just before the sun sets. During summer, they provide a canopy of whimsy for outdoor cocktails, and in the fall they once again encourage us to slow down and embrace the holidays that are fast-approaching.

I wondered if there was anyone in the world who perhaps didn’t know the joy of a strand of twinkle lights, and I then figured there were likely plenty of people who weren’t aware of its spendor. I wondered — if presented with an illuminated string of tiny lights — whether the joy would translate, much like a smile tends to be universally understood.

I like to think that it would.

Tonight I am thankful for the little things that can instantly warm a heart, bring up old memories and deliver the promise of beauty in seasons to come. What’s your tangible joy?