Tag: Gratitude

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The Gift of Story

The island of Cape Breton sits on the eastern shore of Canada, part of the Maritime Provinces, poking into the North Atlantic like the thumb of a mitten. It is the home of miners, farmers, fishermen, and master storyteller, Alistair MacLeod. If you wanted an example of superb writing anchored in the rugged history and people of a place, you could not do better than MacLeod’s collection of short stories, Island.

That book contains many gems, but there is one I would like to share with you, To Everything There Is a Season. It tells a tale simply and well, recounting common events while pointing to the magic behind them. And MacLeod does this in the hardest of genres, the Christmas Story, which can easily slide into cliché.

In his reminiscence, MacLeod shows that coming-of-age is not limited to childhood, but continues growing our sensibilities to the gift of life at every stage, even at the end, when we hope we can “leave good things behind.” The beauty of the human spirit shines at every turn; we see it when we look.

It’s a quick read, which, when you reach the end, you’ll realize is a crying shame. Here are links to both the written and audio versions of the story.

Enjoy.

Photo by Chaz McGregor on Unsplash

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Thanks – Giving

Thanksgiving has two words within it. We tend to focus on the first.

When I reflect on what I’m thankful for, the obvious comes to mind first. I have all I need to flourish and be happy – plentiful food, a wonderful home, and people who care about me. I don’t live in a country torn by war or famine. I’m not threatened by militia or poverty or natural disaster. The luck of being dropped into this life is hard to believe, a humbling grace.

But while true, these can feel abstract. What touches me more directly are the small, intimate moments that mostly pass without my notice. Like the street scene I saw this week in Oaxaca.

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I’ve Never Seen This Day Before

“This is a wonderful day. I’ve never seen this one before.”

Maya Angelou

Sitting with a cup of coffee, the reliable comfort that settles my morning, I begin to plan my day, listing the things I want to finish or start. It’s an optimistic bundle, a bristlecone of activity.

Maya Angelou’s words invite a pleasant disruption. The art of seeing and the skill of planning occupy separate parts of the mind. Seeing is not cognitive, it’s a whole-bodied, sensory experience that removes me from the sometimes oppressive pressure of thinking. More than observation, seeing is immersive, allowing the world to enter through my perceptions and land in the cradle of my body.

Why is this a wonderful day? Is it so different from yesterday or the day before?

Failure to see the singular wonder in every day is a loss, and that is Maya’s warning. When my brain runs on autopilot, running the film of previous days on the movie screen of my mind, I’m sedated by the rush of images. If I peek behind the blurry curtain of the autopilot, I see the full texture of life: palpable, sensuous, reds and purples seething and brimming, sights and sounds splashing and spilling like a river overflowing its banks, pleading with me to slow my breathless pace and match my breathing to the rhythm of natural time.

Outside my window, finches chatter in conversation; a breeze lifts the last reluctant leaves from their branches and rattles them across the road; a black sheen colors the puddles; my familiar coffee becomes exotic, the warm liquid in my mouth retrieving something from ancestral memory that puts me in kinship with the first human who thought to brew the bean.

Each day, a door opens at dawn and closes at dusk. What a shame to let it pass without acknowledging I’ve never seen this one before and celebrating its arrival, unique and wondrous.

Photo from Ales Krivec on Unsplash

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A Thousand Thousand Reasons

“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