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It’s that time of year again. The time when Americans carve turkeys — and I, the third-culture kid making up her own traditions, take you on a tour through my gratitude journal.
It’s been a year of travel, exploration, and discovery. Ben and I got to live in warm, colorful, fascinating (and, yes, often heartbreakingly poor, sometimes exasperating) Senegal. We visited places as far apart as Montana and Cape Town, as often as every six weeks. I gave myself over to making things, from blog posts to paintings, and my art — and I with it — developed by leaps and bounds.
Here is my song of praise for this bountiful year.
Last December, I celebrated winter’s austere beauty — the way only someone about to abscond to the tropics can.
Today I’m grateful for the bare tree branches slicing the blue sky in the cold.
For the still-red maple and the waxing moon behind it.
For the feeling of the dishwasher smoothly sliding.
For blue skies and crisp fall atmosphere. For Brussels sprouts.
For holding hands and for snow on the ground.
For the sparkling snow, for the fact that snow sparkles. For its blueness in the evening.
For the frosticles on the trees. For the fresh wintriness.
For the snow-covered trees, especially the ones that looked like dogs. For the dogs, especially the bear-like one, and for Ben’s reaction at it.
For screaming while…
