Thanksgiving

I realized yesterday that I am not so good at gratitude, at least not these days. When someone asks me how I am, I am much more likely to tell them how frustrating work is than to describe how the air is warmer outside the house when I open the door in the morning or how my bank account is back to having protective cushioning after months of money emergencies. Sad to say, but the things I have not yet found consume my thoughts far more than the things I have, which makes me more hopeful than thankful. Hope is a feeling I'm familiar with, mixed with a little resignation to the imperfection of what is. I have looked down the road for perfection my whole life. I think I'd like to work on seeing the perfection of each minute as it happens. I think that would be far more satisfying. But it is pretty unfamiliar.
I remember feeling exactly this way at this time of year in France. I had crossed the ocean hoping that my sacrifice would cause the clouds to open and reveal my future. The clouds never opened, but I eventually met people who filled up the present so deliciously that I stopped relying on the clouds. But the absence of companionship returns as a theme in my life and I find myself looking up again, looking for a way to fill my own present.