I took myself for a walk a morning or so ago. Not a long one, nor an especially purposeful one, but the sky was my favorite tinge of gray, pregnant with the promise of rain and thunder. Setting out across the yard, my mind indulged herself in the freedom to unwind from a long week. The dogs wove in and out of each other’s path—and mine—and I began to wonder as I wandered.
As the holidays close in, I feel my customary sense of dread, my head and heart keening in unison, reminding me of the too-muchness of this season. Too much chaos, too many expectations, and the time to withdraw will not come quickly enough to again find my quiet center. In retrospect, I suppose that’s what I was doing as I walked with myself, thus my meandering had purpose after all, for I stumbled across the answer to a question which had been causing some minor grief.
Being someone who spends a significant portion of her time looking inward, rather than outward, I began to examine myself, which means that in recent weeks I have been indulging in the great pastime of overthinking. I fretted that my anxiety and dread over this time of year made me an ungrateful sort of soul, yet under those promising dark clouds, in the untangling of my mind, I came to the liberating conclusion that I had been entertaining misconceptions about myself, that indeed my soul is grateful—profoundly and magnificently so! My struggle, therefore, lay quite simply in the expressing of my gratitude.
Admittedly, I possess the unfortunate habit of wanting to dismiss the trappings of the season as stale, and therefore set out to craft an essay of gratitude, only to find that I superbly overthought this, as well. However, after recovering from the disappointment of not having written my “Ode of Many Thanks,” my overwhelmed thought processes righted themselves and once again, I arrived at another realization, which brought my anxious mind a measure of comfort: I was not only overwrought at my inability to adequately express my thanks, but also my inability to catalogue all of the things for which I am thankful. Simply put, I did not have enough to room on the page nor endurance in my writing hand to get them all down.
Whether lofty or lowly, extravagant or mundane, the more I attention I gave to this subject, the longer my “Ode” became, until I gave up at the sheer enormity of gifts.
I am undeniably appreciative of my family and those whom I call “friend,” particularly the one who is the David to my Jonathan, and for the more obvious blessing of having my daily needs met. But there is more, much, much more!
There are Shakespeare mornings in their russet mantles clad, and periwinkle evenings that fade to indigo and showcase the stars. There’s the velvet warmth of coffee and smells of leather and paper and the possibility that awaits the opening of a brand new notebook and the feeling I get when I hear good music, like settling into one of my daddy’s old work shirts, warm and familiar.
I get tickled at banjo plucking and fiddle sawing, and scrambled egg sandwiches with Duke’s mayonnaise and Coca-Cola in a green glass bottle, and bottle trees. There’s much excitement in pea picking and potato digging and the dirt of harvest under my fingernails.
I offer my thanks for letters which become words, which in turn become sentences and paragraphs; for books and the rasp of pages as they turn in my hands. For stories and storytellers and poets; for the juxtaposition of words that make me pause and say in awe, like Ruby Thewes, “I like that.”
For dreams, and a passionate heart, and this wild imagination. For the emotions and senses that allow me to experience life in depth, both in joy and in sorrow, which in turn provide a treasure trove of inspiration from which to draw.
For having scratched the surface of what it means to be fearfully and wonderfully made, and for the courage to be myself in light of that knowledge.
And to think that these are only a palmful of magic.
So I will withdraw and find my quiet center, when the days become hectic and my senses are overwhelmed, and rest assured that in so doing, I am continuing to become more of myself. And the more myself that I am, the more I can be about the business of doing what the Yawper himself said—“A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.”
For that opportunity, also, I offer my gratitude.
Yes, for these, and all Thy blessings, I thank Thee.