Thank You

As I have said many times in this blog, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, not because of the abundance of food or the overindulgence in it, but for its sincerity. It doesn't demand vast sums of money from us, or hours shopping and hunting for gifts, it doesn't require costumes, exploding rockets or flowers and cards designed and written by others because we lack the imagination or courage to express our own words. It doesn't matter if we have a table full of food or if we are surrounded by a room full of people. Thanksgiving asks only that we pause and acknowledge the bounties and blessings of life. So that is what I'm going to do.

Among many other things, this year I am thankful for

• Mom and Kevin, who traveled from home to be with me this year, braving icy roads and treacherous winds to fly to Denver.
• good health: my own, as well as that of Duncan and the cats, my family and friends and the people I love.
• my new job. After eight and a half years in a job I was ill-suited for, and which made me miserable, I am lucky to have found a job I enjoy surrounded by wonderful people.
• the paths and trails, winding around the park and lake, across the foothills, into the mountains, and all the places Duncan and I have walked together, discovering new things, celebrating old things, and enjoying the silent details of the world around us.
• my sister and her fiance, Chris, who asked me to officiate at their wedding next summer. It touched me deeply when they told me they wanted my words to be the words that united them in marriage and bound their lives together.
• Nutella. 'Nuff said.
• the gentle hum of Pip's purr as he sleeps on my shoulder, the soft weight of Winnie on my hip each night and the voice of Olive when she greets me in the morning and asks me in that cat way of hers how I slept.
• The song "Feelin' Good," as performed by the amazing Nina Simone.
• The return of April to my life. Her appearance last summer was sudden and miraculous, and although she doesn't reply to emails as quickly as I'd like and lives too far away, she is immaculate and untouchable.
• Edgar, my Kindle, and Lori and Tom, who sent him to me for no reason and reminded me of the innate goodness and generosity of people and their willingness to indulge me when I refuse to indulge myself.
• the sound of Dunc snoring.
• The Moth podcast, which makes me laugh and cry, sometimes all at once, and always leaves me breathless with anticipation for more.
• "The Last Dream of the Old Oak," the last story read to my grandmother before she passed away last year, and my father for sharing it with us at her memorial service.
• the silence of butterflies and the music of wind chimes.
• Status updates, which make me laugh, think and remember all the people I have shared a path with in my life.
• Lisa, my sidekick, who is not evil but tries so very hard to be.
• Two little punctuation makes, which, when put together say so much, the colon and the closing parenthesis.
• The "It Gets Better" Project and Dan Savage for his work at encouraging gay youth to hang in there and realize the full potential of their lives.
• Eggnog and Pumpkin Spice lattes.
• the poetry of Mary Oliver, the prose of Tom Spanbauer and the magnificence of the written word.
• the voice of Mrs. Wheeland, who says, "Hello, Curt" every time she answers the telephone.
• my friends, who share their triumphs and tragedies, open their hearts, lean on me when they need to and allow me to lean on them in return.
• the holidays, which mean more to me than the insanity of Black Friday shopping.
• a warm bath, a good book, and three cats who perch on the edge of the tub and watch over me protectively.
• Russian Olive and Linden trees, whose fragrance sustains me through the long, dark winter months.
• Glee
• Chris and Troy Denike, who I don't get to visit with enough, but always manage to run into when I'm crossing Bowles with Duncan. Whether they stop and talk or merely honk, wave and holler as they speed past us, they remind me that somehow I have carved out a life for myself here in Denver, the sort that offers sudden and unexpected visits with people I enjoy being with.
• Jupiter, which has been high in the sky these past several months, giving me something to marvel at on our evening walks.
• the little bird which built a home outside my door and stayed for the summer.
• Tired Old Queen at the Movies, The Sassy Gay Friend, Dropbox, Skype and Bejeweled Blitz, which make the internet worthwhile.
• Ken, who tells me he loves me each and every time we talk on the phone.
• and, as always, A.A. Milne, who wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

Feeling Good

"Birds flying high––you know how I feel
Sun in the sky––you know how I feel
Breeze driftin' on by you know how I feel

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life for me
And I'm feeling good..."
(Leslie Briccuse & Anthony Newley, as performed by Nina Simone)

There is a spot, a secret place somewhere between Here and Now, Way-Back-When and Someday-Soon, a cozy place under the purple-flowered boughs where, if the sun is shining from the most perfect spot in the quiet morning sky, if the air is warm and the butterflies are flittering in just the right way across the grass and clover, time stands still and all the magic and music of the world can open up to you. You can spend an afternoon laying under the flowers looking up at a sky-blue sky listening to the bees drone from above, feeling the subtle tickle of a single ant crawling across a bare foot, your head resting on the belly of your good, red dog, rising and falling as his heart thumpa-thumps gently only inches away. It is a perfect place, this hideaway where all that matters is now and there are no worries of how long you've been away or when you should be heading back. If you're ever here with me in the Spring time, I'll be sure to take you. Even if you don't ask. You should see it. It will make your spirit sing.

Particulars

My mentor in college, Tim Muskat––a brilliant man whose company and inspiration I miss––often reminded those of us who he not only called students, but friends, that it is important to keep a list of particulars. The saying goes that the devil is in the details, but I beg to differ; it's God––if there is one––who has taken up residency in the minutiae of our lives. Everything is beautiful and magnificence can be found in the smallest of places.

And so begins my list of particulars.

Amid the browning and drying leaves which people are so anxious to clear away or stuff into noxious jack-o-lantern-shaped garbage bags, I spied a single, glorious red leaf, a deep red, as if it had lived all its green and treetop-bound days just to turn this shade and find a soft resting place on the bones of its brethren down below.

The beautiful, lavender-scented letter I received today from my friend David, who writes from the Shire-like Midwest. It ended with the line, "The message is not so cryptic, after all, if only one endeavors to learn the language."

The ladybug which landed on my wrist this afternoon, took its time crawling across my knuckle, looked up at me and flew away.

The way Duncan pops the squeaker in his Buddy when he's trying to get my attention.

The scent of grilling burgers on a patio as you walk by just as the sun has set and the sky is turning indigo.

The sound of ice rattling in the freezer ice-maker as it drops into the bucket.

My sister's catch-phrase: "Right on." She doesn't know it, but her indiscriminate use of it is indicative of her laid-back, "to each his own" attitude. She's far less judgmental than she gives herself credit for.

The long, mottled white cloud that cut across the horizon last night on my walk with Duncan. The sky above it was heavy and blue, but the sky below it was pink and yellow and the mountains under that were nothing but sharp black silhouettes. That single cloud stretched for miles and appeared as though someone had torn the edge of the edge and pasted two different pictures together, dark sandwiching the light.

The sound of snow falling late at night.

Shelves full of books, some of the pages dog-eared to mark favorite passages.

The soft weight of a cat curling on the small of your back while you sleep.

Tetherball

"Feelin' Good" by Nina Simone

Standing watch while your bread toasts, waiting for that moment when it springs up and you can spread the peanut butter so that it gets warm and melts.

Japanese hanging lanterns

The final line of The Great Gatsby: "Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter–tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... and one fine morning– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back carelessly into the past."