Many days I list at least one (sometimes up to six) distinct thing(s) for which I’m grateful. The list is archived monthly. Here’s September 2015.
I’m grateful for my husband’s hands. His intelligence and kindness. Our memories of a week in London as newlyweds. The way he’s a considerate and protective travel companion, but not stiflingly so.
I’m grateful for air conditioning and clean running water.
I’m grateful for long chats with old friends. Discussions of fiction and POV and authors we admire. Innovations in words and imagery.
I’m grateful for the TV shows Andy has discovered for us recently: Manhattan, Show Me a Hero, The Affair, Humans.
I’m grateful for quiet mornings reading and writing and sitting with the cats during their breakfast.
I’m grateful for gratitude.
I’m grateful for Twitter.
I’m grateful for young people who invent things. For the driven and the brave, the kind and the strong. For the ones who push light into the darkness.
I’m grateful for outspoken vegans and soft-spoken ones, too, and the way it seems, sometimes, like millimeter by millimeter, humans might be moving away from factory farming.
I’m grateful for labyrinths and lipstick, for compromise and denial.
I’m grateful for days of rest and restoration. Knowing that I’m responsible for my point of view and thoughts. The luxury of practicing self-care.
I’m grateful for texts and calls with Mom and Dad and Ken. The way we make each other laugh.
I’m grateful Andy finally got the lost luggage claim mailed to United Airlines. Memories of the gorgeous baggage claim area at Heathrow and how good it felt to arrive in London. Visions of some gypsy making off one of our suitcases, the relief that he/she had taken the bag with 100% replaceable items inside.
I’m grateful to be the beneficiary of sheer dumb luck. And grace.
I’m grateful when artists I admire sell their gorgeous paintings and stories.
I’m grateful for the means to buy a few new-to-me books this week, and the means to buy a couple for a friend, too.
I’m grateful to be reading Naomi Jackson’s novel The Star Side of Bird Hill, Elizabeth McCracken’s collection Thunderstruck, and Lily King’s novel Euphoria.
I’m grateful for compartmentalization and the ability to choose my clients. For mini pies and cheerful people who offer me wine.
I’m grateful for our evening excursion to celebrate a darling woman’s birthday under the stars at Will Rogers. For movies projected on giant, outdoor screens, warm Southern California nights, hugs from old buddies, delicious treats and intoxicants and soft, dry blankets over dew-dampened lawns.
I’m grateful for friends and mentors who keep me grounded in what is important. My intuition’s reminders to kvetch and gossip less and be present more. Balancing all manner of things: less and more, more and less. The advice a kind soul gave me years ago me during a challenging career transition, Make it good.
I’m grateful for the birthday surprises this week: breakfast with someone I love, three new books from a treasured friend and fellow reader, the generosity of my folks, and kind wishes from people very dear to me around the world. A designated day of relaxation.
I’m grateful for the birthday exchange of notes I had with the luminous Rachelle Beneveniste, whose body died later that week, whose decades-long encouragement and emotional support made me the writer I am, whose passion and optimism shapes the writer I hope to become, whose spirit has been a balm in recent days. (I love you, Rachelle.)
I’m grateful for my tax accountant, a wise hippy, a force for good through his decades-old non-profit organization. I’m grateful for his dogs and the visibility of his love for them. I’m grateful for his tie-dye wall banner and his rainforest white noise: unseen waterfalls and toucans and insects. For the oscillating fans and rays of sunlight in his office, the door open to the fragrance of cut grass.