Eudora Welty wrote, “Ever feeling waits upon its gesture,” and I wonder what the gesture of gratitude might be. I think often of the photograph I saw years ago of a woman who carried white rocks to her small tent where she assembled a garden of light against the bleakness of the refugee camp she lived in. I remember, too, the obituary I read after 9-11 (or was it an article) where a child walked about her yard with a basket into which she dropped feathers, acorns, pebbles (perhaps) because it had become very important for her to save beauty.
It is a dark and rainy, this day before Thanksgiving. I look out the window at my neighbor’s Halloween decorations; a skeleton sits at the patio table, a ghostly figure waits on the swing. Both serve as subtle, jokey reminders of mortality.
How do I thank this imperfect world for this imperfect life? I lift my pen, and when the hour is done, I have left words where there were none. It is so little, I know, but it is my beauty, my offering, my gesture of gratitude.
Thank you for being part of my story. I hope you have a beautiful day, or at least a beautiful moment.