It occurs to me that 620 days is a lot of days to do something like write a blog every day. Other than the required biological functions of eating, sleeping, eliminating wastes, and other things I can’t think of too many other things I consistently do every day that requires thought, time, energy, and some measure of creativity. This is simply a random observation that has little to do with gratitude, which has for the previous 619 days been the subject of this blog. It will be for day 620 and beyond, however long beyond might take me.
Each evening I scan back through the course of the day as it unfolded considering what things I will highlight in my blog for the evening. What things happened in the day that caught my particular attention, what insights did I have as I interacted with people, encountered ideas and situations that sparked as sense of gratefulness in me? So many things happen over the course of a day that I lose count, moments of simple gratitude and the occasional occurrence that fosters a deep sense of gratitude.
I am grateful simply to be sitting here on my bed, listening to the rain falling and the wind blowing outside my little house. It is warm and dry and safe inside and I am grateful. Last night as I was posting this blog on my Facebook page I noted several pictures that had been posted by one of my brothers. They were photos of the yard and several structures where we’d lived when I was growing up. The actual house we’d lived in had been torn down some months ago, but various outbuildings and such are still standing. As I looked through the photos–there were perhaps only four or five–I could almost feel my heart twisting in my chest so visceral was my reaction. This had been a place of deep meaning for me, and when we moved in the late summer of my 15th year my life changed in some profound ways.
I was reminded yet again of how often I have searched for a sense of home for much of my life. We lived in that house for ten years–a relatively short amount of time in the scheme of things. But for me there are so many memories–both wonderful and awful–that are connected to that place that no matter how long ago we lived there (it’s been nearly 41 years since we moved) in many ways it still represents home to me. Looking at the pictures of the now overgrown and shabby-looking property felt like viewing the ruins of a once-great civilization: the structures were barely recognizable as the once reasonably meticulous property we’d grown up on. Of course my mental picture of it today is of it having been meticulously kept when another part of me knows it was probably quite average. Still it was a magical place of exploration for me and my siblings, particularly the four younger of us.I recognized the sense of loss I was feeling and was reminded again that though I’ve bounced around many places in the last 40 years I have not yet found that sense of home. And yet I can look back with gratitude at the many wonderful places I’ve lived over the years, each providing a space in which I could create a sense of home for myself and my family. I may not have yet reached the place I would call home, but I have learned to create it wherever I find myself. So as I sit here this evening in my warm, safe little house I am grateful to be here and will create home yet again for myself and my four-legged companion. May it be so!
