On This Thanksgiving

 

"Optimism is really rooted in gratitude."

~ Michael J. Fox 

As this third Thanksgiving since John died approaches, I find myself with a sense of optimism I have not felt for many months.  Surprisingly so, considering this past year filled with a global pandemic, isolation, political unrest, and the rampant fear, anxiety, and anger that resulted.  But reading this quote by the actor, Michael J. Fox, makes so much sense to me because in spite of daily upsets and conspiracy theories, in spite of constant "the sky is falling" and threats and recriminations, I have managed somehow to record 3-5 statements of gratitude every night.  On only one occasion were the statements a repeat of "I made it through the day."  And though not always optimistic, I know the practice kept me from despair.

Were John alive, we would have engaged with a Thanksgiving ritual of taking turns expressing what we were grateful for over the past year.  This year, I will initiate the ritual with my sister and brother-in-law with whom I am staying while I await the availability of my own apartment in the rolling hills of central NY.  For, this, in itself, is certainly one of the most important items on my year's list of gratitudes.  

I offer my list in the hope that it will trigger yours, initiate the possibility that you will adopt this ritual, and conclude with a feeling of optimism for the coming year.

This year I am grateful for:

• having made it without contracting the virus
• having friends who were as careful as I was, thus never endangering me
• the technology that made it, and will make it, possible for us to stay in contact, possibly the silver lining in this mess
• the e-mails and jokes that brought moments of laughter and respite from the steady stream of vitriol on the airwaves and social media
• my circle of "sisters" - you know who you are - who message every morning and every evening to stay in touch, just in case
• dessert sunsets in Utah
• autumn colors in NY
• the constant companionship of my sweet rescue dog, Rufus
• having sold my home in UT in 2 days
• the incredible efforts of support from friends who were there when I most needed them and helped to make the move a success in a very short time
• the kind notes and e-mails that acknowledged the contributions I tried to make to my little Utah community and the many friendships I forged in the process;  the notes and e-mails from old friends to encourage and cheer me on
• a safe automobile journey across the country, thanks to the chauffeuring of a young friend and the absence of snow
• her continued help in tying up loose ends; I never could have pulled this off without her
• the care and generosity of my sister and brother-in-law, especially his wonderful cooking and both of their patience and tutelage as I learn my way around newer technology and newer environs
• getting to know them at a different level, growing to love and appreciate them even more
• chocolate covered blueberries and glasses of chilled white wine
• finding an apartment that meets all of my criteria 
• the unexpected kindnesses of strangers, strangers who are willing to wear masks
• the prospect of seeing old friends I haven't seen in years and family I have yet to meet
• being with my sister on the second anniversary of John's death, she who was with us that night
• warm memories that bring smiles now instead of tears
• being in the position to explore the area, make new friends, strengthen family ties, indulge in hobbies - how fortunate am I?
• and last, but most certainly not least, the e-mail from an old friend on the day I was questioning my decision to move, wondering what lies ahead of me, filled with doubts and misgivings.  Her kind assurance that John would surely say, "that's my Angie", was the perfect boost. I, too, know he would. 

With so much to be grateful for, how could I not be optimistic?  

.

 

 

The Sounds of Silence

Silence has not always been comfortable or comforting for me.  Silence - not merely not talking or being alone, but true silence, no music, no TV.  No computer, no digital reader, no background noise, no distraction.  Just me, my thoughts, my surroundings.  Quiet, stillness. Quiet enough to hear my breathing, to feel what I'm really feeling, to hear the inner dialogue that I would rather ignore.  Silence for a great part of my life was disquieting.

I have a long history with trying to cultivate a friendship with silence. I cannot count the times I tried to meditate and gave up, unable to still what Buddhists aptly call my "monkey mind" for even a nanosecond, unable to resist rebuking myself for my inability. It was challenging 40 years ago when I first tried, virtually impossible, even without the many distractions available today.  I was newly divorced , living alone for the first time, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions and an uncertain future.  So I turned to journaling.  To slow down the chatter, to capture it on paper so I could see what I could not bear to hear.  

Over the decades now, I've written on loose leaf paper, in college composition books, in Italian leather journals with gilded leaf edges.  I've written snuggled into the corner of a couch or a favorite comfy chair.  On airplanes, in hotels, late at night when I couldn't sleep, in the middle of the day when I found myself obsessing with an idea for a project or a problem that needed resolution.  Initially I had to have background noise, other people nearby, the TV, eventually soothing music.  

But I wrote almost every day.  I wrote when I didn't have anything special to say.  I wrote when I thought I had something profound to say (on rereading some of it, I only thought so.) I wrote when I had cancer and I wrote volumes when John had cancer.

Along the way, journaling evolved from habit to routine to cherished ritual and without realizing it, I learned to slow down the chatter, turn down the volume.  I became comfortable with discomfort.  I turned off the TV,  turned off the music.  I remained quiet after I stopped reading or writing.  I discovered solace in the sound of a distant mourning dove.  Came to hear the breeze in the trees outside our home before I could feel them.  Began to listen for the spaces between sounds.

Maybe I assign too much credit for this to journaling.  Maybe this comes naturally with age, with weathering personal loss, with being unwilling or unable to endure the assault of modern technology, the incessant noise.  Maybe I would be welcoming silence without all those composition books and gilded journals.  Or maybe it's that the distractions have become something to distract myself from?  But I look at the folks with their earbuds, and phones and tablets and wonder if/when they will make friends with silence. 

Sometimes, in the total silence of the night, when John reaches out to take my hand, or I reach out to reassure myself that he is still there,  the sudden thought that I might face this silence alone can take my breath away.  But now, more often that not, I reassure myself that I can.

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