Letters to a New Generation
Gratitude
“A cardinal that flew by.” – S.B.'s Gratitude Journal
“What's a gratitude journal?” It wasn't something I wanted to say because the room was so silent, stunted with the bleary-eyed look of early morning. No. I felt as if I wanted to have a knowledge of something I had experienced before, but never known personally. I wanted to hear about a small bit of this person I still had within me – from infant-hood, and from blood – yet never knew.
A thick book was closed and laid aside for a moment of contemplation. “I don't know,” the words were reflective, wondering at this lack of knowing. “I suppose it's probably a journal where you write down the things you're grateful for.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Probably.”
Later, after retreating into the warmth of my room – it smelt faintly of dried rosemary – I considered what to write. Because I knew I was going to write something. My fingers hovered over the keys. After a few blinks and a long look at the melting layer of snow outside, I had it. The rest of the words came in an easy tumbling motion. I clipped them and ordered them neatly in little rows marked with punctuation. And this is what they said:
The bright flash of scarlet feathers flutters once against a backdrop of snow untouched save for the tiny forked prints of the earliest risen fowl. The first timid notes of birdsong drift in and out. The trees seem laden with blankets of powder white, content to sleep away the winter. Day has not yet risen, and the air is numbingly still. Perhaps you have unknowingly wandered out before the sun. If the mist of sleep surrounds you still and the alert anxiousness of daily business has not yet set in… perhaps you can be immersed by the miracles here. The softness that harsh winds can bring. And if you just stop — just stop and listen — you can even hear the blood in your body breathe.
I'm fairly certain you have to stop and listen to be thankful for a bird flying by. Especially if death is imminent. Remember that, and know that sometimes the most simple things can be the ones whose meaning is the most.
“What's a gratitude journal?” It wasn't something I wanted to say because the room was so silent, stunted with the bleary-eyed look of early morning. No. I felt as if I wanted to have a knowledge of something I had experienced before, but never known personally. I wanted to hear about a small bit of this person I still had within me – from infant-hood, and from blood – yet never knew.
A thick book was closed and laid aside for a moment of contemplation. “I don't know,” the words were reflective, wondering at this lack of knowing. “I suppose it's probably a journal where you write down the things you're grateful for.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Probably.”
Later, after retreating into the warmth of my room – it smelt faintly of dried rosemary – I considered what to write. Because I knew I was going to write something. My fingers hovered over the keys. After a few blinks and a long look at the melting layer of snow outside, I had it. The rest of the words came in an easy tumbling motion. I clipped them and ordered them neatly in little rows marked with punctuation. And this is what they said:
The bright flash of scarlet feathers flutters once against a backdrop of snow untouched save for the tiny forked prints of the earliest risen fowl. The first timid notes of birdsong drift in and out. The trees seem laden with blankets of powder white, content to sleep away the winter. Day has not yet risen, and the air is numbingly still. Perhaps you have unknowingly wandered out before the sun. If the mist of sleep surrounds you still and the alert anxiousness of daily business has not yet set in… perhaps you can be immersed by the miracles here. The softness that harsh winds can bring. And if you just stop — just stop and listen — you can even hear the blood in your body breathe.
I'm fairly certain you have to stop and listen to be thankful for a bird flying by. Especially if death is imminent. Remember that, and know that sometimes the most simple things can be the ones whose meaning is the most.