Canticle of Blessings by Deb Nordlie
Thank you
for when the washing machine repairman
does not mention the dust bunnies behind my ailing machine,
and for the lady behind me at the cemetery
who takes time from her grieving to tell me my shoe is untied.
For the Vietnamese manicurist
who holds each of my hands as if they are precious jewels
and who paints my fingertips the color of rubies or emeralds, or even opals,
I say thank you.
For my son who says thank you for, I’m sure,
subpar oil paints that I have wrapped up for him for Christmas,
for my daughter’s visit where she shared the current love of her life,
and for her love, who makes her happy,
for the short gardener,
who must use a ladder to trim the tree by the front gate to above my height,
for the lady down the street
who brings me my misdelivered mail,
the librarian
who doesn’t chide me for the overdue books,
for the small blonde child in green overalls
who stopped in the crosswalk yesterday,
crouching down to examine something that has captured his attention
and for his mother
who smiles at him with indulgence,
and for the cars that wait patiently for his discovery,
and for the joy in all unique discoveries,
thank you.
For my husband
who gave me a gift card for the coffee shop,
and for the steam from the milky cup that rises freely into the morning air,
thank you.
For Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, and Mr. Shakespeare,
and for their beautiful language that lasts though they will not,
for that man at the gas station who helped me last week with the insolent pump,
thank you.
And for the joy in the ease of feet on the floor, thank you,
the cold clarity of the 6am air
and Linda waiting at the end of her driveway in the dark,
ready to discuss Doreen, or Katie, or Trump
as we trudge our way in the dark mornings:
both of us willing to believe we are exercising,
both of us failing to mention the accumulation of the other’s avoirdupois,
both of us unwilling to break the other’s bubble,
oh, thank you.
For when my ancient computer pops on in the early morning
and in thanks that its spinning wheel of death is spinning elsewhere,
for the luxury of my disreputable looking twenty-seven-year-old bathrobe,
once pink and now a vague shade of comfortable wear,
for Mom’s mismatched silverware in the dining room hutch,
the paintings on my wall,
for the monsters not under my bed,
the memories of the past still not faded, still in glorious living color,
for anticipation in what today could yet bring,
for words accessed to say all this.
In recognition of all this and more,
I put forward a thank you now and again
while looking above at Who or What I do not know,
but with a happiness and realized gratitude
I sink down, and again I say— and often,
but perhaps not often enough—
I say thank You.
So take notice, oh you who hear this, and do as I recommend:
drop to your knees now and again,
kiss the earth and be joyful,
make much of your time,
and be generous to everyone, even to those who do not merit it.
For although you may not trust or admire my account,
these things truly bless me.
Lift up your own eyes to find joy
and remember to give gratitude due
for what you have had no hand in the making.
Canticle of Blessings by Deb Nordlie
