Gratitude for plasticity. For the dynamic nature of existence.
I sit here, in color. In warmth. In sound. How do I reconcile my access to comfort, to beauty? Does it cost someone else something?
I am so grateful for song, melody. My own song and the songs of others. How truly awe-inspiring to hear birds sing. Insects chirp. Wind howl through frozen branches.
I am so grateful for creativity. For the collective consciousness and creativity of life. Seeds carry themselves across the breeze. Attach themselves to my sleeves.
For the blood that drips from my cavern, reminding me to pay attention. To dip into myself like a well, a spring, that provides me the strength to rise, to sacrifice, to be still.
For taste, for connection.
For hair, for grasslands, the prairie.
For lessons in trees, in roofs, in dirt, in age.
I sit on my knees. I kiss the ground. The ground kisses my forehead.
I see myself. I see everyone, everything.
I will treat you better.
sometimes, gratitude is a blanket
wrapped around my body
in the form of letters, these treasures
from my roadmap of life
but if i don’t consider from where i’ve come,
how can I move forward?
direction is only relative to a starting point
i think of the snowmelt
the freeze and thaw;
the process that leads to
and i can hear the wailing, always
as much in my own gut as the
but the strength of water suggests that
freezing and thawing are
a necessary part of life
that resilience is not weight,
on a sunny thursday morning, walking along the sandy bank of the river
i stopped to watch a small wasp, no larger than the dime in my pocket
dig a hole in the sand
grain by grain
and on a chilly tuesday evening, walking along the spine of the sangre de cristos at sunset
i stopped to watch the hundreds of thousands of bats, each as big as the palm of my hand
fly into the night
one by one
i feel tears sting my eyes and roll slowly down my cheekbones
gathering at my chin
there is no name for what i am feeling
but as if the sun and moon were rising all at once
i can hear each of my fragile perceptions
and i am in awe
not of beauty
not of the color or texture
or rushing river water or sunset
but of purpose
of witnessing the earth do
as it needs to
on a misty friday morning, laying in my sleeping bag in the dewy, grassy meadow
i hear an elk bugle in the distance
as if to greet the morning sun
here, or there
with eyes open, or closed,
i am awake