I hit a low point yesterday, as happens sometimes on holidays and many other days, and sat on my bed ranting into my journal.
After I pelted a page with words, I took a deep breath and wondered what I missed.
It was Thanksgiving, after all, and despite my grievances, I was with people I deeply love.
So I turned the page and in my mind walked back over the last few hours looking for a different way to see.
And you know what, I saw.
Though I still felt enflamed (I drew flames all around the edge of my page) and angry, I could also see, and inside the frame of flames, a list from the day grew:
*catching perfect snowflakes on the sleeve of my coat
*watching the coffee in my mug jump in star patterns to the vibration of the old mixer as I whipped cream
*listening to my nephew pick out chariots of fire on the piano over and over, victory in his fingers
*Silas, after playing outside, sitting on the hearth in his underwear and t-shirt, curled toward the heat like a cat
*the mountain ridge layered in clouds like scarves
*patches of blue sky even as snow fell
*the way, through the day, sunlight light played on the mountains in swatches of light we could watch even as we sat in grey
*my mom flipping over the entire turkey with dishtowels, mid-cooking
*hot chocolate in a tiny spouted pot on the stove
*body-sledding down the steep drive on black ice
*damp leggings and shirt after
*pumpkin chiffon pie
*the tiny cousins holding hands playing ring around the rosy with bigger cousins
*kids clustered at the table drawing.
So much is about seeing; so much is about thanks.