I am a writer. I’ve been this way since I can remember–since I fashioned a choose your own adventure book called “Russia” some time in elementary school. Back then I wrote for the thrill of it and the thrill of being able to show someone the story I created and having them interact with it. This is a gift. Be I a good writer, mediocre, or legit trash, I am gifted with the ability to tell stories. This gift can be lost. I’ve lost my way to and from stories more times than I can remember but I find my way back each time. I’m grateful for the opportunity to be a writer.
I am grateful to be able to see and hear and sing and listen and experience and taste and love–especially to love. I am grateful for the kids I have — even when I absolutely despise them. I am grateful for the time I have with them. I am grateful for the choices I have had the opportunity to make in my life and the way those choices have gone. I am grateful for life itself, even in the moments I’ve wanted to end my own.
Thanksgiving is about food, but it is about family before that, and it is about realizing the contribution you as an individual have made to this strange world before that. It is about being grateful for the chances and for the people and for the things and for the sun and the moon and the many stars haunting the evening sky.
I am thankful for all of these things, and thankful for the hope of experiencing even more of it tomorrow.