I don’t like mandates. Parties that have forced games? No thank you. Ice breakers at training or social events? Gross. Conversations proctored with required input? Even worse than small talk.
I also don’t like (yes, I’m talking about things I don’t like right now; I never said this blog was a bastion of positivity) bullshit holidays. International Men’s Day, for example, can kiss my ass. Valentine’s Day is just commercialism on steroids. And Thanksgiving? Well let’s ask Native Americans how they feel about that.
I do a gratitude journal daily, not because someone told me to (that was the reason when I was younger) but for the more self-motivated reason that it’s been proven good for mental health, and, along with Lexapro, I need that kind of help. In the process, I’ve learned that Thanksgiving can be just a fun time to stuff my face if I’m already acquainted with gratitude, because here’s the secret of it: it’s not an attitude, like needlepointed throw pillows may have you believe, but a way of, simply, looking. Gratitude is looking. You heard it here.
Last weekend we had three other families over to celebrate not colonialism, but food with us, and in the process started some traditions: pelting the kids with water balloons, allowing them to get us back with water guns (so American!), and passing turkey around an outdoor table while the men talked about I-don’t-know-what and the women discussed The Crown. It was wonderful.
There was no Macy’s parade, no dog show, no dressing/stuffing even (!), but there was friendship and home, and I didn’t throw up this year. And that’s a lot.
It turns out that, as previously discussed, there is always a lot. And sometimes that’s oppressive. But this week it’s been pretty gorgeous.
There’s been my solo ride on the Manly Ferry to Circular Quay, where I met girlfriends at the Opera House for a play.
There’s been the loss of Little Brother’s first tooth, a milestone he allowed me to assist, and his pride afterward.
There was the afternoon I collected the boys early and one of The Kid’s classmates said to me, “You’re picking up the best kid in school. James is so kind.”
There was the orthodontic evaluation that I was anxious over but that TK charmed his way through, and afterward the three of us got ice cream and walked on the beach.
There is the hope instilled by a new political beginning, by the breathing room made possible by an impending absence of vitriol and hatred coming from leadership.
There are the countless moments of home here, of going from place to place with a real sense of belonging: friends’ homes, the boys’ school, knowing people and being known, and while the world is in flux this is a gift indeed.
I don’t have to be grateful. I am, however, free to be. And why not? I mean, just look.