Forget April. November is the cruelest month for me, mashing rust-colored leaves in the raw days of no-sun clouds. A good month for a long slog, and long slogs are always easier in the company of others.
This year, I’ll be slogging on the gratitude train, with 30 days of thanks. Which starts on Day Nine for me, apparently, since this is the first I’ve heard of it. I’ll spare you the story of what I was doing for the first eight days of the month.
Gratitude opens new holes in the swiss-cheese brain of possibility. So here’s some gratitude for today:
- Star moss peeking out from beneath snow-patches, over rust-colored leaves
- The prodigal sun returns from in absentia
- Tom Robbins’s books led me enchanted through jungles of wordplay when I was 15 years old
- How extra glad I am to be the protagonist in my own novel, and not one written by Tom Robbins
- My thumbs work
- It is Friday.
Garden of Words 