Thanksgiving Day has arrived, and I’ve yet to write a word about gratitude or thanks or giving. Even now, sitting here in the dark, waiting for the my world to wake, I feel nothing for the day. When did I become this thankless? I want to say it’s a recent development, and a temporary one, but my mind is playing tricks on me, so I can’t. Depression mind is usually the culprit when the only memories I can summon are dark, but I don’t feel depressed. Yet as I write, my mind yells, “Are you sure about that?” No. More tricks.
The truth is that this month has been a difficult one, and I haven’t done the work, the cutting and polishing, that transforms rough to beautiful. I’m missing absent family. I’m waiting for news of a death that could happen any time now or drag on for weeks. I’m unhappy with the little progress I’ve made physically (I’m still a meatball). I’m struggling to write even simple rhymes. I’m doubting my future and feeling very much alone in a life I don’t understand.
I want to clear my mind, balance it somehow, force myself to notice that there’s still good in the world. In my world. I bought a pocket calendar last weekend, a small weekly planner with several lines per day, that I’m planning to use as a gratitude journal of sorts. I’ll jot down five things a day (or three, or one) as they occur to me. Small things, big things, whatever. Anything will do as long I notice it and feel even the smallest bit of gratitude for it.
In the meantime, I need to practice noticing, waking up enough in the midst of the chaos to see those moments happening, feel the tiny pulse of thanks. Maybe I’ll be giving thanks for my aunt’s peaceful passing, or my granddaughter’s love of her new home. Maybe I can give thanks my mind is clear enough to write even bad verses, because it means I still remember how to write. Or maybe I’ll give thanks that, despite the sadness and depression and loneliness, I still want to feel grateful. I still want to feel.