Thanksgiving

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.