Time unspools. Colour is more intense, darkness darker, and gratitude both deeper and at times as elusive as ever.
But it’s Thanksgiving in a few days, and the sun is shining, and it is time to set aside that which must still be sorted before it will be gracefully borne. So, for the holy spark of light and love that brought me into being, I give thanks. For the abiding, undying love of my parents, and for the immense sacrifice they made in coming to this country of maple leaves and maple syrup, wide-open spaces, and a brutal language with more exceptions than rules.
For the kisses and laughter and boundless love of my babies. For the hugs of my adult children. For their dreams and strength and optimism and purpose, and the ways they have taken the best from both their parents to make the world a better place.
For those who help us up when we fall, those bring us a blanket, and those who know something of mercy and grace and forgiveness. For the lover who wraps her soul around us when our skin makes contact.
For legs that move, muscles that carry, joints that (sometimes at least) flex, and for the massaging hands that break up the concrete that, from time to time, insists on settling in living tissue. For blue skies and grey skies, for sun and wind and rain and snow, for air to breathe, and lungs with which to breathe. For the strong and brilliant metal that can form, with time and patience and a little pressure, from ash.
For those who make us laugh, and those who help us weep and shed the brine we sometimes carry in our tissues. For those who help us find our way back when we get lost. For deep and dreamless sleep. For the music we carry in our souls, and in our iPhones. For optimism that rises again and again.
For the truth of the soul—love—that rises ever nearer the surface with the thinning and wrinkling of our skin. For these and more, thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.