“There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.”
Marilynne Robinson, Gilead
The anticipation as I raise my cup of coffee, the steam and aroma waving to my taste buds, who are already smiling.
The memories I’ve collected, triumphs and regrets, that pave the road I’m walking.
The miraculous orchestra of my body – lymph and lung and nerve and bone, beating heart and gastro-endo-something (and all the other parts I cannot name) – that serves me as a vehicle for growth, pleasure, wonder and joy, even as it wears around the edges.
A band of friends who have, for decades, grounded, comforted, reveled with me, forgiven excesses, celebrated quirks, shared intimacies, laughed at life’s absurdities, and proven the healing power of acceptance as a form of love.
Naps.
The delicious mystery of awareness itself, the center from which consciousness emanates into perception, experience, and the vibrating pulse of life.
A mind that can imagine; the unfathomable fact that I can fathom.
The gray moment of morning when dreams still hover but my full faculties have not yet arrived and the sound of Linda’s breathing makes everything familiar.
Cool water on a hot day; fleece socks on a cold night.
Tin roof sundaes.
The impossible fact that a planet of rock and water can, in a few billion years, create such staggering beauty: the Ninth Symphony, Abbey Road, the Impressionists, orchids, Italian cooking.
The fullness I feel when I empty the tears I’ve been holding.
An overwhelming intuition that the Cosmos is always here for me, available, accessible, nurturing, calling me to fulfillment, completion.
The inner knowing that beingness is the ground to any figure; that resilience is baked-in; that no matter how turbulent or terrible the world can seem, no matter how consuming the grief or anger, there is a glimmer that can’t be crushed, an element on the periodic table of being human that won’t reduce, a sparkling diamond that cannot die.
How can I pretend to give thanks for my blessings only one day a year? Why am I not constantly singing, drunk on the holy goodness of life?
Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash