Gratitude

I'm grateful for fifteen-below because that means Tom doesn't have to go to work today. I'm grateful that Ruckus allowed us to stay in bed till almost 7 a.m. and that the poodle didn't have an accident on her blanket. I'm grateful that the pipes are not frozen, that the power lines aren't down, that the phone company replaced our broken modem, and that the washing machine is mostly fixed. I'm grateful that no animals are shivering in my barn and that I remembered to buy birdseed yesterday. I'm grateful that the sun is shining on the snow and ice, that my older son is coming home today, that my younger son spent most of yesterday writing a song. I'm grateful for lasagna dinners that attract both vegetarians and non-vegetarians. I'm grateful for wooden snowshoes with brand-new bindings. I'm grateful for a woodshed full of mostly dry firewood and a roof that won't collapse under snow weight. I'm grateful for people who talk to me. I'm grateful for my violin and my laptop and pencils and scrap paper and shelves full of books and Christmas lights and hot tea and cheese and clementines and beer. I'm grateful that most of my houseplants didn't die in our cold house while we were away. I'm grateful to have a few scraps of paid work. I'm grateful to have met three guys who wanted me to play in their band. I'm grateful for walks up steep hills in an arctic wind and for the friend walking next to me. I'm grateful to the people who trust me enough to cry in front of me. I'm grateful for readers who care about my work while also showing me how to be a better writer. I'm grateful for teachers: my own, my sons', my colleagues, my friends. I'm grateful for my sister, who coaches me through crankiness and exasperation. I'm grateful for health and vigor and hair dye and a pair of new boots. I'm grateful for sadness and sympathy and patience and impatience and melancholy and perplexity and fate and reason and euphoria and despair and memory. Happy New Year.