I watched Moneyball tonight. It’s the sort of film I hope I’m able to write someday, although it takes actually finishing a screenplay for that type of thing to ever become even a remote possibility.

I’ve enjoyed baseball for years. It’s important to note that “enjoyed” is not equal to “followed.” For me, there’s nothing like a summer game played when the sun is high in the sky, the beer is ice cold and there’s not a cloud for miles. At the end of a season, I can’t recite stats or tell you about the teams. But I can tell you whether the beer was decent, or watered down.

I digress. It’s not that I want to write a story about baseball. It’s that the driving force behind the movie, which was all about taking risks and caring enough to believe, is something that is rarely taken to heart in our own lives.

There’s a line from the movie that, I feel, speaks to why this is the case: “The first man through the fence always gets bloody.” The fact that I’m bothering to quote the film could be chalked up to good screenwriting, but in this case, I give the nod to plain old truth. Truth, whether in film or in the middle of broad daylight, is something that silently and without physical contact smacks you in the face, leaves you dazed for a few seconds, and then inspires some head-nodding. Truth is what makes you assess your life — or just the day’s events — instantaneously. Truth inspires action.

While the idea of forging your own path and becoming bloody in the process isn’t ideal, it’s often far more rewarding than waking up one day and realizing that the path you’re on isn’t fulfilling.

Motivating.

Game-changing.

The beauty of film is that it has a chameleon-like quality about it. It takes on varied relevance for each person depending on where their heads, hearts and lives are at. For me, today I am thankful for the power and art of cinema which enables simple truths to take on new meaning, and which has just inspired some game-changing of my own.

Hard? Yes.

Possible? Yes.

There are long weeks, and then there are really, really long weeks. Sometimes the four-day work weeks are the ones that suspiciously feel the longest, and other times you’ll have legitimately lengthy weeks when you’re in back-to-back meetings from 9 to 5, only to finally be released to a heap of work that’s been waiting all day for you to tackle it. So, dutifully, you do, and then it’s 10 o’clock before you realize you’ve missed dinner.

Today was one of those days when the to-do list kept getting longer and longer. It felt like a mean-spirited test. “Oh, yeah? You want a three-day weekend? Alright, here. Work for it.”

Cool, no problem. Consider it done.

So I toiled, then toiled a bit longer. Longer still. It wasn’t frantic toiling, it was simply one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, let’s-get-this-thing-done toiling. Relaxed toiling. Focused toiling. Yep, still more toiling — with an occasional trip (read: limp) to the printer. And just when I thought I was done, there was more.

The alternative wasn’t desirable. Yes, I could leave it until Tuesday and come back to a hodgepodge, but that would take the fun out of three days off. Why waste precious R&R time thinking about the pile that awaits my return? No bueno.

Just as I was on my last ounce of energy, I realized I was at the end of the tunnel. The light was there and it was blinding, like a neon sign with a giant arrow pointing to the word “HOME.” Finally! I’d kept my head down for so long that I didn’t notice, and it’s just as well. I’m sure the time passed more quickly than it would’ve had I focused on the moments ticking by. I packed up and headed out.

The cleaning crew was there settling in for the night shift, whistling songs that brightened our cool, gray, polished concrete hallways. A co-worker said good night and walked me out, and I said a quiet prayer that he’d be able to get home before his kiddos went to sleep; bedtime for them had been coming earlier than dad’s return from work, and he hadn’t seen much of them all week. Security was sitting at his post in our lobby, and noticed with a friendly compliment that I was making progress off the crutches. Sometimes the longest hours reveal the warmest souls.

Tonight I am grateful for my inner voice that encouraged me to tie up all the loose ends before sliding head-first into a three-day weekend. Mine wasn’t the most graceful approach ever, but it got the job done. And with that checked off, there was only one thing to do:

Focus on relaxing.

Getting home at 11pm isn’t exactly a relaxing day.

Somewhere in between the status meetings, launch planning, production chats, birthday gathering, budget developing, PowerPoint-ing, server perusing, meeting coordination, regrouping, logistics-discussing, foraging for leftover food and hobbling through the halls, I realized my energy was at an all-time low by early afternoon. It’s been a long week, and a day of back to back to back to back to back to back meetings can wear on even the hardiest of souls.

Later in the day, things started to look up. A co-worker’s birthday yielded a tasty cake and a break from the chaos (yay for sugar rushes), and my first practice with some fellow musicians yielded something even tastier:

A second wind.

There’s a quote that talks about how if you’re doing what you love, it’s never really “work.” I agree with this for the most part, but chances are that everything you love doing still requires at least a small percentage of work, upkeep or maintenance attached to it. And for me, this is fine. It’s a package deal. And it probably is something that makes you appreciate the other 98% of said activity/hobby/etc. even more.

No, getting home at 11pm doesn’t make for a relaxing day. But it’s funny how making time for and committing to the things that bring you the most joy can provide a sense of calm and a full tank after a day of running on empty.

Tonight I am thankful for second winds. And while I’ve enjoyed it, I’m also thankful my bed is just around the corner in the other room. Nighty night.

In the last year, my me-list has grown to a fairly healthy length. Different than a to-do list, which I consider to be riddled with unexciting-yet-necessary things such as laundry, grocery shopping, sweeping out a garage and exercising a recently-operated-upon knee (a necessary evil which is, in fact, both irritatingly necessary and painfully evil), a me-list is your personal, hopefully ever-evolving list of things that pique your interest and that you want to tackle and check off for, well, yourself. Just because you can.

Just over a week ago, I vowed to not miss a night of blogging all year. It’s one thing to start a blog and get around to writing something — anything — whenever inspiration pays you a visit. It’s another thing entirely when one’s blog has an intentionally specific focus, and when the remaining 355 days in the year seem like they’re concrete bricks that make up a very, very tall wall. It’s daunting already, and I’m sure I’ll feel this way plenty more times in the months ahead. But Thanky’s rules are strict by design.

I’ve started those whatever/whenever blogs and, for me, they don’t go anywhere. Their focus is cross-eyed instead of spot-on, and not holding myself to do it every day or night means that I can skip a day. Or two. Or twenty. And it doesn’t really matter. It just makes my excuse-crafting better. Which is bad.

With Thanky, the reason I enabled the autopost-to-Facebook feature is to hold myself accountable so that I can reach a personal goal. Period. Maybe nobody has bothered to read the “Vows” page of the blog, but the fact that I know “never miss a day” is spelled out means that, even though I’m only on deadline for myself and my year-long series of nightly calendar reminders, I’ll still be letting someone down: me. And aren’t we the most important person when it comes to tackling our me-lists?

Sometimes I feel like liberty makes us complacent. For the most part we can go wherever we want, whenever we please. Because of that, I feel like many take it for granted. I know I do. I think something will be there/available/reachable/doable tomorrow, so I put it off. And off. And off. And before you know it, my quest for whatever I bothered to put on my me-list in the first place has turned pointless. Voiceless. Like my wayward blogs.

Can you imagine living a life where your daily objective is simply to survive? Or to find food for your children? Or to hope that whatever illness you’re harboring — because you have no access to life-saving treatment — can hold off “just one more day” so that you can savor a sunrise that gets ignored by most?

I can’t.

It’s somewhat of tragedy when I can come home, play my piano, throw on my PJs, make a cup of decaf and wind down for the night before going to bed in a safe, warm, comfortable environment. It’s a tragedy that my main stressor is, “What will I write about this evening?” because so many in this world will never know the peace we take for granted. Daily.

Tonight I am thankful for being able to take my me-list seriously, while many in our own country and around the world are forced to focus on only what’s necessary for survival. Let’s tackle our me-lists and consider those who do not have the luxury of having one. You never know what good may stem from our accomplishments and ripple outward, possibly touching someone in need with a smile, an extra ounce of hope or the courage to keep pressing on.

Not to be outdone by the morning light, tonight’s sky was also as impressive as yesterday’s dawn.

While the full moon was technically last night, driving home this evening and seeing it low in the sky, bathed in a reddish-orange haze, was a sight to behold. It reminded me of a book called Moon of Popping Trees, for no other reason than because of the Native American names given to each month’s full moon. “Wolf Moon” is January’s, since the hungry wolf packs — searching for food during the frigid, snowy season — could be heard howling outside the villages.

As the freeway would bend slightly, different shapes were backlit. Buildings and towers boasted crisp, inky-black outlines; more than once a plane’s silhouette was revealed, only to disappear as the aircraft continued on its journey. Palm trees were my favorite thing to identify, their tall stalks exploding into a comical, spiny mess, not unlike a jester’s hat.

The Moon of Popping Trees was the name for the month of December. The Lakota would say that you could hear the branches and small twigs snapping in the freezing air; it’s an appropriate name for me, for last month. I felt mostly out of sorts the majority of those 31 days, something I suppose wasn’t helped by the knee issues and ingestion of pain medication. Not much seemed to warm the right side of my brain, and I was searching for a new project to latch onto.

Enter: January. Wolf Moon, a moon that spoke of the hunger surrounding it. With a renewed focus on writing and a few new songs in the works, I find tonight’s moon a nice reminder that even as the months change, so will one’s outlook if you allow it.  

Tonight I am grateful for the simple pleasures of being at home, hungry to create. Whether it be music or writing, the output is worthwhile so long as the heart sings.

“Whatever you want to do, do it now. There are only so many tomorrows.” -Michael Landon

I have never seen a more perfect crystalline, turquoise sky like the one I saw this morning.

It was just before 6 o’clock and, as I shuffled through the house to turn off the porch lights which had been standing guard all night, an azureous glow from the east caught my eye.

Neither a hint of fog nor a speck of haze was visible. It was as though even the sun’s golden warmth decided to stay in bed a while longer to behold the magic of the sky. It was perfection. I tucked it into my memory and got on with the day.

Throughout the afternoon, my thoughts drifted to the movie Under the Tuscan Sun that I had seen the weekend before. One of my favorite scenes comes at the end of the film when recently-divorced Frances realizes that all of her wishes for her newly purchased villa have come true.

Prior to this, however, she shares a heartbroken moment mid-movie with her Italian real estate agent. As she speaks to him and wonders aloud why she bought such a large house for a life she doesn’t have, he prods her, “Why did you do it then?” Her reply is, “…because I still want things. I want a wedding in this house, and I want a family in this house.”

At the end of the movie, she looks out over her beautiful grounds where a young couple has just married. They’re in the middle of their reception, and the joy is palpable. Then her eyes fall upon her friend and her newborn baby. She realizes she has gotten both wishes: a wedding and a family.

In the past six months, there have been things that I’ve tried to make happen in my work life. I’ve hoped, prayed and focused on them with all my might, but they haven’t come to pass. I truly believe everything happens for a reason, so I did my best to not fret over their absence.

Today I realized that some side projects I’ve been working on are exactly the things I’d tried to make happen months ago in my 9-to-5 world. Without going into too much detail about them, I will say that the moment of clarity when I realized just this afternoon that I what I asked for had ultimately come my way was one of those beautiful, epiphanic occasions.

Tonight I am thankful for the morning sky’s clarity which made me take pause, and for the clarity which continued through my day, ultimately finding its way into my thoughts and personal reflections. We may not get exactly what we’ve asked for, but chances are, if we stay patient and remember to look around every now and then, we realize we’ve gotten something even better in the long run.

Earlier today, I had the fortune of joining a group of playwrights for their monthly meeting, thanks to an invitation earlier this week from one of the group’s members.

True to my homebody nature, I woke up this morning and would have been content to lounge in my jammies with coffee mug in hand until noon, but I couldn’t. I had to be somewhere at 12, which meant my morning meandering would need to wait out the workweek. Not too many years ago, I would’ve been OK with passing on an opportunity to learn something new, to see something out of the ordinary or to emerge from my bubble, but I’ve tried hard to do the opposite in this area. I’ve found that when I do, the experience is 100 times greater than I could ever have imagined.

We met in a side room at an Orange County library. The gathering was fairly large, with three individuals planning to share their work; feedback would be provided in return. One had his first act complete, another contributed his 10-minute play, and the third was a woman who had her first 20 pages written.

The pages from the first two members were incredibly well-written, and at the completion of their readings, the group praised and constructively criticized the work. This process isn’t unlike what I’ve experienced in my own playwriting classes. And then we got to the woman’s pages.

While the subject matter was nothing short of fascinating (and also very well-written), the way in which she spoke and fielded questions afterwards had me captivated. She answered them, but before doing so would lead into her reply with a quote. Example: “How did you come up with this idea?” Her reply: “There’s a quote that goes, ‘The morning breeze has secrets to tell you. Do not go back to sleep,'” after which she’d explain that many of her ideas come in the middle of the night. The trick, she said, is to do something with them the moment they arrive. Don’t go back to sleep — get up. Speak into a voice recorder. Move to a different room and write, preferably with pen or pencil versus typing. But don’t go back to sleep.

One man who had directed many plays in the Southern California area asked her about a different play that had been shared with the group the previous year. He was interested to know how its completion was coming along, because this woman had since moved to New York and her work wasn’t shared as regularly anymore. That said, she still tried to drop in when she was in town, like she was today.

“It’s not going where I expected at all,” she casually and candidly said of the play’s story.

I was shocked. The writer herself, the one who could make her own imagination come to life, was writing something that she didn’t expect?

It may not seem like a jarring answer, but she so easily admitted her own surprise at the play’s arc that it made me wonder why — in our own lives — we often times aren’t as able to go with the flow and adjust when our own story changes. Why does it seem more difficult to embrace the changes in our own storylines?

I continued thinking about this for a few moments, and while doing so glanced around the room at the members. They varied wildly in age — from a few in their 30s to some in their 60s — but their affection for the written word and where it transported an audience was the same. They were ravenous to create an experience, not just to complete a draft. I wondered what their backgrounds were, and how long they’d been writing. I wondered what defining moment existed in each of their lives to bring them all to playwriting.

The woman was still speaking, and while she had a slightly skittish quality to her movements, she was very sure of her answers. Her hands danced through the air as though she was a musical conductor articulating her spoken symphony.

Toward the end of the meeting, one of the members was giving away some of his issues of The Dramatist, a journal published by the Dramatists Guild of America. He gave me one, and it happened to be a double issue from just one month ago. I put it in my purse, the discussion came to a close and I walked out with the group, making small talk as we navigated toward the parking lot.

Once inside my car, I sat for a minute and realized how much I would have missed out on if I, for some reason, would have stayed home. The thought was almost painful. I said it in a post from last week, but the invitation to join the group’s meeting today was nothing short of a gift — and one that had quickly re-lit the fire to complete my dust-gathering scripts.

I retrieved my issue of The Dramatist from my purse, and noticed the title of this particular issue looking back at me from the front cover: The Inspiration Issue. The words took my breath away for a split-second. I smiled back them.

Inspiration, indeed.

Today I am thankful for new friends, the idea that a work in progress is allowed to veer off course as often as it wants, the embracing of change in my own storyline and my personal, few-years-old resolution to get out and experience more.

To this day, it surprises me how much better it feels than jammies and morning coffee.

This morning after waking, I remained cocooned in the comfort of my warm, cozy blankets for a while but grabbed my Blackberry from its bedside perch and scrolled through Facebook. You never know what important news may be missed during one’s time of slumber.

“Every second is a chance to turn your life around.”

The image practically leapt from my newsfeed. The quote was written in white type and set against a midnight blue sky, rife with thousands of stars. Dark silhouettes of trees punctuated the horizon.

I thought about it for a moment while my ears instantly perked up, tuning into my small clock tick-tocking the seconds away.

Beyond turning your life around, every second is a chance to do a lot of things: something new, something old that you’ve enjoyed doing before, something kind for a loved one, something kind for yourself.

The clock’s mechanics turned numeric: …thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…  

I was still in bed, and still thinking. It felt as though the clock was radiating impatience. Toward me. For wanting to be cozy. Such nerve.

Not in the mood for judgment at such an hour, I extricated myself from the bedroom and wandered into the living room for my usual Saturday morning ritual: coffee and cooking shows. Somewhere between learning how to make a croquembouche and profiteroles, the clock on the wall got in on the action. But its sounds were of a different kind.

They continued the theme of impatience, but took on a child-like quality, the way a parent might hear, “Are we there yet?” during a roadtrip. Or maybe just a trip to the corner store.

My eyes were fixed on the TV and the French pastry tower which was barely in-frame. Sing-songy descriptions about its stature and sugary threads were mesmerizing me as the seconds, barely audible, ticked by.

Now?

Now?

Now?

Now?

No longer was the clock mechanic, it was speaking to me. I wasn’t quite sure what Father Time was nudging me to do, so I tried to tune him out.

I did a load of laundry, made some breakfast to accompany the coffee and put the remainder of Christmas away which — until this morning — had taken up residence on my dining room table.

After getting ready, I headed out to my nail appointment. Small talk filled the hour, and I learned from June that her daughter liked to sing. I also learned that she used to not sing very well, but this year, she’d apparently become better with practice.

There was a lull in the appointment, and we both sat in silence. Somewhere between my nails being filed and the first coat of my gels being applied, I noticed that a small clock on the wall was ticking ever so quietly.

Now?

Now?

Now?

Now?

My thoughts turned back to her daughter — the young girl with a love for singing. The clock still tick-tocked quietly. And then I remembered that I had downloaded four volumes of voice lessons from iTunes just a few months ago.

I told June they were very good, and even came with a lesson on proper breathing which helps with voice projection.

Yes, now.

I thought for a moment. “May I make you a copy to give to her?” I asked. Her eyes lit up and I received an excited, “Yes!”

We talked a little more about the lessons, my gels finished baking in their mini-ovens, and my appointment eventually came to a close.

On my drive home I thought about the quote again, and realized that the voice lesson CDs I offered to copy may not turn her daughter’s life “around,” but they certainly could inspire her to take a different path. And isn’t inspiration what it’s all about?

Even if they’re passed on from her daughter to a friend, they’ll eventually find their way into the hands of the person who most needs them. Of this I am confident.

Today I am thankful for the gentle push a ticking clock gives us. It reminds us that there’s no rewind, no do-over, no way of going in reverse. Now is the time to do something. Anything. No matter how big or how small.

A few years ago, I began taking screenwriting and playwriting classes. I found it to be a delightfully challenging outlet for my fingers which had begun to atrophy somewhat. Sure, they were used for office work, Excel spreadsheets and status reports, but they’d long ago placed my creativity on the shelf once real life took hold.

After the first three-hour class, it felt like my brain was going to explode. But instead of being exhausted, I was excited; instead of being on information overload, my head was working feverishly to organize and file all the new tidbits, wanting nothing more than to be ready for its next helping of stimulation.

I felt as though I had been reborn, with new, wobbly legs unsure of the path ahead — but I was immediately convinced it was something I needed to keep doing. After that day, words took on new meaning and could explode into an idea at any moment, the way a spark ignites ordinary, mediocre kindling.

Fast-forward to a month ago. I saw an email in my inbox that I wasn’t terribly in the mood to read. I knew it was about a collection of plays from new writers, but I kept it unread for a week or two after its delivery. Maybe it was because I felt like I should’ve had something of my own produced by now, or maybe I felt guilty for hopping from screenplay to stageplay, back to screenplay, then back to stageplay — all the while editing, rewriting, and rewriting some more, with nary a finished piece to show for any of it. Regardless, I finally opened it, scanned its contents and, as I reached the bottom, the last name of one of the playwrights caught my eye. Why did it seem familiar?

Think.

Think.

Think.

Ah! It was the same last name as one of my clients.

That very next week, I was in a meeting with said client. I casually asked him, “Do you know someone named John?” With a confused look on his face, he replied that he did. I was a little surprised. “And does John write plays?” He confirmed that John did. Turns out John is my client’s father who had taken up playwriting during his retirement. I mentioned that I’d gotten an email about the plays which were going to be performed that coming weekend. While my client wasn’t going to be there, I knew it was something I needed to attend. After all, what were the odds? Such a small world. And it was trying to tell me something.

I went to the theater and saw a few people from previous classes. Two women from my most recent course remembered me, came over and regurgitated scenes from something I’d written, cracking up and praising the writing. They asked how the rest of it was coming along; I told a white lie and switched topics, squeamish about admitting that the play has been collecting dust since October. Across the lobby, I saw one of the actresses from the repertory — an older woman named Jo who had a wild mane of salt and pepper hair and a deep, magically diverse voice capable of fairy godmother, wicked witch and everything in between. We chatted, she introduced me to people she knew, I promptly forgot all the names of those who I met and, during a break in the action, I told her about the client connection with the performance that evening.

“Oh! I know John. He’s deliiiiiiightful,” she cooed. “I’ll introduce you.” At least I was guaranteed of one introduction where I’d not forget the name.

Sure enough, John was unforgettable. He’s the type of human being who seems to live a “do unto others as you’d have done unto you” life. My client must have told his father I’d be in attendance that evening, because he greeted me with a warm familiarity when we met. He was easy to speak with, and he explained how his writing journey began. We talked about what he used to do for work before retirement, about his family, about different playwriting organizations and we exchanged information. I left the performance with a full, inspired heart.

A few days later, I received an email from him. He thanked me for attending the performance and sent detailed information about membership-based playwriting organizations, copying two individuals from those organizations on his message. My reply seemed pathetic and shallow in comparison — similar to what a dinghy looks like alongside a yacht — but I thanked him for everything and said I’d be in touch with them all after the new year.

And then came the new year itself.

Earlier this week, another email arrived from John. In it was an invitation to attend — as his guest — his playwriting group’s meeting this Sunday. He explained that the three-hour meeting would provide a valuable look into key stages of the playwriting process. If elation was power, mine would have melted a transformer and caused a massive blackout.

While only an invitation, it was one from an individual who was standing on the other side of a door that I was hoping to pass through someday. To be extended a hand and invited inside to look at yet another facet of the process is such a generous, inspirational gift.

Today I am thankful for the chain of events that made this massive, overwhelming world instantly tiny, and for the connection made with someone whose knowledge and kindness has already brought illumination to my life, motivation to my writing and peace in knowing that if you simply trust and take one step forward, someone will be there to help you with the next.

And the next.

And the next.

When I was four or five, I wanted to take piano lessons because my brother took them. The way my mom tells the story, I couldn’t even say the word “piano,” but I knew I wanted them: “pih-panno” lessons. Instead of a “no,” I received a green light, encouragement and kind, daily discipline to practice, practice, practice. In exchange, my teacher received mom and dad’s hard-earned money. This continued for more than 10 years.

In high school, I took a creative writing class and wrote a story which, once completed, probably left readers wondering what significant — and possibly unsettling — incident I had experienced during my younger years. In truth, it was nothing more than imagination that I decided to reveal on paper, similar to how a child whispers into another’s ear with trusting innocence. Instead of the story being cast aside or judged, as it easily could have been, it was embraced by both class and instructor. It was constructively critiqued. And with the critique came the request to continue its next chapter.

One year later, it was made known that the Los Angeles Times was looking for high school students who wanted to write articles for a special section. If published, $50 per article would be sent to the author (not bad money back in the day). I figured it was worth a shot. When I received my first check in the mail, I was elated. More important than the money, however, were the handwritten letters from the editor which accompanied the payment. Each story’s main message was acknowledged; heartfelt gratitude for submitting my work was expressed. With each declaration of their appreciation, I was simultaneously humbled and confused. “It’s just a story,” was my mental reply to the neatly penned notes. I placed them toward the back of a drawer where I knew they’d be out of sight, yet safe from destruction. I rarely looked at them, but I kept them.

Somewhere along the way, the beautiful, cobblestone path made up of hundreds of bits of praise became slippery with the dew of life’s trials. When it came time for my solo flight, turbulence — often times invisible and with a knack for sneaking up behind, as any good antagonist would do — paid a visit. No longer were supporters readily available at the sidelines. A lot of it was on me. And it made me nervous.

There’s nothing worse than self-doubt when you know you can do something. How it even works its way into the equation is beyond me. If I’ve done it before, why even question it?

These days, I’ve realized that my quiet life isn’t void of anything. I used to wonder if it was, and my point of comparison was, well, the world. A dangerous slope, comparison is. My relatively simple existence is, however, full of the minutes and hours I need to hear myself think. To let myself create. To be able to wonder and explore and investigate whatever it is that I find to be of interest. And to find the voice that wandered on its own for more than 15 years…but which found its way home, more rich and supported than before. 

I keep using that word, and — frankly — to say that I’ve had “support” through the years is, in my book, an understatement nearing insult status. After all, those who have been on this journey with me have made it a journey because of their gentle nudging, their guiding wisdom and patient cheerleading. In a sense, you’ve been my editors who have helped shape my own story. The same way I’ve kept those notes from the editor safe, I’ve kept your kind words tucked into a secure, untouchable corner of my heart. I look inward to them often. Their kindness bolsters my spirit.

A wise friend recently bestowed upon me one of her favorite Dr. Seuss quotes: “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

Nobody is obligated to utter a kind word to another. But when they do, it’s a gift that deserves being paid forward. Today I give thanks for my family, my friends, my supporters, those who tell me to go, do and bloom — regardless of what others say — and those who remind me that unless we chase our dreams, we’ll never stand a chance at catching them.