It’s early January now and we’ve just passed through a raft of holidays, that season of promises and grand statements, of charitable offers and good deeds, of silent desperation and forced cheer. I enjoy celebrating the holidays very much, but I am not a religious person. I don’t know if the stories are true. I have no faith that buoys me along during difficult times. I don’t imagine a life after this one although I fervently hope that what others believe in and dream of comes true for them.
‘Thankful’ is my religion, the gospel I have chosen and endeavor to follow. Daily, hourly even, I try to focus on a deep appreciation and gratitude for all that I have. I sip tea and sit in a well of sunshine beside a window that protects me from the harshness of a winter day. In the silence I see so much of what I am grateful for, warmth, shelter, food, and safety. In the evening I sit down at the table across from my husband and again, I am thankful. He has come home from the world, delivered back to me once again with laughter and affection and a shared history that spans decades. I am grateful for him.
I believe it’s the in-between moments when I should be the most conscious, the most appreciative of what I have. In those small moments spent waiting for a kettle to boil or a ride, for bread to rise or dinner to finish cooking. Yet those seem to be the easiest moments to let slip by. As we move from one unconscious task to another we forget, we assume and much too often, take what we have for granted. Relying on the idea that this moment, this fortune will continue is just hubris. We have no way to see the future, to anticipate the good and the bad that will follow in life.
So, I choose to be thankful. As many times in a day as I am able to pause and remember to be grateful, I am. And each day that I wake up, I hope to find even more of those small moments. I appreciate my life and everything and everyone in it.
