THE THREAD | A handful of reasons to be thankful

Thankful for children who will still come up and hug me for no reason at all.
 
Thankful for the leaves gathering on my front porch, swirling and dancing all day long.
 
Thankful for the surprise of a warm hand to hold beneath the blankets.
 
Thankful for rising early enough on autumn mornings to see Orion reclining into the western horizon.
 
Thankful for the heavy mist over the park valley, a reminder of the ancient river that once ran above the ground and still runs silently beneath my feet.
 
Thankful for the soprano aria spilling out of the shower as my wife washes her hair.
 
Thankful for my son whose voice is beginning to crackle and deepen with age, yet will still launch a laugh borne of his toddler self while reading the comics.
 
Thankful for the hands that took the time to set the coffee timer last night—although they were my own hands last night, they are distinctly different from the hands now holding the mug this morning, lifting it to take the first sip, then whispering gratitude for my last night self’s forethought on behalf of my now self.
 
Thankful for the bright yellow leaf my daughter places in my pocket, even though she said it is not for me, I’m just keeping it for her until we get home, but for now I get to gently rub the edges between my fingers like a decomposing prayer bead.
 
Thankful for the box of Christmas lights coming up from the basement, the tangled mess of it, this reminder that if I can patiently untangle so many small things from one another and put them back in some kind of order, I can use them to deck the house and become again for a season so merry and bright, and the season will not last forever and the box will return to the basement, clearly labeled for me to find and bring back up when it’s time again.
 
Thankful for this mechanical miracle of ink flowing from the fine point of the pen in my hand, creating sentences out of words, these tiny constellations.
 
Thankful for the leaves cluttering the labyrinth path, the way the sound and feel of friction at my feet is not the same as resistance.
 
Thankful for the ocean of time between us and that farther shore called Spring, for the cumulative memories that speak of the small blessings lying in wait, hidden in the coming days of cold and darkness, and the boat of hopeful longing that will carry us through another winter.

Thankful for the swirling dance between merry and bright and cold and dark.

Thankful for the dry and cluttered garden beds, the way my wife clears them out, finds the dead flower heads still holding the seeds, scatters the seed into new parts of the yard and says, When spring comes there will be even more of them.
 
 

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What I'm reading: The news of Kevin Strickland's release, Luis Alberto Urrea's Into the Beautiful North, this Reddit thread
What I'm listening to: Andrew Bird's Useless Creatures, Sixpence None the Richer's glorious eponymous album
 

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Peace and gratitude,

Andrew