The funny thing about being under the weather is the bizarre yearning that comes with it.

Not just a yearning to feel better, but for me, it’s a yearning to do better.

It might be the fuzzy head, the medicated train of thought or the stuffy nose, but whatever it is, it contributes tenfold to wanting to be better. A better person, a better contributor, a better life-liver.

An episode of Sex and the City that I’ve seen many times before makes me vow to be better to myself, not to mention better in the dating category. A show about hunting for gold in the Bering Sea makes me promise to go on more adventures. A cooking show inspires travel, tolerance and trust in the world.

On healthier days, inspiration comes from all angles — people, places, music, food. Little things about little things take on new meaning, while little things about big things can shift your beliefs.

But on the sick days, I find that it’s the everyday that can affect the rest of your days.

What causes the shift in your perspective? And what do you do with that shift?

Tonight I am thankful for unexpectedly seeing things in a new way and for the yearning that has accompanied ordinary things. Acting upon them will surely lead to the extraordinary.

Have you ever experienced a moment in life when scene and song came together in perfect harmony?

This afternoon as we were descending into Long Beach, the sky was clear blue with a golden horizon. The sun would be setting in about half an hour, and we were on our final approach.

I was once again enjoying some XM radio, and was able to catch the very start of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” as we made our way over the hills and across Orange County. An interesting, ethereal song on its own, the aspect of being detached from reality was paralyzing as all air turbulence left us and we glided like a feather during the song’s first few words, “Hello, is there anybody in there?”

The turbulence continued to be absent, and I was looking out over the ocean and the marshlands. The song’s rhythmic, gently descending eigth notes, bundled in fours, created a trance-like state during the, “There is no pain, you are receding” portion of the lyrics.

I stared out the window some more. The plane was quiet. Engine noise was barely audible. Nobody was talking. Everyone was just looking — outside, at the landscape, at the ocean, at the landmarks. Maybe it was the beauty of the day. Or maybe they were listening to the same song.

And then it happened. Gilmour’s magical guitar just after the two-minute mark began and, as it did, the plane banked majestically to the right to line up with the runway. As it did, everyone along the left-hand side of the aircraft was blinded by the setting sun as it seemed mere feet from our windows. Scene and song together created what felt like a slow-motion epiphany.

If you don’t know the song, this is the time when you need to listen to it. Personal, decades-long crush on Gilmour aside, you can’t tell me the sounds he’s able to bring out of his guitar don’t evoke feelings of weightlessness and soaring.

Just like what we were doing.

Gilmour has described the song as having distinctly “dark” and “light” sections, which you can hear when you listen all the way through. Sections of minor chords and harmonies merge into major, uplifting measures. As we approached the runway, it was odd how many of those “dark” bars lined up with scenes from the ground below that fit perfectly: flying through the steam given off by an austere, cold power plant, industrial corporate parks with little foliage or greenery surrounding them. Then the “light” parts of the song would line up with the afternoon light shimmering on the marsh water and ocean.

Approaching the five-minute mark of the song, the tension is building and we’re a few hundred feet off the runway. Not surprisingly, the intricate solo at the end was also in alignment with everything needed for a perfect landing.

Truly, no better song for a gorgeous descent into Long Beach on such a picturesque day.

Tonight I am thankful for the cinematic wonder that this song and the images just before landing created in my head. They say inspiration comes from many places, and this was today’s. Just for me.

Today was our second day of focus groups here in Westchester County. At the beginning of each group, the moderator asked his series of introductory questions the same way he’d done on the first day. He had the participants pair off and interview each other, and the goal was for each to find out what the other did for a living and if they lived with others. Then he asked them to talk about what’s new and good in their lives.

The question is a simple one, and one that forces you to truly focus on the “good” aspect. A lot of things could be new, but not everything is good. I don’t think we focus on the latter enough.

A few were newly engaged, some had just received a promotion, others were on the verge of a job change. A couple individuals had just purchased homes, while others were looking forward to an upcoming vacation.

Suddenly there was a lot of “good” being voiced in one room, and it was exciting to hear. You could feel the energy as they spoke.

Group after group, the excitement grew. I thought how easily it would be to replace, “How’s it going?” with, “What’s new and good?” in our day to day conversations. I think until it really caught on, which would likely take quite a while, people would be so caught off-guard by the question that they’d give you a real, legitimate, thoughtful answer. Nothing equivalent to, “Fine, you?” in reply to the usual, “How’s it going?” or “How are you?” questions. Those have become such common greetings that they’re the verbal equivalent of grade-school letters I used to write to pen pals: “Dear Wynne — How are you? I am fine.” And from there, it would lead in to even more mundane chat about the weather, about school, about pets.

Not that the effort back then wasn’t good. It was great. It taught me a lot about communicating via the written word, how I could brighten someone’s day and it gave me hope that the same letter I’d just sent halfway around the world would be reciprocated.

But we’re adults now. Shouldn’t our care and interest exponentially increase with each passing year? All the more reason why incorporating the question of what’s “new and good” could, in fact, be a very good thing — not just to make others identify the good in their world, but for us to learn how to ask genuinely, listen intently and respond accordingly…with care. Not just a courtesy answer, but with one wrapped in heartfelt warmth.

Tonight I am thankful for our focus group moderator who brought warmth to each of the groups with such a simple question; its humanity and kindness immediately brought ease and familiarity to a room full of strangers. And if that can be achieved among people who didn’t know each other before gathering in the same room, just imagine what we could accomplish among our closest of friends with such an inquiry.

So what’s new and good with you?

One month ago, I was shedding a tear and saying farewell to Christmas. December was in the rear-view mirror and it left me wondering how I’d muster the drive to make it through the majority of 2012 until the next time I’d be able to decorate for the holidays.

I wrote earlier this month about little milestones that I like to identify throughout the year. They help me speed ahead to the day after Thanksgiving when I can bust out the holiday decor again.

Interestingly, I wrote just last night about slowing down and pressing the pause button, so as not to become so wrapped up with getting to the next best moment that you miss other equally valuable moments (if you allow them to be) in the process.

So which is it going to be? Seems so hard to decide sometimes.

I’d like to credit the New York weather and landscape, currently devoid of freezing temperatures and snow, for helping me decide.

It was a brilliant morning, one flooded with sunlight and dressed up with a vibrant backdrop of blue skies which would normally plague me with a headache. Before flinging the curtains open, I popped a few ibuprofen, bonded with a cup of coffee, then proceeded to tackle the day. Step one was seeing what the outside world had in store.

Pale, bare trees greeted me first, and I couldn’t help but notice that all was quiet. The walking path below my window was empty, tree branches wished in vain for birds to perch, a distant gazebo stood waiting for a visitor which likely wouldn’t linger for long on such a brisk morning and a partially obscured street on a hill across the way told the story of a road — literally — less traveled. 

About forty feet from my room, a large, dignified rock caught my eye. The dark form emerged from the grass around it, and immediately spoke of centuries past, harsh winters and a climate far different than the one I call home. It sparkled in the morning light, and I was intrigued by it.

But my primping routine called. Time to ready myself for the day.

As we left the hotel, more of that same, sparkly, massive rock guided us to the parking lot. I touched it and was struck by its honesty and fortitude, while at the same time humbled by its delicate shimmer and kind warmth. If it was a person, it would’ve been a gentleman who values home and family, integrity and leading by example — all with a kind twinkle in his eye.

I Googled the rock in the area a while ago and decided that it must be a type called schist. I could be wrong, but it fits the bill nicely. I read more, and came to find out that much of Manhattan was built upon it (“Manhattan schist”).

And in the context of pressing pause or fast-forwarding, the more I think about the rock, the more it reminds me to net out on the side of pressing pause.

If the rock could speak, I suspect it would tell us of how it endures cold winter after cold winter, ultimately welcoming those chilly rains which melt the snow around it. I can hear it talking about heated summers where it wished for a reprieve that would take days, if not weeks, to come. I wonder if it ever questioned its strength.

But I suspect it would also say that enduring such extremes meant finding simple joys in the infrequent rays of sunshine that would peek through an otherwise overcast January sky. I imagine it would also remind itself that no matter how much heat it absorbed during sweltering summers, to revel in it while it lasted before fall brought cooler temperatures and frost. And then I get the strong feeling that while seasons may test it, it never once doubted its strength.

I was tempted earlier to write something like, “Only 10 more months before I can decorate for Christmas.” But now, looking at the rock and realizing how it patiently, dutifully waits out the seasons, sparkling when it can in as much light as it can get, or occasionally providing a resting place for weary passersby, I see the value in focusing now — more than ever — on the pause button.

Yes, tonight I bid a fond farewell to the month which brought much healing to the Christmas meniscus, which yielded 30 consecutive days of blogging and a fondness for stopping to smell the roses. I am thankful for the rock which quietly told its stories to me, and which will greet me again in the morning.

I flew Jet Blue today for the first time. It was a pretty excellent experience, and one that I can’t wait to repeat. Their La Perle Sauvignon Blanc was one of the tastier airline wines I’ve ever had, and the cheese tray was delicious. Throw in DirecTV, a heaping portion of Food Network, XM radio and and spritz of Hair Nation, and I was a happy camper.

Big points for all the controls being on the armrests instead of the seatbacks, too. With no added turbulence from any erratic and forceful button-pushing due to a fellow passenger behind me, the only thing we really had to worry about was a little bumpiness mid-country. Bliss.

Long about 6:15, we passed over a twinkling Chicago, its amber lights looking like gems from 35,000 feet, then over the dark nothingness of Lake Michigan. I realized we would likely also be on course for Lansing, the capitol just west of my alma mater — Michigan State University. Sure enough, we were, and I was able to look down upon illuminated highways I hadn’t seen since I drove home on them after graduation 12 years ago. The familiar bend of Grand River Avenue just north of the university was also visible; the campus smiled from below, and I missed it.

When I was there for school, I spent each semester counting down to the time when I’d be home again. The cross-country drive was the fun part, but the minute I’d unpack and get settled, I’d think to myself, “OK, 12 weeks till Thanksgiving, then home, then three weeks till Christmas, then home again.” The spring was similar: so many weeks till spring break, then so many weeks till the summer.

It was a time when I never felt emotionally settled, never felt content, never could manage to fully get into the headspace where I 100% appreciated and made the most of my college experience. I did absolutely appreciate, however, the sacrifice my parents made for me to be there, but how can you really create as many meaningful moments as possible when you’ve always got one eye toward your next trip home?

It’s difficult.

That being said, I have a ton of great memories from my college years. I first tried sushi at a small place near the east end of campus, rushed (then promptly un-rushed) a sorority, played in the puddles during those warm, Michigan rainshowers, made snowangels when the weather turned, beheld the magic of Beaumont Tower framed by the fall foliage, learned to love Meijer and was introduced to Hungry Howie’s fabulous pizzas. I tailgated a few times, played roller hockey (poorly) a few times, and had a serious, debilitating crush on some guy who drove a campus parking shuttle.

Sometimes I wonder how many more great memories I’d have if I hadn’t always been looking ahead to the next time I’d be going home.

It’s something I still have a tendency to do in life, and so tonight I’m thankful for great weather and the clear night which revealed my old friend Michigan, and for the nudge I felt to stop fast-forwarding to the next great thing — but to press pause and make my current place and time wonderful in itself.

Sometimes the smallest acts of kindness are the ones that leave you the most delighted.

Fresh out of cold meds, I ran to the store earlier to load up on a new batch. I realized I was also out of my favorite cereal, Special K Chocolatey Delight (if they’re reading, yes, I would love a free box — or forty).

I shuffled down the cereal aisle and was shocked to see that of all the varieties they carried, mine was the one with two boxes left. On the top shelf. And both boxes were at the very back, way beyond out of reach.

The store was quiet, save for a strangely excited crowd huddled around an in-store sausage demonstration (as in, how to cook it). Weird.

The aisle was empty, and I wasn’t about to go home Delight-less. Hm, what to do.

Climb the shelves? Probably not a good idea with the newly repaired meniscus.

Find a store employee? Meh, not really in the mood to hunt someone down.

Hmm…think. Think. Think.

Oh, wait — what’s this? A handy bundle-o-spatulii (yep, pluralized!) for sale, hanging off the shelf immediately behind me.

A plan began to brew.

I grabbed the bundle, which really only extended my reach by another 10 inches or so, and tippy-toed as best I could with my outstretched spatula-arm, trying my best to at least poke the box hard enough so that it would fall over and into my clutches…muahahaha!

Um, yeah. Anywho…

The plan wasn’t working. I pondered my remaining options: find a store employee (still too logical a solution), find another brand (but by this time I was hell-bent on getting those boxes) or leave empty-handed.

While I tried to decide, my eyes darted back and forth from the neighborly and fully-stocked Chex, to the Cheerios which mocked me, down to the floor, then back up to the out-of-reach Chocolatey Delight.

The spatulii and I tried once more.

We failed.

From around the corner came my knight in shining armor. Perhaps he had grown weary of the sausage demonstration, or perhaps he was also in the market for some Special K. Either way, he must’ve seen my pathetic attempts and serious pondering.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

I pointed at the two boxes out of reach. He looked defeated without even trying. And then I presented him with the spatulii.

He grinned and nodded affirmatively.

With a quick motion, he stretched, whacked the box and dragged it toward the edge of the shelf. He brought the box down.

“One?” he asked.

“Um…two?” I sheepishly replied.

He dutifully retrieved the other box and handed it to me, then went on his way.

Tonight I am thankful for the kindness of my grocery store knight who could’ve easily passed me by. He was a nice reminder that sometimes it’s the little things — holding the door for someone, letting someone know they dropped something or getting something off a shelf for someone — that hold the sweetest delights.

I came across a friend’s CD the other night as I was searching for a box of notecards. I didn’t find the stationery, but I pulled the CD from the shelf and reviewed its printed contents for a few moments. I never fully listened to it when I bought it years ago, but it stands for everything that inspires me in life.

It also manages to define a few of my quirks.

Summer before last, I bought a book. I saw it reviewed a few times in various magazines, but the thing that most caught my attention was the cover artwork. Vibrant colors and a giant hunk of cake stared back at me. Sold.

Cake aside, the story seemed interesting enough, so I bought it. As I began to read, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to make it past the first few pages. The writing was choppy. It was the written equivalent of a staccato in music. I tripped over the author’s combination of words, the sentences lacked an easy flow, I was having to re-read things repeatedly, and it made me irritated.

The irritation also stemmed from the fact that it was a bestseller. If something like that could get published, why couldn’t I be bothered to write my own material if I was so sure the work of others was inferior? It’s a question that’s been in my head for years, and I think last year was the first year I really started devoting time to writing. I’m not saying mine is best-selling material, but for me, doing it every day is a starting point. And you always need to start somewhere.

But I digress.

So the CD is sitting next to me here at the computer. Its packaging is attractive, simple, well-designed and it has everything I’ve always loved about buying something tangible from a music store: the smell of dense, rich ink on the sleeve, tidy columns of lyrics for those times when belting out the [correct] words is absolutely necessary, sepia tone photos of the artist’s earlier years and gracious thanks sprinkled with inside jokes from each of the musicians. Thanks to the band, to the spouses, to God. Thanks for their support, encouragement, their ideas, their warmth, their contributions and for the beer. Thanks for the guiding hands, the late-night food excursions, for friendship and hope and belief.

The CD is in a similar bucket as the book. I’ve never made it all the way through, mostly because it would be a reminder that a regular ol’ person like myself took a chance and made it happen.

And that I didn’t.

It’s important to note that never having listened to the CD is by no means a matter of jealousy. It was purchased as a show of support, but its presence felt like something my heart considered a weight to be dealt with. And it wasn’t ready to deal with it for years.

Until now.

Coming across the CD has been a reminder that while I’ve not only lost touch with the musician friend, I’ve lost touch with my own desire to finish my eternally-incomplete batch of music. This weekend, being slightly under the weather and with time on my hands, feels like the perfect time to dust off the album that’s been close by but just out of sight. It feels as though the CD was a gentle presence watching over me, peeking out from behind the books it was tucked behind, just waiting for the right time to appear when I’d be most receptive to it.

This weekend is that time.

Tonight I am thankful for coming across something that had essentially been forgotten, but which has been a quiet companion all these years just the same. I am grateful for the inspiration I know its songs will hold for me, and I thank my heart for finally being ready to give it a listen.

Sometimes there are days when we avoid it. It’s easier to stay under the covers, cozy and safe.

Other times we’re forced into it, and we do our best to put on a good show. We know others expect it of us, and we know they’re watching with critical eyes. We don’t want to let them down.

There are days when I imagine my life being illuminated by it. Some days it’s exciting; most days it’s simply an entertaining yet exhausting notion, and I leave it at that.

It has made millions intent on being in the middle of it wealthy. It has lined the pockets of others who have stumbled carelessly into it, but they sometimes find themselves none the richer because of circumstance, being taken advantage of and because their desires may have been slightly misguided.

In it, some showcase their talent brilliantly. Others who aren’t in it on a daily basis muster the courage to perform when called upon, but are happy to return to their existence characterized by the comforting, dull sheen of ordinary when the lights fade.

Sometimes the performance is genuine. Other times it’s half-hearted and a means to an end.

It asks us what our preference is: celebrity or simple life? Masses or mini gatherings?

The spotlight is an odd thing. Sometimes we seek it out, other times it seems as though it’s mercilessly thrust upon us.

But there’s only one thing to do when we find ourselves in its brightness:

Dance.

Tonight I am thankful for being occasionally forced out of my box of quiet comforts and calm moments. It teaches me something new every time and affirms that although it may not be my nature, embracing the dance will lead to other steps I never before thought possible to take.

It’s a funny thing when you think your preferences are so firmly rooted in one area and then, out of the blue, something the exact opposite pops into your head that inspires you to think, “Hm, yeah. That sounds fun.”

It happened to me the other day. Those who know me well know I’m a huge fan of gray, cloudy days. I love the rain, the fog, the cold. Bright, sunny days generally greet me with a massive headache, and I find that I long to be enveloped by a cloudy chill.

I was on my way to work and noticed how crystal clear the sky was. Not even a hint of haze could be seen, and the mountains in my rear-view mirror appeared close enough to touch. Although wishing we had rain, I was impressed by the vibrant blue color and had to hand it to Mother Nature — she certainly did know how to serve up the perfect Southern California day.

But as I turned a corner, a thought came to mind that was almost as clear as the spoken word: “I can’t wait for summer.”

Wait. What? Why would I ever think of such a thing? I almost scoffed.

That thought was immediately accompanied by a vision of me, plus maybe a friend or two, enjoying cocktails on a warm, summer evening under my strands of white patio lights. With nothing but the lights’ friendly glow and a deepening shade of blue on the horizon with each second the sun continued to set, the image was a calming, peaceful one.

As I drove, I remember being stunned for a few minutes. I’ve always been so solidly in winter’s corner that rooting for anything else seems blasphemous. Since when was it so easy for me to go from mourning the passing of the holidays to anticipating the coming of summer? This year, it happened in record time; I’m usually not in the mood for summer cocktails until Labor Day. Was it really as easy as entertaining a new thought that managed to stealthily enter through a door that was slightly ajar, and to allow myself to be so caught off guard by it that I didn’t have time to shut it down?

Seems that way.

Tonight I am thankful for the door that’s ajar which allows something unexpected to enter. It may throw you for a loop at first, but I found that mine reeled me back in just as quickly. And I’m liking it.

Who wants a tangerini?

I watched an interview with George Lucas on TV this evening. He spoke about how he had been in a terrible car wreck during his high school years and, in that accident, he was ejected from his vehicle. Up to that point, he had wanted to be a race car driver, but the near-fatal accident ultimately sent him in a different direction in life.

Realizing that he should have died, he spoke about how he felt from that moment on as if he was operating on extra credit; he developed a, “I can do what I want to do” fire in his belly, because he said that his life suddenly had new perspective. He’s not afraid of dying; he wants to just go for it. He feels like what he’s getting is bonus material, having survived an accident that most wouldn’t have.

He also spoke about passion, saying that someone asked him how you know what yours is. His answer was, “When you sit down at 7am and you do something, then you get up to get something to eat because you’re hungry and you realize it’s 7pm, that’s when you know.”

I remember once — maybe about six years ago — I was taking an online writing class. The focus was on screenplay development, and while I was having a hard time with the online format of the course, I plopped down in front of the computer one afternoon around 4pm and ended up writing until 5am the next morning. While I periodically took note of the time during those 13 hours, since I’d go to fetch a cup of coffee every now and again, the speed at which the night passed was astounding. For me, that’s when my passion was reiterated to me. I knew it was always there — it had just been shelved for a while.

Thinking about Lucas’ idea of extra credit and bonus material, I thought for a few minutes about whether I’ve had one of those in my life. I came to the conclusion that I think there could actually be a handful. It’s hard to say how many more situations have turned out for the better when they could’ve gone in a more negative direction just as easily as the wind shifts. I think back to some specific near misses, and after seeing tonight’s interview I’m grateful for them in a new way.

I am grateful for some of my darkest moments because they have their own way of spotlighting the positive.

I am thankful for my lowest of lows because, interestingly, they add depth to the highs that we experience.

And I am at peace with what I perceive as my burdens that could potentially be deal-breakers to others because I know they’ve given me new perspective in my own life, thus giving way for me to create my own bonus material.