Shedding ingratitude's gunk

I sit on a bench, looking out at water, peninsula, ships, factories, concrete and cars. The air is tepid, warmer than meets the eye. I sit and I write in my "Thank-full" journal- record of gifts I already have, of daily grace in moments. My pen scratches ink back and forth, down one page and then another, as if shedding the last vestiges of ingratitude's gunk, leaving it in a cloud of dust.

This is what I want to do, need so desperately to do, because how easily it infects me. How easily I forget, can't see, get carried off and away from gratitude. This journal isn't fashionable accessory; it's the glasses I need to see life for what it is: grace. I, who can be so un-grace filled. I, who can feast on grace in one moment and feel starved in the next.

It can be so hard to see. Sometimes, the page so blank, like the mind. I write to see, and so I start small, simple:

#257 - Taco trucks and roasted corn stands

#261 - Salsa dancing on Alki's beachfront

#262 - Rainbow colored, stuffed wiener dog, our victory from a Fred Meyer vending machine

#266 - Sunday afternoon, backyard barbecue with adopted family

#267 - Giving Isaac wheelbarrow rides through the grassy backyard

#270 - Late night quesadillas, guacamole, Mexican hot chocolate and storytelling

#272 - Reflections on buildings of glass

And something harder often tucks away in the folds of the simple.

#271 - Choosing peace and trust over anxiety and fear; waiting for a follow-up exam amidst the swirl of recent cancer stories

I breathe deep, swallow it down, this gift here in with all the others. It's a small moment of testing newly forming muscles, gearing up for those days when harder, heavier weights press in. I enter in even here and find relief.

Rain splatters soft on my car. I sit now inside, typing, resting, quieting myself, as the last hour of daylight slowly slips away. Another day of gifts is passing, and I don't want it to go unnoticed.