Azalea Sky

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We’ve had the most magnificent sunrises lately.

The other day I noticed that the kitchen had a strange pink hue about it. “How odd,” I thought. Odd until I looked outside.

It was just after 6am and the sky seemed to be awash with azaleas. Fuchsia clouds popped against a quiet blue sky, a sky still struggling to wake up along with the rest of us fumbling through our morning coffee routine. But the clouds were ready to go — ready to show off their brilliance to anyone who cared to look.

Mornings aren’t my favorite time of day — in fact, they’re perhaps my least favorite. I tend to be more of a dusk girl, and I definitely love a late night. But these mornings have a firm grip on my soul. This morning the kitchen was once again awash with color, but it wasn’t nearly as vivid as the pink; it was more of a coral, but still very impressive.

Sometimes I feel like Mother Nature gives us a gentle nudge, encouraging our eyes to open a bit wider so they can take in the world around us — a world that we’d prefer not to see at that hour. But since we’re up, why not give us a treat? We did the hard work and dragged our bodies out of bed, after all. It’s like a little gift for those who leave the comfort of cozy bedding and toasty pajamas. She’s amazing like that sometimes.

Tonight I am thankful for beautiful mornings and vibrant colors in the sky that ease us into the day. They’re a close second to my beloved stars, but if I can’t have those, I’ll certainly take a kaleidoscope of colors to start off my morning.

Dog Days

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When I was about ten years old, I thought it would be a great idea to take both dogs for a walk at the same time.

One was a Lab mix, the other a Samoyed mix. They had been part of the family for a good five to seven years at that time, and I was quite familiar with both. But being familiar with your pets doesn’t mean you shouldn’t expect the unexpected.

Before we set out, my mom repeatedly told me to hang onto the leashes and to be sure I had control of the dogs. And for the majority of the walk, I did. Besides, I was somewhat of a sturdy child during those years, so I figured I was a good match for both pooches.

Towards the end of our journey, I was walking them through the streets behind our house when the dogs heard a neighborhood yapper doing what he does best. They were excited to come nose-to-nose with this dog that they’d only heard from afar before.

They took off running, and I made sure I kept a firm grip on the leashes. The problem, at least for my shirt, chest and chin, was that I didn’t let go of them. In fact, I held on for dear life. It was a hellish, two-dog version of the Iditarod — sans snow and sled — in the middle of SoCal.

The dogs made it to the gate where the yapper was going crazy, and they went crazy right back. I must have been able to get back on my feet and pull them away eventually, because I endured quite the walk of pre-pubescent shame.

To this day, I wonder if anyone saw a kid being dragged down the sidewalk by two dogs. Perhaps someone was in their kitchen getting lunch ready, only to look up to see me belly-down and hauling ass on the sidewalk, arms outstretched as though I was sliding into home.

I wonder if my screaming at the dogs to stop, G-dammit, stop was heard.

I wonder if anyone saw me clutching my shirt with the massive hole in the middle, trying to keep the fabric together so that I didn’t flash my training bra to the world.

I walked about three blocks home, angry at the dogs, sobbing and with snot running out of my nose and onto what was left of my t-shirt — being that I didn’t dare free up a hand to wipe the mess away, lest I be dragged again. My stomach was bloody from where the shirt had been chewed up by the sidewalk, my chin was raw and my pride was annihilated.

Traumatizing, yes, but it was one of those situations that went in such a way that I knew exactly what to do differently next time.

(There was never was a “next time,” which is precisely what I did differently.)

The things in life that we take on because we’re determined to do them are the very things that can teach us the most along the way. It’s easy to give up and let go when things aren’t going as we’d planned or hoped, but whenever we hold on tight and see things through to the end — despite what we might be dragged through in the process — we stand to learn a lot: about what we want, how badly we want it and what we’re made of.

For living through the difficult, enduring being dragged and scraped, battered and bloodied — and for learning from it all — I am thankful.

Breathe.

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The fact that we get up each day and breathe in and out, generally without difficulty, is one of the best and worst things ever.

I remember having the wind kicked out of me in elementary school. The perp, a rude child named Darrell, had a crush of sorts on yours truly — the usual kind of crush that a seven year old has: rocks are given as gestures of affection, clovers are picked and strewn together and lunches are shared. This crush, however, also came with physical assaults. I was not a fan.

One day while I was sitting on the ground in the schoolyard, a firm, solid kick — sole flush with back — sent me face-first into the dirt. I couldn’t speak, and barely managed to cry. The next day, I received a shiny pebble as a peace offering.

Having the wind kicked out of you isn’t ideal. It’s dangerous and damaging. But when we don’t struggle for air, when the expected happens as planned, we can get a little complacent. Through the trials we learn boundaries; we learn what we’ll fight for.

On the playground, I turned vigilant from that day forward, and I grew eyes on the back of my head. I felt like I knew where that kid was before he had any idea where I was playing, and I eventually had others keeping an eye out, too. I had a posse. And I was seven.

When we struggle for air, we realize how good we had it. When we’re all fine and dandy, our cherished breath is assumed. It’s expected. In theory, it should push us to get up, go out, see what we can see, find what we’ve been missing, experience what we didn’t know until we explored and protect the things that are most important to our existence — including breath itself.

For air and breath — both literal and figurative, for resolve and fight, for will and might, I am thankful.

The Puzzle.

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So I have a dilemma, but not.

I’d radio the problem into Houston, if I could, but it’s not really that, either.

A coworker told me today it’s simply more of a puzzle.

I thought about this for a while. She’s right.

Consider this: everything in our lives is a puzzle. Some are simple, familiar ones — suitable for ages 3 and up. They fit together quickly and smoothly. The pieces can be put together in your sleep. You know exactly what to do.

Other puzzles are far more complex. You know the kind — they exist solely to provide a challenge, to get us to see how far we’ll go before we scrap our efforts entirely. They’re the ones with water confused for pieces of sky, and sand that could pass for the flesh of beach goers. Their shapes sometimes fit if we force them, but the way of the puzzle is such that we’re reminded that a forced piece is an incorrect piece.

Try again: simply rearrange them. And don’t underestimate the value of patience.

Right now, all of the pieces are before me. My process with puzzles is to first flip all the pieces over and review them while looking at the picture on the box; I get the lay of the land, if you will. Then the corners are put in their places, closely followed by the edges. The anchors and side rails are now in place. Next up? Start the main task.

Here’s hoping the box has all the pieces and that none have gone missing or fallen by the wayside.

Here’s to taking our time, and to being deliberate with our puzzles. Rushing won’t help the answer come any more quickly, but for the challenge they present, even if it takes six months to a year to complete, I am thankful.

Green Means Go.

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When the light is green, the last thing you want to do is come to a dead stop. Might seem like a no-brainer, but someone did it today. Right in front of us.

The impact it could’ve had — both literal and otherwise — would have been far-reaching.

It’s green. Why is she stopping?

The brakes never squealed but we stopped in time. I don’t know how we did. What was her deal? Is she oblivious?!

We tend to think of roadblocks as things that mean we should quit. Maybe we think that we should turn around or find a new course, but sometimes if we stay the course, we can still get there while also learning a lesson or two. Even from the oblivious.

One, drivers can do some really dumb things. They stop when it’s green and don’t think enough to check their mirrors to see who’s behind them and who might end up an unnecessary victim of said driver’s stupidity. If you’re on the road of life, don’t be abrupt or rash in your actions.

Two, the thing that taught you a lesson in keeping your eyes open may also teach you another. Today’s second lesson was in patience. After creeping away from her dead stop, the driver slowly inched up a winding road to the airport. Fantastic. But at least this time it meant we were all going slowly. Slamming in one’s brakes from 10 mph seems far more ideal than doing it at 50.

Three, when there’s one road in and one road out, use caution. Just because there’s not an alternate route doesn’t mean you won’t have your share of issues — in fact, you may have more than average. We might never know why they were placed in our path or what they’re supposed to teach us, but it may dawn upon us one day. Or it might not. That’s life for you.

When the light is green, go. Proceed with caution, don’t floor it, follow at a safe distance and remember to check your mirrors. Don’t let a nuisance bring you down, but do respect its presence. It might save you from a bigger issue just around the bend.

For a lesson taught in the mountains of West Virginia and for safe arrivals by land and by air, I am thankful.

Silence.

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Yesterday I stood in the security line at LAX as a moment of silence was observed for the TSA officer killed the week prior.

I’ve never heard a terminal as quiet as it was yesterday, and I hope I never hear it as quiet again for a similar reason. It was a sobering reminder that every day is precious and that tomorrow isn’t a given.

What might’ve been a stressful morning dealing with traffic or travel delays was abruptly put back into perspective when lives were turned upside down. What was perhaps a routine trip underway for the hundredth time was reset to zero with all-new rules. The first rule, of course, is that all rules may be broken at any time — which is exactly what happened when a gunman broke the ones which were in place.

It seems lacking or not full of enough emotion to take a day full of tragedy and simply turn it into a lesson and showcase it as a prime example of why we should never take a day for granted, but that’s exactly where I am netting out. We are periodically reminded of the importance of never truly resting and always keeping our guard up when the expected outcome becomes routine. Complacency requires change.

For a renewed sense of vigilance that can have an extensive impact on the well-being of our fellow man despite the time that will inevitably come again and challenge our sense of comfort, I am thankful.

November Sky

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The shadows began growing longer by the time we were over Kansas. It’s been years since I’ve visited the state, but it still managed to appear equally calm and pleasant from above. No time to visit today, though. I’m making my way further east.

A haze was settling over the landscape below, and something about its fuzzy appearance matched perfectly with the white noise which filled the cabin. The week has been long, and both the land 35,000 feet underneath and my fellow travelers are quiet, winding down for a weekend and breathing a soft sigh of relief for Saturday being just around the corner.

Waking up on a plane as it passes through the middle of nowhere is quite pleasant. Before I fully come to, I’m reminded of three things.

One, we are not as important as we think we are; we are specks on the planet. We’re at the mercy of the climate and the delicate balance our world manages to maintain. Mother Earth is incredible.

I’m also reminded of those below who aren’t visible, but whose struggles might be as expansive as the horizon before us. May they find peace despite their burdens and hydration in their storms.

Last, no matter what life brings our way, there will always be either a headwind or tailwind at play. During those times when the going gets tough, acknowledge the difficulty and keep your chin up. Inevitably the winds of change will pay you a visit, and the tailwind, which in time will find you, will feel like a magic carpet ride.

Today I am thankful for travel-inspired musings and the perspective they impart. Their wisdom and truth feel a bit more clear when accompanied by a heavenly view, but no doubt there will be more that make themselves known upon touching down.

The Cheese Grater

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I have a necklace by Lagos that I absolutely adore. It’s a tiny dog tag from their sterling silver caviar line, and I wear it at least twice a week — despite the fact that people always ask, “Is that a cheese grater around your neck?”

Yes. Because you never know when the urge for some freshly shaved parmesan might arise. Or when that block of cheddar just won’t do.

Albeit less frequently, people also wonder if it’s a sort of pumice stone derived from metal. Right, because sometimes the urge to file away at a callus mid-meeting or while stuck in traffic simply can’t be denied. Or, better yet, if you have a hard mass of skin that needs smoothing at any hour of the day, I’m your gal.

Here’s the necklace in question:

Lagos4

People at work have commented on it, the checker at Target asked about it last year and, tonight when I picked up some curtain valances which needed shortening, the alterations lady asked if I liked cheese. I forgot that I was wearing the necklace.

“Um, I do,” I said. “And you?” For a split-second, I was hopeful that she perhaps had some Manchego which needed a new home.

“I thought so!” he said. “I see the miniature grater hanging from that lovely chain.”

To say my necklace gets a bad rap would be an understatement, but it’s a simple piece. Polarizing, quite clearly, but simple. A few love it, but many hate it.

People can be that way, too. Someone may be deep in thought but perceived as aloof or cold. Someone might be mentally crafting a thoughtful response but instead pegged as uncooperative. disinterested or unwavering. The introverted are written off as selfish, the weary are dismissed as being too important for other things or people, and the quiet are cast away because they’re supposedly no fun.

But each of these people is valuable to someone — someone who won’t pass them by and who won’t ever discard or mock them because they’re perceived as something other than what they truly are. Tonight, whether it’s a funny piece of jewelry, a favorite article of clothing, an old coffee mug that’s seen better days, a certain mannerism or a personal characteristic that stands out more than others, I am thankful for cherishing the unique and for the people in our lives who appreciate what others might consider an oddity.

Glover Charm

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My house is not too far from a stadium where local high schools often gather for football games and band competitions.

Glover Stadium is where I spent many a chilly night watching Anaheim High School’s Colonists go head to head with rival schools. Touchdown cheering could be heard for miles, I’m sure, the same way it is tonight.

Something about the time change’s immediate ushering in of the holiday spirit gets me every year. It may be dark outside, but red and green stoplights suddenly take on a festive appearance that they haven’t held since last season. Add in those familiar sounds from my childhood and it is blissful — the same way salty air and crashing waves on a balmy summer day are.

My seven-years-older brother was in the Anaheim High School marching band.  Years of watching their performances inspired me at a young age to be a drummer. (That never happened. Instead, years of classical piano lessons ensued.) I still want to be a drummer.

I remember listening to them practice in the high school band room, and my eye falling on a baton in the corner. Enter: baton lessons. I knew I’d be good enough to be summoned at a pre-high school age to be part of the band as they marched. (That never happened, either. Instead, I traded baton lessons for a brief gymnastics stint. Yuck.)

As I walked outside to take out the trash, it sounded as though the band was just around the corner. The air was just right and the tune was unmistakable: Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” traveled through the crisp evening and met my ears. It was a pretty good rendition, too.

I thought back to what the band played back in the mid-’80s. Stumped — I was stumped. I’m sure there might’ve been some Bon Jovi or maybe even some Pointer Sisters tunes that they busted out, but I can’t say for sure. All I know is that — aside from my juvenile marching-band-baton-twirling aspirations — I also had a crush on my brother’s friend’s younger brother (got that?). I recall that my efforts to woo him included packing my nicest (read: one with the tail not yet chopped off) My Little Pony into a miniature turquoise duffel bag with a unicorn print on the side, then whipping it out at halftime and making it prance majestically along the metal bleachers. Tres mature. Who wouldn’t have been interested in me?

Ah, memories. It’s funny the things that come rushing back to you the moment a sound meets your ears or a smell meets your nose. In a heartbeat, things which have been long buried under piles of hand-me-downs and life’s bills come rushing back, and it’s a fantastic feeling when those memories are awesome ones. They’re not all going to send us happily down memory lane, but the ones that do are to be cherished for sure. And tonight I am thankful for them.

New View

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It was getting dark, and I was high.

High up in a building, that is — fourteen floors above the street below.

The time change only happened a couple of days ago, but it’s already wreaking havoc on my body. Yesterday morning I wide awake sans-alarm at 4:30. Last night falling asleep was impossible. Today it took me forever to get out of bed, and I felt the morning’s pummeling all day long.

Before I headed home yesterday, I paused in our agency kitchen with its wall of windows that faces the Pacific Ocean. Catalina Island was a large, formidable mass before me, while both the water and large, billowing clouds in the west were so close in color it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

But there was the sun, making the dividing line obvious.

It was practically the color of a red stoplight, perhaps with a touch of coral tossed in for good measure.

Such a vibrant color against the gray of the ocean and clouds was striking; I’ve not seen anything more beautiful from Mother Nature’s offerings in quite a while. Its appearance wasn’t lost on others, either. As I watched the fiery slice of sun sink closer to the horizon, a colleague passed by.

“Watching the sunset?” he asked.

“Yes, have you seen it?” I replied.

He had, commenting that we normally aren’t treated to such beauty until the time changes each year. Bittersweet, yes, but so true.

Tonight I am thankful for the beautiful sunset I’d normally have missed had it not been for being up high in a building just after the time change. While losing an hour of daylight isn’t the most uplifting way to usher in cooler temperatures, beautiful sunsets certainly are a perk of this time of year. For the same view which took on new magnificence just by the shift of a clock, I am grateful.