Yesterday I read the same advice

In yet another article:

“Each day,

Write down three things

that you’re thankful for.”

Ugh. Gross. I’d rather not.

Gratitude makes my teeth ache.

Who am I meant to be thankful to, anyway?

What do I owe them,

For all that I have,

(Which is more than I can count,)

For all that I do not deserve,

(Which is— 

Spoiler alert—

All of it)

What must be given in return—

A freaking thank you note?

Really?

“Dear Universe,

The sun is shining,

The birds are singing,

The flowers are blooming…

#blessed!”

No!

I am a lazy, selfish speck.

A temporary collection of atoms.

Blessed?!

Ha!

More like:

Random.

Bumbling through life.

Who am I to receive anything at all,

Much less these supposed blessings,

Which I’m then expected 

To be thankful for?

And yet…

The sun really is shining,

And I’m with my mother,

Trying to remember a word

That begins with the letter “L…”

Lilac. That’s it.

This flower which is blooming,

And smells so sweet. 

Is there, perhaps, 

Something else I can give 

In return for this moment?

For this fleeting sensation

Which is already flying away

Like a startled bird?

What else could I offer,

If not my gratitude?

How about I simply promise

To truly notice

These glimmering moments?

As many of them as I can?

What if I pay

With my attention?

So every night,

I can say that I was fully present.  

Give a little head-nod to the Universe.

A quiet acknowledgment without number—

“I saw. 

I felt. 

I smelled, tasted, heard,

Danced, sang, hugged, loved.”

This, I can give. 

And give and give and give.