To the Self

For a while, a few weeks only, a small drop compared to the rest of the life I've lived, I have not updated this blog. With such grand notions of attempting to write frequently (dare I say daily?) at the outset of this blog, I was disappointed with myself for not doing so. Which made me even less inclined to continue with the whole thing. Imagine the melodramatic cry, "What is the point!?" That's the thing with melodrama though. Often times it's quite silly.

Much too much has happened for me to trace back through the weeks, and more than anything I am surprised by the passage of time. As November's end nears, I contemplate what it is I'm grateful for, as so many others have. There are times when those things are hard to remember, when they fade out of focus. But I try always to be mindful of joy and to be kinder to myself.

So I am thankful for the biggest, clearest sky I've ever seen; for the great grey owl, the red and white fox, the grouse and ptarmigan; for the silence so still you can hear the snow falling. I am grateful for peacefulness and the chatter produced by spending time with people who are interested in one another, and for feeling loved and cared for. I am grateful for borrowing books, for poetry, for the strange and varied passage of time, which insists on change. And to time I owe the changes in my life, which have brought me to this point, past harsh adversity and trembling sorrow and the buoyant moments of joy. No less than every moment could have brought me here, even if I still sometimes struggle. I am grateful even for the struggle.