It’s the last week of November of the year 2015. How bored would you be if I talked about some things that I’m thankful for?
Not having to travel on Thanksgiving: A friend’s Instagram post from an airport reminded me how little I want to get on a plane right now. Yes, yes, I’ll spread all of my belongings on a conveyer belt and walk through the body scanner in socks, but only for the winter holiday. For Thanksgiving, I’ll stay home and be lazy, eating in celebration of autumn with all it’s crunchy leaves and it’s cold.
My house. Everyone needs a spot they can go back to and recharge. Find comfort, find silence and solitude in the noise. I like the energy in my place—the house is definitely not haunted. No cold spots, no shadows, no bumps in the night. Nothing but good vibrations on 57th Street.
A few good friends. Friends take time and energy, and you can’t be friends with everyone. This is okay. I don’t need a bajillion friends. What I do need, what I’m actively trying to proliferate in my life are fun, joy, and meaning. If you check one of these boxes for me, then let’s do this. If not, I’ll see ya around.
Snow on the mountain. Not really for snowboarding, just for, you know, being there. For making the peak a pure white. For the promise of moisture, which is really the promise of life and the assurance that Oregon isn’t, as was previously thought this past summer, about to dry up and blow away like a little ole tumbleweed.