Updated: Oct 6
Thanksgiving, Forgiving, Thanks for Giving: It all comes together this time of the year, just on the cusp of the shortening of days and lengthening of nights, and to remind myself of this, I offer up my thanks for the obvious beyond the obvious (family, friends, home, work, etc.):
The weather which continually keeps me on my toes, knocks me over in surprise, dazzles me with light, confuses me with fast-dropping cold fronts, wears me out in the summers, points me inward in the winters, and never fails to change.
The sun. For everything.
The moon, especially when I remember to watch it rise, an orange ball above the treeline catalyzing howling through the valley that makes audible what’s usually invisible.
Sleep, particularly when I sink into it with such joyful exhaustion but even when it comes in slips of light between dark bouts of insomnia.
Waking even if it’s hard (which it usually needs) and needs the hindsight of 10 minutes out (and coffee) to see its glories.
Pencils, which feel great to use on the page. Pens too. Computers. Crayons. Watercolors. All other cialis for sale online in canada things I can put my hands to, and with their help, make something.
Shelves, counters, table tops and surfaces around the house that hold beloved stones, small vases, wooden altars with small glass owls, baskets of herbal supplements and vitamins, empty blue glass vases, tablecloths, the yoga clothes from yesterday, a new scarf for Natalie, magazines and books, toothpaste, hugging bear salt and pepper shakers, a square vase of four calla lilies that keep on going, and a large basket of bananas, apples and oranges.
All the floors: the Pergo ones we snapped together between running outside to use the table saw to make pieces that would fit, the carpeting installed, the linoleum I unrolled when six months’ pregnant with Forest, the wood floor made from stacks of planks in someone’s basement who salvaged them from the Osawatomie Mental Hospital.
Steps going to the basement, up to the porch, down from the deck to the yard.
The expanse of sky and land, lights in the distance and migrating plants and animals that fill all the windows.