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It’s way past my bedtime, and there is a moth in my room. He’s not huge, but he is tenacious. And goofy. He has no decorum. No sense of boundaries. When in flight, he’s reminiscent of Woodstock from Charlie Brown. I want him gone, but he’s elusive.
I’m grateful I’m not a mouth-breather.

I am grateful. Not to anyone or anything in particular. Just a kind of non-verbal warmth.

I believe that cultivating gratitude is a grounding way to turn down the self-centered chatter that can so easily and mindlessly play as background music all day long, like a kind of soundtrack reminiscent of fingernails on a blackboard. Or that sound Jim Carrey made in Dumb and Dumber.

I am one speck of fluid-filled-flesh, on a rock, hurdling through space at 67,000 mph. And that’s okay. It’s even awesome, in the truest sense of the word.
My body pain doesn’t have an impact on world peace. No one cares.

My low bank balance won’t be debated at the UN. It’s not central to the lives of others.

My heartbreak won’t alter the tides (this one is always shocking).

I can choose to be absorbed by my discomfort (emotional, mental, physical, existential).
Or, instead, I can tune in to the sound of crickets. Whoa! Did you hear that?

I can allow this sunset to take my breath away. Look! And, whew, I still have eyes.

And when my painful, damaged bladder begins to scream nonstop, like a colicky baby, forcing me to listen, I can feel so deeply grateful for my heating pad, my imperfect medication, and my home.

Find some small kernel of gratitude in your heart.  Breathe into it; allowing the warmth to spread.

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Art: Wulfgang Wolos, 8-18-2015
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edited; originally published 2014
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