Blankets

I was digging through a moving box recently. Yes, I realize it's been three years since I moved. Don't judge me. In it was a lovely, luxurious blanket. I don't remember packing it. But I did. I know I didn't buy it, because it is luscious, and I know I couldn't have afforded it. I assumed it was bedding for the air mattress, so never gave it much thought. Until this year.

I unfolded it and pondered. How long have I/we owned it, where did it come from and why am I connecting with it now. Life is like that, you know. We are oblivious to things until a light comes on and the timing is right. We're left wondering. Was it a need that was simply waiting to be met? Was I blind to it? Why didn't I connect the dots?

There are lots of blankets in my house. Ironically, or serendipitously, this one just happens to be king sized. Way too big for the air mattress. Most of my blankets have been nibbled on by a dog (or two) over the years. Of course, it would be nice if they hadn't. Surely, I would have corrected them if I'd had the opportunity. But, dogs, and blankets are stealthy like that. Blankets that have a hole in them are much like our hearts. A little tattered, slightly worn, but still soft and nurturing. They still have the capacity to offer love, warmth and comfort. 

I'm not fussy about the holes. I know some people would never tolerate something tattered. In a perfect world, which is some place I will never live, things get damaged and replaced. That's probably why it was purchased. Me? I make do. That's not necessary a bad thing. In fact, there is a lot of grace in that.

For some reason, this season, I have an ultra-soft, warm blanket to cover up with. I think it's a sign of some sort. I'm not sure exactly what though. Maybe I don't have to know. It's new, and yet it's old. It's soft and warm. It's a gift from another life. If it gets chewed on, so be it. We're all a little damaged, and we're all still beautiful. 

Counting Blessings

I think our sense of gratitude is like a muscle we must build and flex. It must be fed, comforted, searched for and defined. I used to be diligent about keeping a list of things I was grateful for, things that grace my life. I've kept this list for years. Lost the list completely once and began again. I've been slacking in keeping up with that recently.

Isn't that the perfect analogy for life. You start, you stop, you win, you lose, you begin again. You count your blessings.

Where are you in life? How are you flexing the muscles of faith and gratitude? Is your heart full of joy, angst, worry, anticipation?

I was just in the kitchen preparing for Thanksgiving. I was chopping onions, and celery. Measuring spices for stuffing. I've been doing these same tasks since I was old enough to work beside my mom in the kitchen. Now for years, I've been the mom in the kitchen. I've sliced and diced with parents, siblings, relatives, friends, and my children. Other times it's been a solitary labor of love while waiting for my favorite people to arrive. But it's tradition, it's what we do to break bread and give thanks for the life we have, the people we love.

I get that we can quickly, almost thoughtlessly come up with things we are thankful for. I understand sometimes we have to dig deep for even one thing to be grateful for. I know sometimes the worst of circumstances bring infinite blessings. I've experienced divine intervention and happy endings. 

So, I give thanks today for the feelings, the words, the love, the loss and the experiences that life so generously offers me. I'll pause to remember to write on my list and share it. It hangs in my kitchen, anyone who visits is welcome to add to it. One of my son's adds to the list whenever he's home. I treasure his words. I need to give thanks for that. I give thanks for you too. For the ways our paths crossed, and how our lives are woven together. 

Tears

There are days, golden days, when blessings abound that are still somehow tinged with sadness.  You wish it wasn't so. No number of wishes makes it different.

Sorrow enters our lives. Some experience it early, some experience it repeatedly, some go most of their lives only to be confronted with it late in life. I don't believe anyone escapes it. The sorrow shifts as I grow and change. It's hard, but honesty, great growth comes from it. 

Most days we can sweep it into a corner and look past it. Some days we can channel it into activity and not even acknowledge it. But it is there lurking. So somedays we simply must own it. Acknowledge its existence. Sit down and just feel it. In a perfect world, tears help wash it away. Tears cleanse and renew. Though of late, tears seem harder to find. The irony is I used to be a very weepy woman. Every sad movie, every poignant commercial and my kids would be watching for when the water works started. And they always did. 

Now, it doesn't happen so much. I know I'm not alone in this. Honestly, I could use a good cry, and a good laugh for that matter. Heck, I'd take tears and laughter one right after the other. Doesn't matter which order they come in. 

I've been pondering this, and truthfully need to talk to the big guy upstairs about it. Don't get me wrong I'm not wanting more sorrow. I would like to continue processing the share I've had. Sweeping it aside isn't working. Maybe you feel the same. If so, the good news is you are not alone. I'll pass the Kleenex if you need some and understand if the tears are stuck. I can relate to both.