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Gratefulness
everything counts . . .
I think about this all of the time . . . I wake up every day feeling safe. I have food at the ready in my refrigerator. I have a clean toilet that flushes. I have a toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. I have the ability to take care of myself. I have clean clothes. I have a table to sit down at, and chairs. I have a home that shelters me from the weather. I have garden space where I can work. I have books to read, television to w...
I think about this all of the time . . . I wake up every day feeling safe. I have food at the ready in my refrigerator. I have a clean toilet that flushes. I have a toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. I have the ability to take care of myself. I have clean clothes. I have a table to sit down at, and chairs. I have a home that shelters me from the weather. I have garden space where I can work. I have books to read, television to watch, and internet to teach and entertain me. I have freedom of choice. I have spare time. I have a car to take me just about anywhere. I can afford to pay my doctor. I have the luxury of cats and a man who loves me. I have paper to paint on and write on. I have light in the darkness at night. I have clean, warm sheets to sleep on, and body contact with those I love. I am grateful for all of it.
I have no business complaining about anything . . . my small misfortunes are nothing to what most of the world suffers.
I have always become more when I’ve been able to let go… it’s the letting go part that’s hard. I had my first remembered epiphany after my first child died . . . so deep in grief that something opened up in me and I let go. It took me a long time to let go of the grief itself, but something stayed in me, nestled like a small animal, waiting to be re-awakened. With each experience of letting go, it has slowly, ...
I have always become more when I’ve been able to let go… it’s the letting go part that’s hard. I had my first remembered epiphany after my first child died . . . so deep in grief that something opened up in me and I let go. It took me a long time to let go of the grief itself, but something stayed in me, nestled like a small animal, waiting to be re-awakened. With each experience of letting go, it has slowly, very slowly risen to the surface and now lives where I can be present to it . . . it’s not over yet . . . I know that, but it is very firmly established and will be with me when I need it the most.
Often the weather reflects what is in my heart, or maybe it’s the other way around. I well remember after the death of my first child, It was in the spring when the cows were calving and the grass greening, I could could barely venture outside . . . the sun painfully bright, the newborn farm animals nursing and frolicking in the fields, heartbreaking, and the freshness of the air of spring made me feel like I was being ...
Often the weather reflects what is in my heart, or maybe it’s the other way around. I well remember after the death of my first child, It was in the spring when the cows were calving and the grass greening, I could could barely venture outside . . . the sun painfully bright, the newborn farm animals nursing and frolicking in the fields, heartbreaking, and the freshness of the air of spring made me feel like I was being slapped, over and over again. My breasts ached with the need to nurse, and everything alive felt like an insult or a taunt . . . the sound of birdsong, the sight of flowers pushing up out of the earth were all too painful to endure. That is the strongest incident that I can connect to this question . . . it is not so true for me these days . . . my heart can sing on a rainy day, and weep on a sunny one, and the other way around. But gratitude has tempered my responses.
Often the weather reflects what is in my heart, or maybe it’s the other way around. I well remember after the death of my first child, It was in the spring when the cows were calving and the grass greening, I could could barely venture outside . . . the sun painfully bright, the newborn farm animals nursing and frolicking in the fields, heartbreaking, and the freshness of the air of spring made me feel like I was being slapped, over and over again. My breasts ached with the need to nurse, and everything alive felt like an insult or a taunt . . . the sound of birdsong, the sight of flowers pushing up out of the earth were all too painful to endure.That is the strongest incident that I can connect to this question . . . it is not so true for me these days . . . my heart can sing on a rainy day, and weep on a sunny one, and the other way around. But gratitude in my later years has tempered my responses.
This truly puts things into perspective, doesn’t it, dear Journey?
Thank you for your kind reply, dear Ose . . . it was hard to put all of that into words.
It is very hard, dear Mike, to let go of ‘fighting pain’, but you are right– letting go with ‘acceptance & equanimity’ is a much better place to be . . . bless you
well said, dear John . . . 🙂
You are right, dear Patricia… these ‘small joys’ are not really small at all! For Joy! ♥
“that I should sit like a tiger intent on its prey, highly alert but never pouncing, in that intense moment of “before.” ” I will remember this, dear Holly…
You are a hero, dear Michelle… be well and stay safe.
Well said, dear Holly in Ohio . . . ♥
Indeed, dear Cheryle, I am blessed . . .
🙂
I have a sparkling, clear memory of those days, dear Cheryle, as if it was yesterday or even today… even though it was 50 years ago. But now I am healed. We all have the capacity to heal . . . ps. I don’t know how this posted twice.
Thank you, dear Pollyanna . . . sharing the journey is so very healing.
yes, yes, and Yes…
I’ve been doing this every day for over 20 years, dear Papilio . . . it works.
I’m getting it here too, south of Albany . . . 18 inches and still coming down . . . it’s beautiful.
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