As we begin the time of giving thanks, it seems only right to mention my dog's butt. It's golden, round and fluffy, and, for reasons we'll never know, it is crowned by a mere niblet of tail, which flutters like a hummingbird when she's happy.
My dog's butt is my second favorite butt on the planet, and I am deliriously grateful for it on a daily basis. Well, and the rest of her. If you are having a hard time mustering a sense of thankfulness, I recommend reaching out to a dog and seeing where that takes you.
I am also thankful for Costco.
I used to think Costco was some kind of torture chamber designed specifically to terrorize those of us who are easily overwhelmed in large, windowless places filled with people who have no physical sense of self-awareness. And it is. But, well — the rotisserie chicken and the supersized containers of Greek yogurt. Color me grateful.
On any given day, I spend a solid 15 minutes fretting about the long list of improvements or upgrades our little house needs, yet still — our home is perfect. Warm and right-sized and wildly luxurious in its very modesty.
I am grateful for the sweet sound of my husband's voice speaking tenderly to the dog when he doesn't know I can hear him.
And for the joyful early hours of a Saturday morning, when an entire unencumbered day stretches out before me.
And for journalism and art: I love those worlds for my personal experiences with them, and more generally for what journalists and artists give us every day.
And I love Advil.
One of my brothers asked me recently if I ever think of moving somewhere else after retirement. Truthfully, boringly, unadventurously, I said no. I've lived in or around this city of thousand punchlines since I was 5, and feel connected to it in a thousand and seventeen ways. Not everyone enjoys a sense of being well rooted in community, but I feel that way about Cleveland. I'd trade it for a beach house on the Atlantic, but not much else. I am so grateful for this city — as a reasonably metropolitan place situated alongside a big lake, and as a network of humans connected by innumerable micro communities. It feels like a deep blessing.
As does the sensation of a sharp pencil tip across good paper.
As does coffee.
And my elder daughter's sense of humor, and my younger daughter's weird and occasionally annoying ESP, and the astonishing wisdom they both have had for nearly all their lives. I count my kids among my friends, who are more numerous than I could have imagined as a wallflowery high schooler, and also more funny, smart, kind and generous than I deserve.
Other undeserved gifts: Fresh peaches.
Cheese.
The memory of shopping with my mom.
Good pay and engaging work at a place that performs medical miracles.
Books and books and books, and many ways to read them.
The hawk on the deck and the squirrel at my window.
When I was growing up, we had bountiful Thanksgiving dinners, but I don't remember us ever talking about what we were grateful for. This might well be a failure of my Swiss cheese memory, or it could be that people spoke a lot less about gratitude then. In any case, when I had my own family, and we started going around the Thanksgiving table to say what we were grateful for, I felt like I'd invented something. Turns out much of the world was already on the gratitude train. I had just been late, as usual.
Well, better later than never. It really is true that when we stop to name a few things for which to be grateful, they start to multiply. This is an especially meaningful effort in times when we are drowning in images of others who seem to have more of everything.
Envy and bitterness can be pretty tempting until I'm reminded of the gifts I wake up to every morning. I am living amid an embarrassment of riches.
So thank you for the pair of jeans that actual fits, and for selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, and the sun making shadow art on my walls. And thanks for your own fine eyeballs if you've read to the end. I'm grateful for you, too.
Happy Thanksgiving.