True confession: I wrote this last week and this week, struggled to be as #grateful as I was when I wrote this. But that’s life, right? Here we go:
Some days I am so damn grateful.
This, despite the Cheerios box that sits open on my kitchen island in defiance of my many muttered warnings to my son to “put things where they belong.”
Despite the nefarious powers-that-be at Microsoft deciding that automatically saving document changes is somehow a good idea—one that will leave mercurial me with docs I’ve butchered and no previous pristine version saved. What fresh hell is this?
Despite my 90-pound dog sitting on my main stairs and crossing her legs because 6-ft men don’t scare her but thunder does. My odds on getting her to go out in this deluge are about the same as the Cleveland Browns getting to the Super Bowl.
The older I get, the more I realize real gratitude is not an emotion that discriminates. I can no longer say that I’m grateful for being flooded with work while grimacing on the flipside about being overwhelmed. I’m grateful for it all—the pretty, the messy, the in-between.
And the more moments of gratitude I can enjoy, without artificially grasping at them to stay, the more good that flows. Last night, I sat with a friend at a local restaurant when the owner came to our table to chat. He is my neighbor’s son, so I’ve watched him grow up over the past two decades. I met his daughter, talked about his deceased grandpa (who is one of the gems I’ve written about previously) and discussed how business is going. As my friend requested the bill, we were told he had comped us. I sat back, smiled, took another sip of a darn good Aviation cocktail and felt thankful in the moment for good neighbors, good friends, and really good drinks on a Wednesday.
I came home to a son with a sore throat who is too sick to go to school today, a plethora of deadlines by Monday, multiple bills for work done on and around my house.
Those of you who have mastered these moments will not think that odd. And those who haven’t will wonder if I’ve gone to some sort of Pollyanna hell.
I’ve just realized that the zen comes when you don’t effort. When you don’t hold anything too tightly—the good or the bad. When you allow it to flow through you regardless, knowing somehow you’ll still be standing in the aftermath.
Perhaps you’ll be standing in your father’s old Michigan State sweatshirt and Cleveland Indians flannel pants while cooking dinner, not having changed into your real clothes because you’ve been working at the kitchen island since 6 a.m.
You may look funny. But you’ll be #grateful, even for that.
Tell me below, friends, what you’re grateful for this week. Let’s keep the zen going. Even the stuff you’re thankful for through gritted teeth.