Thank You

“What do you say?”

Thank you.

We were often reminded as children. As adults, do we say it as often as we should? Are we grateful for what others have done for us? I think so, but do we take the time to let others know how we feel?

When I was cleaning out a junk drawer the other day, I found a Gratitude Book that someone must have given me. It is a small lime green notebook with blank pages. I opened it and read some of what I had written. While it was nothing earth shattering, it did give me pause. Let me share some of it with you.

The Saturday morning call from my sister-regular as clockwork
A fat yellow cat to warm my feet
Flannel sheets on frosty nights
Laughing with a friend until I cry
Compliments from a child
Working a job that has direct impact on people’s lives
The engine light coming on a mile from the dealer
Visiting India with a friend who was born there.
Spying a new bird for the first time
Living on the mountain in a summer heat wave
The neighbor snow blowing my driveway
Random acts of kindness
Friends who have known me for 30 years and still love me
Discovering a flat tire while still in the garage.
Surprise check in the mail

As Thanksgiving approaches, I have been thinking about how grateful I am for all that I have.

Instead of counting sheep, I count my blessings. I do it every night.

What are you thankful for?

THE GRATITUDE FACTOR

murmurings from the circle in the forest

An unexpected cold front has triggered my fall instincts to hunt and gather, and prepare my nest for the coming of winter. Never mind that it is only the latter part of August with several weeks of summer left. The gray squirrels are poking fallen acorns into the ground, and I am packing the freezer with this year’s bounty of corn, peaches, tomatoes and green beans.

I drove to the Farmer’s Market because that is the place to buy the great Garden State vegetables these days: Red tomatoes, creamy-golden corn, fresh garlic and onions and shiny onyx eggplants that we used to buy from the neighbor’s homemade stands, leaving payment in a cardboard cigar box. Since canning is a long and arduous process requiring quart jars, screw-top lids, great boiling kettles with wire racks, not to mention hours of sweating in the kitchen, I chose the quicker (and easier) freezer method. I boiled corn on the cob, and then sliced off the kernals into plastic bags. Peeled pounds of sweet peaches and sliced them into bags, each one holding enough for a pie (to be baked during snow storms).

There is something soul-satisfying about this work. Like kneading bread dough, a little of my life energy is added to the food. Ready-made dinners cannot match this gift. They feed the body only. Nourishment is one-dimensional. We are not involved with our food. We did not plant it, water it, weed it, protect it, pick it or prepare it. Having a relationship with your food affects its taste. I call it the Gratitude Factor.

I have a small backyard garden. When I pour a bag of silky seeds into my hand and push each one into the earth that I have tilled, amended, fertilized and mounded into beds, it seems crazy to expect food to come out of it. It feels senseless to pour water on dirt. It’s not reasonable. But it never disappoints. The seeds sprout from their underground secrets. It thrills me each time a timid yellow-green curl breaks through, sometimes balancing the seed casing on its head like a sport cap. I feel proud, like I’ve just given birth. In a few weeks, their leaves unfurl and their mission becomes clear: Make more of themselves. As they slip into production, I intervene, picking beans, peas, tomatoes, squash in their turn and use them to feed my own kind. Human beings have the same mission as a vegetable, only the green beans have not yet learned how to fight.

The vegetables pile up in my harvesting basket, a bounty from my own back yard. I thank each plant for its miracle. They are often consumed on the same day, so the flavors of green and gratitude leave me with a sense of fulfillment that just doesn’t come from opening a can.