Day 11

What day is it? I'm not sure.

This day and some others I am grateful for salt.
A simple combination of elements. It's harvested from the sea.
Warm and salty broth that restores little healing bodies after being emptied out in the most horrible ways. Bowls of comfort and restoration, bringing color back to cheeks, sparkle to eyes, life to demeanor.
Sprinkled in my bath to soothe aching muscles from nights of holding hands and heads and wiping mouths, floors, brows.
Sodium bicarbonate sprinkled on carpets, in laundry, in the dishwasher. Working its simple magic and drawing out odors and germs from things soiled with illness.
The salt of my tears that fall from exhaustion, from worry, from inadequacy. I taste them and I'm grateful that I care enough to cry. That I try hard enough to fail. That I have the energy left to keep moving.
The grains of salt with which I take the things my upside down brain tries to convince me are true. The good and the bad, you know. I remember to salt my words to myself and both give myself a break and try to do better.
The crunch of salt in my little treat to myself - salted caramel hot cocoa. Decadent and unexpected. Delicious and necessary. It's my personal reminder to rest and to savor the beautiful, rich things in life that can be so simple and so satisfying.

And this salt. The salt of the words I try to live by:
"You are the salt of the earth...You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden, nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others..."

Day 10

I am grateful for Lysol. For a large hot water heater and not having to wash clothes (and bed linens, and towels, and more clothes) by beating them against a rock.

I am grateful for hand sanitizer. I am grateful for teaspoons full of water that finally stay down.

I am mostly grateful for a little boy who is finally sleeping peacefully in his bed.

Day 9

It's Veteran's Day.

I am grateful for the people who choose to do this kind of work. Who put aside their personal comfort, their safety and their whole lives in many ways to serve our country. I don't have to agree with the leaders who send them to and fro at their own whims to appreciate the sacrifices our men and women in uniform make.

The effects of war are far reaching and the injuries are not just from bullets and mortar shells. It is not with empty flag waving and marching tunes that I express my appreciation for the people who do something that I, myself, just wouldn't do.

I wrote about my personal Veteran's Day last year, here. I don't really have a whole lot to add.

I am a pacifist, I am a liberal, I oppose war for almost any reason. I rarely think that displays of might and firepower are productive solutions to anything.

I have the utmost respect for the men and women who wear the uniforms, follow the orders and face the unspeakable for me so that I can sit back and say "Nah, I don't think so."

Day 8

Patient, patient people.

I forget now how I came to discover Sleepy Joe and her Life and Writings. She lives on the other side of the pond from me and works in one of the coolest fields, ever - library science. I have such respect and gratitude for librarians in general and it's somewhat akin to knowing a rock star to be associated with Sleepy Joe.

As if that weren't enough, she is a steady and constant presence on this blog with her constant encouragement and her unfailing loyalty to reading and commenting. She's an aspiring writer, herself, and leads a busy life with two little people and working full time and just generally being fabulous, yet she always finds the time to root for other writers and bloggers. That really means a lot. It takes some effort to reach out to other people and she does it anyway and is a cheerful presence here and on a lot of the blogs I read.

Over the last several weeks, she has gifted me with two different bits of blogging love. I have been woefully behind in catching up with all things blogging and they have slipped through the cracks. These little blog award thingies have been a delightful little surprise bonus to blogging. I'm not much one for memes, generally, but to have someone take the time to single out my ranting over here is touching to me and I really do appreciate it.

So, for you, Sleepy Joe, I am grateful. For my Wonderful Team Member Readership Award, because I am not a wonderful team member, actually. Writing is a generally solitary and lonely pursuit. I spend hours buried in things invisible to the naked eye. It is exhausting and exhilarating and it appears to waste a lot of time. In what other endeavor would you strive to eliminate at least 20% of the work you've done after you've done it? As a result, I get all down deep in my head and shut out the rest of the world. Writing is not a team sport. Blogging is, though. And I deeply appreciate my teammates. And for my Reader Appreciation Award.  It may seem from time to time that I do not appreciate my readers as much as I should. If appreciation is measured in mutual comments or responding promptly to Tweets and comments and Facebook notes, then I fail at this. If appreciation is measured in the thrill of seeing a familiar name on my stats and taking the time to really savor and consider the words that you've left behind, then there it is.

I encourage you to go check out Sleepy Joe's blog if you haven't already. She's really a shining light, the encouragement fairy, if you will. I am so grateful for her and all of the people like her who populate this world and make things just more pleasant. I am going to change the rules of all this up a bit. Instead of answering questions about myself, instead I'm going to ask you to leave your favorite thing about Sleepy Joe here in the comments. Let's fill her bucket at least half as much as she does for others.

Days 3 - 5

I have been absent from this space. But I have had so much for which to be grateful. So much it has drawn me away from dwelling on the things in my head; away from personal observations into the shared observations of special days with a family that fills my heart and breaks it open and fills it again.

This past weekend we have celebrated a little boy. A hooligan of sorts who has been making this planet a more spontaneous and joyful place for six years now.

He was my surprise baby. I thought he was a stomach bug, perhaps. I thought I was exhausted from moving to a new town, from raising an active and inquisitive toddler, from the miscarriage I'd had mere weeks before. I thought there was something wrong. When I finally went to the doctor because the symptoms were undeniably familiar, I discovered that there was absolutely nothing wrong. There was a tiny peanut, two months along, standing on its flipper legs and doing a little jig. I looked at the grainy picture full of snow and wondered at the tenacity of a little being who would come twice to see me. Who would hang out inside, ignored, disbelieved and dance.

This is the kernel, the essence of my Hooligan. He hangs out, content to live and talk and imagine in a world where everyone in the house is bigger than he is. Where people are busy with other things and he patiently follows them from room to room explaining the details of his latest creation, the game he's designing, the dream he had, asking questions about space, about eternity, about the flexibility of time. He walks in circles while he talks, to organize his thoughts. He dances from foot to foot while he stands. He jumps from space to space while he walks. He stops and grins and winks at me. He gives me a thumbs-up and finishes his sentence. He bounces merrily through a world that sometimes won't slow down and wait for him.

He is my surprising boy. He taught himself to walk while I was unpacking a house. He stored up all his words and expressed himself with sound effects until one day they all came tumbling out in complete sentences. He taught himself to read while no one was looking. He draws schematic diagrams of inventions that might actually work. He figures out his world by quietly building things and then demonstrating how to use them. He loves to run and laugh and make large messes.

He understands being the smallest person in the room, so his perpetual motion will slow and stop for a gentle word to a baby, a helping hand to a peer who lags behind. He is generous with praise and with gratitude, but he will brook no whining. He covers his ears and closes his eyes to shut out the noise of others' displeasure. "Just stop that and try," he will say, not unkindly. He reminds me not to yell. He holds my hand and hugs me. He does not understand meanness or smallness of spirit.

He is my Hooligan. He is always up to something. He was my surprise and he completed our family in a way we didn't know it needed to be done. He showed up and smiled at us and we all fell in love with his dark, mischievous eyes, the dimple in his chin, the smile that splits his face in half. He hugs with abandon, he kisses on the mouth, he pats arms and knees and shoulders while he speaks, and snuggles with sibilant S's. He gives us these connections, these simple reassurances that he is here, that he is real, that he is to be believed. And then he wanders off to the place inside his head that is full of tall buildings and space ships and mechanical devices, time travel, music and math equations of his own making and no one really knows what else.

I have spent these last few days in celebration of this strange and wonderful little boy who determined that he would live with us; that he would take his place and wait quietly for us to notice and that in the meantime, he would dance.

Day 2

The earth has turned a little bit more and suddenly it is November. It is the beginning of that steady slide toward the end of the year that is full of so very much.

I have committed to a massive writing project for November as well as some less massive real-life kinds of things. I've gone, in the last few weeks, from reveling as a lady of leisure - one who wanders malls with a latte in hand and photographs her boots midday for the pleasure of it - to a busier person who has to keep a calendar. This is a good change of events for me, and an intentional one, so never fear. There will be very little whining about it. Or whinging, if you prefer.

All of the above is a series of social disclaimers (detestable things, but sometimes useful) to say that I will be wholly unoriginal in this blog space this month. I will be playing the tuba on the gratitude bandwagon and posting about things I'm grateful for every day. I made a list of 75 things last year and you can read them here. I love Thanksgiving because it is about food and the giving of thanks and all that lovely stuff. It's nice for gratitude to have its own holiday (we will not speak here of the genocide of indigenous peoples or religious persecution, except to admire the large buckles on hats and shoes. Deal? It's about gratitude.) However, this thankfulness things should extend a wee bit further than one weekend in November, no? It's nice to have a holiday, but the giving of thanks should be daily. (Not, however, the watching of football. That can be relegated to one weekend a year.)

The whole point of this is to put my cranky pants away and don my pants that are woven from blessings and light and realize that I should wear them more often. Without further ado, I bring you

Day 2:
Today I am grateful for excellent public school teachers. They make very little money compared to the work that they do. They deal with unruly bureaucracy, unruly children, unruly parents, limited resources, excessive expectations, long days, and cramped classrooms. I have had two opportunities this week to see my children's teachers in action and I'm humbled by their skill, their patience, their insight, and their experience. I would throw large temper tantrums if I were stuck in a smelly room with 29 children every day.

We moved to a new school over the summer and so much was unknown. I want to write gushing love letters to my children's teachers. I want to bake them treats and hug them and weep openly in appreciation. I may do that. I know that there are vast inequities across schools, across states, across neighborhoods. There are so many things that are broken about public education; so many things that are frustrating, heartbreaking, infuriating. I know that in my little neighborhood school here in the corner of the country, tucked away in a valley surrounded by trees and hills and birds, we are blessed. We are richly and abundantly blessed, in spite of setbacks. I will not take this for granted. I will not focus on the broken system except to do what I can to help change it. I will not take these people for granted. These people who know the inequities and problems better than I do and choose to show up every day anyway and give their best to other people's children. These people are heroes and I am so humbly and thoroughly grateful for them.

Gratitude

The sky that twinkles. The bite of fall in the air. The people who read, encourage, comment. The way my transplanted hydrangea has shot out new leaves all over the place. The smell of little sweaty feet. The smell of yeast bread rising. The Phillies shirt from a friend that wears like a hug. The wonders of the internet, text-messaging, telephones and easy communication. The kind of difficult communication that makes us stop and think and wonder how we can do better. The kind of silent communication that comes in hugs and glances and a casual patting of my arm or playing with my hair. The health of my family. The answering of prayers. The spaces of light and openness. The consolation of friends. The common experience. The history of a love. The funny things you did when you were younger that make you giggle today when you need to remember that things are fun. The people who will call you and remind you of those things. The buoyancy of life. The hope. The faith. The possibilities. The small excitements that add up to general joy. The pain. The defeat. The opportunity to get up again. The love. Definitely the love. In all of this, love.

Please add more of your own. It will be a river. It has nothing to do with page views, number of comments, good writing, right or wrong, personal or universal. This is a tribute. To life, to gratitude, to connection. Deepest gratitude to Tara who reminded me today of why I really keep blogging.

Leaping Liebsters!

It is at the end of a long day that I finally sit down to write. There was this coffee to be drunk with a friend, there was knitting to be done, there were monkeys to ferry about, there were delicious chocolate cupcakes with the most beautiful blood orange frosting to eat, there were library books, magazines and movies, there was a flat tire and a dark and rainy walk with monkeys who did not complain, only said "What an adventure!" Soon there will be cuddling by the fire and the eating of take-out with the monkeys all fed and bathed and put to bed.

But first, some gratitude to express. It's a great day when I get to be profusely grateful. I find that most days provide me plenty to be grateful for.

In the last week or so I have been tagged for both the Versatile Blogger Award and the Liebster Award. They both have their separate set of rules that go with them which I am going to ignore, if you don't mind. I will, however, tell you a little about the two ladies who were kind enough to give me these awards.

Kristen at Four Hens and a Rooster is really the girl who does it all. She maintains her delightful blog, she works in social media as a professional - which means I kowtow to her and her knowledge of such mysterious things - and she also started a group blogging site for parents facing some tricky ages at Ten To Twenty Parenting. She saw a gap in the blog world for this sort of writing and advice and so she filled it. It seems people tend to stop blogging about their kids when they stop being so little and cute and start to face some real-life kinds of challenges. All of my many hats - as a mother, a blogger, a writer, a woman and just as a person - to Kristen and her boundless energy and good will. Mwah!

Dawn at Alphabet Salad had me at the title of her blog. And then to click over and find all of her lovely images of vintage typewriters... bliss before I ever read a word. Dawn's blog is entertaining and thoughtful and always interesting. She's slogging through the NaBloPoMo world for many of the same reasons I am - the discipline, the practice, the dream of writing more, more, more. In the process you get to read about words themselves, her lovely old house, and interesting memories connecting her to the present. And, get this... she taught herself html. Again, hats are flying. I am inspired daily by her dedication to the craft of writing, even when she doesn't feel like it. And she's Canadian and I have a soft spot the size of Toronto for Canadians.

So thank you, ladies! I am honored indeed, to be included in such fine company. I told Kristen the other day I felt like I'd crashed an awesome party. So I'm sitting here, snarfing canapes, trying not to spill my drink on the rug, and making appalling small talk.

Also, as you may recall, tomorrow is Leap Blog Day. If you're just desperate to read something by yours truly, you can find me guest blogging over at Southern Fried Children, where Kelly was kind enough to let me traipse through (heaven knows why. Seriously, while you're there, you should just skip my post and read her archives. Twice I've had to have the Heimlich done to me from choking on things from laughing so hard.)
Also, you can find a different post by moi over at Faith In Ambiguity. Tara and I have decided to swap spaces for the day and I get the far better end of the deal.

Let me tell you about Tara. Her posts just suck you in. She's led such an interesting life - heavily populated with animals who need her salvation - and she writes about every aspect of it with inimitable poignancy and humor. She's self-deprecating without being self-pitying; she winds her stories around your senses with lyrical prose and a original wit. She's likely to write about anything, and no matter the subject matter - her boys, her animals, living with chronic pain, her mother's penchant for action figures, cooking a squash,  blogging frustrations, and anything else - she draws you in with her words and takes you with her. You all are in for a treat tomorrow, I promise.

I leave you now, for my couch and my love beckon, with some words from Robert Louis Stevenson:
"The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."