Gratitude is my ministry.

I catalog messages, indexing the reoccurrence of themes; data points correlating into meaning. This is only when I’m observant to the presence of the messages, because they can be subtle and unexpected. A frozen rose, photographed before decaying. A sunrise so bright, the rise of Jupiter and Venus at night, a patient taxi driver playing classical guitar music instead of talk radio or pop. The delightfully round orange, equal parts juicy and sweet.

The Messenger is always sending, I’m not always at the ready receiving. But with this lens of beauty, I connect with his heart, beating to the rhythm of the expanding galaxy. It’s so achingly beautiful, in it’s devastation. I hold the cancer diagnosis with the ultrasound’s heartbeat, the breakup call with the friend’s engagement, the verb forgetting with the noun remembering, the latest civilian shooting with the celebratory olive harvest.

Gratitude is my ministry. I am a student of seeing, reciting, affirming, appreciating. It helps me remember why I’m alive; to catch his handiwork in the skies. To see, to be, to thrive. 

* * * 

“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” -Mary Oliver 

Monthly dribble

With a broken heart I write about love. What else can I do? It’s the beginning and the end, the foundation deep and the pinnacle high. The middle of the messy journey (and the ultimate destination). 

I want to think about love, I want to conform my mind in celebration and expectation. It’s worthy of my meditation, more than the hopeless negativity. The world doesn’t need more of that, right? 

My mother will say “you sound so happy in your letters.” Yes, I do. Do you want me to write about hopeless devastation, crying myself to sleep in grief? I can do that too. Maybe I should share the unappealing; cats screeching from the dumpster, the ever present male gaze, fizzled spiritual interest, team disunity, child neglect, smoky taxis, oppressive poverty, racism, the exhaustion of continually not belonging, and on and on. I probably have some good pictures of that. 

But I’d rather showcase the adventure, the hope, the potential. Leaning into positivity is still authentically me, even if it’s just one angle. Besides, If I tell you the truth, will you respond with compassion? If I share how hard it is, will you even care? Will you doubt my ROI? 

Maybe if you called, I would tell you how I’m really doing. It changes moment by moment, and if we open that can of worms they may not fit back in. But in this mass marketing email, I’m selling a version of myself that needs to exist in this space. Or I feel she does. 

It’s safer to write fiction based on reality, because the narrative is easier. It can be controlled for effect. Or come visit me, and you can share in the reality, which is better tasted. As they say in writing, “Show, don’t tell”.

Is it better to take a question of being too positive (or fake?)  than an accusation that I’m exaggerating and being dramatic?

If you’ve not opted out, than you consent to be on this journey. And I will lament, but not in the newsletter. That’s not the forum. This is a sitcom. We wrap of in 22 minutes minus commercials, so don’t fret. A new episode will be released next month. 

The body is the cage, the body is the harbor

Fractured, dark

Closing in 

Body alarming: there is a history here

Buried in between the cells

A memory incompatible with my rational mind

This is the vigilance 

The latent animal insistence 

“The wolf is coming, I am not safe”

But those years ago 

I couldn’t just shake it away, like the rabbit underneath the ferns

The wolf was always home 

And now I can’t escape 

Even though the wolf is gone 

Because the rabbit fear is trapped inside me 

“Darling, this is a sweet undoing”

The trellis has burned, now your vines get a new structure to rise upon, love and truth 

To relearn attachment, security and soothing 

“You can be safe, right here”

The body is the cage, the body is the harbor.