Tomorrow most of us will be spending the day with our loved ones, overeating and acknowledging the anniversary of the genocide and colonization of Native Americans and their land, or Thanksgiving. While the origin of this nationally observed occasion is incredibly dark, the sentiment behind our contemporary celebrations can be salvaged and uplifting before we are draped in the cold, depressing months of winter.
My religion-anchored family traditionally goes around the table thanking God for our fortunes, our hardships, and everything in between. Even during the years when I doubt whether or not God is listening, I am consciously reminding myself of everything I’ve been through and everything that I am hopeful for in the future. Now, I’d like to dedicate an entire post to the gratitude I feel on a smaller, more literal scale, the ‘thank you’s’ that don’t have a place anywhere else. Let me start with an obvious one:
Thank you, Harry Styles, for your most recent discography. The chorus of Lights Up makes me feel things between my legs that would make my beloved grandfather roll over in his grave.
Thank you, Lady Who Honked at Me at a Red Light This Morning. Even though you interrupted my blissful state of zoning out, I subsequently breezed through every yellow light at the following intersections and probably got to the grocery store a solid seven minutes sooner than I would have.
Thank you, Kalley, for loving my brother and for never judging me for any of the dumb shit that I’ve gotten myself into. You’re a fantastic sister.
Thank you, Iain Reid, for writing I’m Thinking of Ending Things. I think about that book every week. I read it for the fifth time last month and it still knocked me the fuck out. Well done. You are my writing idol.
Thank you, Courtney (my roommate). You rock. I love when you pick up my dog’s poop. And when you make extra eggs in the morning because you know I’d skip breakfast otherwise. And for literally everything else.
Thank you, Winnie. You can’t read but damn, can you cuddle.
Thank you, Tim the Barista at Caribou Coffee, for every time you say, “The usual?” And oh, how we laugh, and I say, “Yes please that’d be great…” and you clarify, “Earl Grey tea, right?” Because you’re clearly not entirely sure if we’re on the same page, and I say, “Yes, Tim, Earl Grey tea.” And you say “Ok, just wanted to make sure. Haha!” And then oh how we laugh again. I treasure these intimate interactions with you.
Thank you, Caleb, for keeping my sweat-saturated yoga mat in your car. It’s honestly pretty gross that you let my bodily fluids just marinate in the trunk but I appreciate it.
Thank you, Matty Healy from The 1975. Dating back to the meager age of seventeen, I have felt nearly every emotion deeply because of your poetry and music. My larynx has suffered, but my heart has flourished.
Thank you, whoever you are reading this right now, for giving me and my thoughts a small, but fulfilling purpose over the course of the last year. This blog has been a beautiful space for me to grow from and share my experiences with grief, guilt, love, stress, and probably eighty more feelings right in front of your eyes. I want to write more for you, and for me, and I hope this year grants me the skillset to begin writing about the things that bring me joy instead of hurt.
And this goes without saying but thank you, Bob Ross.
I hope you all have an effortlessly pleasant holiday.
Love your happy little accident,