Thanksgiving Hangover

“He is wise who does not grieve for the things he has not, but rejoices for those which he has.” - Epictetus

The Obstacle

It’s hard to be grateful in real time. We wake up and distraction starts immediately. The urgent pulls, the noise comes, and happiness gets welded to achievements, acknowledgment, material wins — the next horizon. I’ll be happy when… I’ll be happy if… and we are like the snake devouring our own tail.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and even then gratitude for the little things was not easy. There was food to make, people to host, noise everywhere, gluttony on the table, activity in every room. We sit down, say a few thanks for the obvious big things, and miss most of what actually keeps our life functioning.

The Gift and Opportunity

But here’s the work on the other side of this Thanksgiving hangover. Gratitude not saved for the big wins or the once-a-year reflections. Giving thanks today, and tomorrow, and everyday — for the small and unnoticed.

For the way your body keeps you alive without asking (kind of a big deal and damn amazing).
For legs that carry you and your loads.
For feet that keep you balanced.
For breath that moves in and out without permission or thought - even while we sleep.
For clothes that keep us protected and warm.
For clean water from a tap.
For every sight your eyes gather without effort or conscious processing.
For the curiosity of children.
For the dog or cat you get to pet.
For the miracle of driving a steel box at nearly 100mph and surviving.
For comfort built into every corner of our existence.
For options and options and options.
For choices that no longer involve just survival.

It’s not small, it is everything around us. It’s invisible infrastructure that keeps our world together that goes unnoticed and unappreciated when we neglect to slow down, take note, and give thanks.

The Practice of Self-Mastery

So today — in this post-Thanksgiving fog — I’ll slow down and give thanks for the tiny things that hold my life together. From toes, knees, fingers, eyes. For breath. For air. For touch when my child hugs me. For sound when they ask the 100th ridiculous question. For the smell of the morning coffee, the food, the soap on my hands, the clean cool air of winter. The sight of the rising sun, of the bird overhead in the grey morning sky, of all that will cross my path today.

Not the grand things.
Not the loud things.
Just the things that are always here — waiting to be noticed.

Today, I’ll be grateful for the little things.