Gratitude comes in many forms, but almost always it is about the little things we simply take for granted.
For instance, who would think that watching an 85-year-old woman playing a slot machine in a casino would seem so sacred? But, it did to me yesterday. I know there are cultural stereotypes about elderly people frequenting the casinos, but when it is my sister doing it, it tickles me to the tips of my toes. Her late husband loved Vegas and Reno and she was a good egg and went right along with him all those years. Not a gambler by nature, she limits herself to $20 a visit about four times a year--on a penny machine at a local Indian casino. She drove us there, we had a humongous buffet, and then spent a lot of time together at home chatting--and watching yet another movie. Gran Torino.
My mind immediately turned to Mary Oliver this morning. Being on vacation and undistracted by "have tos" at home and work, make me appreciate everything so acutely. Here's Mary Oliver telling it like it is.
Gratitude
What did you notice?
The dew snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.
What did you hear?
The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.
What did you admire?
The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the
pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid
beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.
What astonished you?
The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.
What would you like to see again?
My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue, her
recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness, her
sturdy legs, her curled black lip, her snap.
What was most tender?
Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.
What was most wonderful?
The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.
What did you think was happening?
The green breast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve
of the first snow—
--so the gods shake us from our sleep.
