good things
We have a tradition in my family: the thank-you box. Throughout the month of November, we write short notes to each other noting things we appreciate and are thankful for. There's also a slot for Jesus. After Thanksgiving dinner, we open the box and read what everyone has to say. Some are funny (the cats like to write rude notes in Dad's handwriting); most are serious. The problem is that most of the things I am most thankful for, aside from the ones addressed to specific people, are difficult to quantify and even difficulter to write and read out loud.
I am thankful for cats on the bottom right corner of my bed at night; for that one bright star I can always see no matter how many city lights are glaring over the sky; for clouds over the moon; for the smell of bergamot; for grey and brown November; for sweaters with elbow patches and fingerless gloves with bows; for the way my fairy lights fall in a shower of gold over the window-glass; for the way my baby sister comes running from any part of the house to dance when I play certain songs; for my coffeeshop Friday nights and Janet, my northern-lights guitar; for the way my voice feels when I am on a stage or in front of a microphone and everything gets bigger; for bicycle rides in brisk autumn weather and reaching out to skim the branches of trees as I pass under them; for the ever-swelling ocean of books threatening to take over my bedroom; for Neipalm tea and the way the dried leaves and spices look as I pour them into my tea-ball; for Fringe and Olivia Dunham's face; for the way my bedroom has become a testament to all the people I love; for the mason jar of feathers and little stones and acorns on my desk behind the candelabra; for French Roast coffee in the morning and unspeakably delicious lattes at the coffeeshop (chocolate caramel, chocolate mint, caramel vanilla); for the way my Willowcat constantly meows a tiny conversational meow and Bartholomew rolls over and squeaks at you, belying his sleek black muscular physique; for sweet little grey rains; for terribly hot showers; for fresh cinnamon muffins; for my librarians who sometimes give me books instead of getting rid of them and waived my fines last week; for music festivals and roadtrips with Dad (and lovelylovelylovely plum wine which I discovered makes me ve-ry mel-low); for the writers and storytellers and singers who give me their strength to forge anew as my own; for getting a hug from Alan Doyle after the first Great Big Sea gig at Merlefest (does this mean I've been hugged by a legit movie star now?!); for wild midnight tea parties and sunset picnics and roller coasters; for little Goodwill miracles and the thrill of the hunt; for public radio; for Doctor Who and this summer's Saturday afternoon tea-and-telly ritual; for the glorious all-worlds-opening land of the internet; for Milky Ways (you guys have no idea how passionate is my love affair with Milky Ways) and mint Oreos (LIKEWISE); for fandom; for October magic in the woods; for the way film flickers infinitesimally on cinema screens; for singing that one song in church where we all clap and stomp together and all of the music and worship is in our bodies; for saying "I love you" and learning how to mean it.
But most and brightest, I am thankful for you, with a burning that cannot possibly be conveyed. I don't know how many of you know (or would understand, though I suspect most of you would) what my lonely, emotionally backwards, socially painful adolescence was like, or just how badly I used to long for friends, real friends, people I could go places with and celebrate with and never have to pretend to be some other sort of person just to be able to talk to each other. Back then I'd never even met my best friend. Well, now I have, twice, and despite having got to know me when I was a terrifying insecure eleven-year-old who could barely speak of anything but Tolkien she still decided to stick around for, you know, going on nine-ish years now? (I was eleven, and I'm pretty sure it was around December when we started talking.) I went to a film with other people and we went to see it for the same sorts of reasons. Right tangibly here I have the sorts of friends who think picnicking on a hill in the last days of summer is an excellent idea, or singing "I'll Make a Man Out of You" or the song from "The Mysterious Ticking Noise" or "Your Song" suddenly with multiple parts sometimes in public is equally worthwhile, or talking philosophy under the stars at two in the morning, or showing me fireworks through their webcam. I have friends who will send me unwarranted care packages and cheer and uplift me when I am sad and send books to my address and listen to my songs and record themselves reading to me. I can rest assured that while most people say "I'd give you a hundred dollars" as a way to express their devotion I know the sorts of people who really will. I am incredibly blessed to have all of you, you mad, clever, loving, brilliant, passionate every-kind-of-people, who let me look into worlds I never would have been able to understand before.
I love you. Thank you.
I am thankful for cats on the bottom right corner of my bed at night; for that one bright star I can always see no matter how many city lights are glaring over the sky; for clouds over the moon; for the smell of bergamot; for grey and brown November; for sweaters with elbow patches and fingerless gloves with bows; for the way my fairy lights fall in a shower of gold over the window-glass; for the way my baby sister comes running from any part of the house to dance when I play certain songs; for my coffeeshop Friday nights and Janet, my northern-lights guitar; for the way my voice feels when I am on a stage or in front of a microphone and everything gets bigger; for bicycle rides in brisk autumn weather and reaching out to skim the branches of trees as I pass under them; for the ever-swelling ocean of books threatening to take over my bedroom; for Neipalm tea and the way the dried leaves and spices look as I pour them into my tea-ball; for Fringe and Olivia Dunham's face; for the way my bedroom has become a testament to all the people I love; for the mason jar of feathers and little stones and acorns on my desk behind the candelabra; for French Roast coffee in the morning and unspeakably delicious lattes at the coffeeshop (chocolate caramel, chocolate mint, caramel vanilla); for the way my Willowcat constantly meows a tiny conversational meow and Bartholomew rolls over and squeaks at you, belying his sleek black muscular physique; for sweet little grey rains; for terribly hot showers; for fresh cinnamon muffins; for my librarians who sometimes give me books instead of getting rid of them and waived my fines last week; for music festivals and roadtrips with Dad (and lovelylovelylovely plum wine which I discovered makes me ve-ry mel-low); for the writers and storytellers and singers who give me their strength to forge anew as my own; for getting a hug from Alan Doyle after the first Great Big Sea gig at Merlefest (does this mean I've been hugged by a legit movie star now?!); for wild midnight tea parties and sunset picnics and roller coasters; for little Goodwill miracles and the thrill of the hunt; for public radio; for Doctor Who and this summer's Saturday afternoon tea-and-telly ritual; for the glorious all-worlds-opening land of the internet; for Milky Ways (you guys have no idea how passionate is my love affair with Milky Ways) and mint Oreos (LIKEWISE); for fandom; for October magic in the woods; for the way film flickers infinitesimally on cinema screens; for singing that one song in church where we all clap and stomp together and all of the music and worship is in our bodies; for saying "I love you" and learning how to mean it.
But most and brightest, I am thankful for you, with a burning that cannot possibly be conveyed. I don't know how many of you know (or would understand, though I suspect most of you would) what my lonely, emotionally backwards, socially painful adolescence was like, or just how badly I used to long for friends, real friends, people I could go places with and celebrate with and never have to pretend to be some other sort of person just to be able to talk to each other. Back then I'd never even met my best friend. Well, now I have, twice, and despite having got to know me when I was a terrifying insecure eleven-year-old who could barely speak of anything but Tolkien she still decided to stick around for, you know, going on nine-ish years now? (I was eleven, and I'm pretty sure it was around December when we started talking.) I went to a film with other people and we went to see it for the same sorts of reasons. Right tangibly here I have the sorts of friends who think picnicking on a hill in the last days of summer is an excellent idea, or singing "I'll Make a Man Out of You" or the song from "The Mysterious Ticking Noise" or "Your Song" suddenly with multiple parts sometimes in public is equally worthwhile, or talking philosophy under the stars at two in the morning, or showing me fireworks through their webcam. I have friends who will send me unwarranted care packages and cheer and uplift me when I am sad and send books to my address and listen to my songs and record themselves reading to me. I can rest assured that while most people say "I'd give you a hundred dollars" as a way to express their devotion I know the sorts of people who really will. I am incredibly blessed to have all of you, you mad, clever, loving, brilliant, passionate every-kind-of-people, who let me look into worlds I never would have been able to understand before.
I love you. Thank you.