A most blessed Thanksgiving, but not in the usual way.

I woke up to coffee and hugs and cinnamon rolls. I am grateful for how my family loves me and treats me with kindness and grace-filled consideration; I’m so beautifully surrounded by welcoming warmth.

And as this day draws to a close, I bask in the details and moments. The hilarity accompanying a card game, the quirks and laughable frustrations, the electric blanket turned on high.

A most blessed Thanksgiving, but not in the usual way. I was tempted to think about how this day was less, to see what I was missing. But as I look to the door, I see the pile of brown and gray boots quietly signaling how many feet have stopped here for rest, and I realize how wonderfully compensated my family has been in the ebb and flow of life. So today, I am thankful.

“People complain about the bad things that happen to ’em that they don’t deserve, but they seldom mention the good. About what they done to deserve them things. I don’t recall that I ever give the good Lord all that much cause to smile on me. But he did.” – Cormac McCarthy


As each foot, clad in the absurdly neon shoes, rolls into another stride, I shuffle my thoughts and feelings into order, cleaning house and clearing space. With deep sighs and measured movements I pick up the problems and stressors, dust them off, and carefully put them on the shelf. The iPod serves less as a soundtrack and more as a metronome; a beating white noise pacing my feet and my mind. As the distance grows behind me I feel the spaces clearing, and each breath of the sharp November air pierces into the place beyond my lungs. My muscles move on autopilot as I settle in to rest.

I can see the colors of the fallen leaves: a radiant carpet to support the grey, bare-limbed trees. I hear the shivers of the branches as the wind brushes through them. In the murmuring quiet of this afternoon, it is well with my soul.



Warmth and radiance
Toned in reds and oranges.
Patterned with leaves and bonfires.

Coming home
To family and apple pies

Hidden storefronts
Clutching stories that smell of cigars and secrets

Cocooned in scarves and sweaters;
The colors echoing the dying world.

Trees stained in gold
And the gray mists
Mirrored by the sighing clouds
Of my own breathing