Three Things

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.