For the asphalt which received my blue sandals.
For the homeowner who planted two palms
and a banana tree despite the latitude.
For the piles of broken seashells
at the base of the mailbox.
For robins puffing out their medaled chests
on manicured lawns
for the impromptu composition of birds
marking a melody on telephone wires
for the tabby cat resting beneath a rhododendron.
For sky blue as a freshly-pressed shirt
and Long Island Sound glinting in the sun.
For the homeowner's association
which allows pedestrian acess to land's edge.
For water splashing joyfully on the rocks.
For the smooth wooden bench of the gazebo
and the smell of salt in the air.
Even if my fingers tapped on my keyboard
the infinite clatter of pebbles dragged by the sea
I couldn't type enough of a thank you.
When I taught the master class on spiritual writing on City Island a few days ago, I asked everyone to write a paragraph about something for which they are grateful, using as many details and sensory descriptions as possible. Later in the morning, after many conversations about psalms and poems and words for God, we took fifteen minutes to draft psalms of gratitude, drawing on the raw material from the earlier generative exercise. I did the exercise and drafted a psalm along with everyone else. Here's what I wrote.