Gratitude Journal 12.24
Saying hello again to this practice and goodbye again to another year.
As we end one year and begin the next, I’m returning to my gratitude practice. I find that in this time of goodbyes and hellos, it’s both easier to notice things I’m grateful for and harder to write about them.
And yet, in the midst of feeling unmoored and extra-grateful, I’ve forced myself to sit by the keyboard and tell you all the ways in which I’m feeling grateful.
12.01 - Speaking of goodbyes, my heart pangs when Cameron whispers in my ear that “we’ll figure it out,” despite my being minutes from boarding a flight that will take me away from him for two months.
12.02 - It is a special privilege to be an adult and choose mittens over gloves.
12.03 - From bus-rides to and from high school to the transit schedule while studying abroad to the special occasion as a New Yorker to take the bus instead of the abysmally dark Subway, I’m grateful for an open seat and a wide window to mark my travel.
12.04 - New York City, though often shroud in shadow, can surprise you with the brightest lights, especially on this city block in the Upper East Side.
12.05 - Tiny places for tiny dreams.
12.06 - My favorite distraction comes in the form of cardboard boxes delivered by UPS to Diane’s Books of Greenwich. By tracking all the books coming into and out of the store, I melt out of worry and into distraction—a necessary balm.
12.07 - My second favorite moment at the store is when I get the opportunity to read aloud to kids. They’re rapt to attention with every fluctuation in my voice, especially when I hand them their very own bookmark to tuck into the pages of their new story.
12.08 - Audiobooks that echo in your head long after they’re over. My top three this year are:
Educated by Tara Westover
Wild & Precious by Mary Oliver (and others)
Tom Lake by Ann Patchett *it feels important to mention that this was narrated by Meryl Streep*
12.09 - The sprite and unyielding 86-year-old who I call my boss.
12.10 - Carolers who greet me as I exit the train on Greenwich Avenue.
12.11 - The Metropolitan Transportation Authority’s (MTA) festive spirit.
12.12 - The way my body communicates something sinister with the urgent and unignorable need for a midday nap.
12.13 - Christmas movies. Especially while living in New York (a surprising amount of them take place in the city above all cities ie., Elf; Home Alone 2).
12.14 - An older brother, who despite not reading my Substack, manages to be attuned, generous, and always ready to spill the familial tea.
12.15 - The less frequent something is, the more special it becomes. In this case, it is one slow morning among hoards of fast ones.
12.16 - Fresh berries and granola for breakfast.
12.17 - I revel in the reset: the laundering, the grocery restock, the thorough shower. All things that bring me comfort in the busyness of this season.
12.18 - The “YearCompass,” a practice introduced by a dear friend, and the invited nostalgia of saying goodbye to the past year and hello to the next.
12.19 - Bringing elf hats into the store for my co-workers and I to share. It’s the little things that brighten others’ spirit and leave you with an extra dose of joy.
12.20 - The both damning and moving power of imagination.
12.21 - The prospect of a white Christmas—nothing feels more right.
12.22 - Pausing in the kitchen, feeling the warmth of laughter and companionship pull you in. I pull out my chair and take a seat
12.23 - A glass (or two!) of wine with dinner, followed closely by sprinkled cookies from Stew Leonard’s.
12.24 - The absurdity of six adults in a car meant for five. A lack of space leads to especially close circumstances.
12.25 - Trader Joe’s pre-made biscuits. Fluffy, salty, the perfect Christmas morning treat.
12.26 - Bob Dylan’s artistry and Timothée Chalamet’s artifice.
12.27 - More family time, this time color-coordinated.
12.28 - My stories—some say they’re 4 minutes, some, 4 hours—but they’ll be stretched and shrunk as needed!
12.29 - Reunions with friends who know different versions of you, yet are still able to see the whole among your scattered parts.
12.30 - A fresh candle and an untouched wick. One spark ignites both, suddenly bursting with light. The crisp smell a searing reminder of your internal flame, unlit but for now.
12.31 - A trying year and the poignant reminder to read between the lines to find what’s missing.
Until next time,
Kiera