I am grateful for time. It was not always evident as such a lovely gift, because my family has robust genes in the health department. I have never had any life-threatening physical illnesses or injuries. But it is a gift, and I have never appreciated it more than I do now, given time to recover from FOMO and pushing myself so hard.
I am grateful for a long period of innocence about the world, only experiencing true heartbreak at the professional and personal levels late in life; for experiencing loss late in life. That was a lot of blissfully unaware time that many people in the world don’t get to enjoy.
I’m grateful for time for recovery, for reflection and for travel; grateful for time to make friends and nurture friendships, to be nurtured and to nurture others.
I’m grateful for time for university and studies, for ballet and music, for these “softer” things in life. For books and reading. When I think of this, I sometimes recall the poem, “The City Filled with Orange Trees”, and feel both guilty and thankful for the good fortune to be born in a safe, secure place with clean, responsible government.
I’m grateful for time for, well, life: for warm tropical beaches and dark, windy oceans; for exciting and mournful journeys; for happy and dreaded arrivals, relieved and wrenching departures; for home, for direction, for learning new skills. Time for bravery, for mistakes, for cowardice; for love, loss and aching emptiness.
I’m grateful for time for many and different sweet grassy summers, crisp crackling bright orange and yellow and scarlet and brown autumns; for still, quiet sighing shiny-flecked white snow winters; for lush rich dark green chirping fluttering springs.
I’m grateful for time, for the sanity and insanity of work, the absurdity of life.