When the Wind Rustles the Cottonwood Leaves

I haven’t been in the mood to blog this long weekend. I just didn’t want to relive the events of these past several days by writing about them.

I didn’t want to write about Jack powdering the garage and all it’s contents with a full can of Comet.

I wasn’t up for a retelling of ten days during which my children were stricken with various diseases.

I really just couldn’t get into the tale of the firefighters racing to our house to tell us the overpowering smell was actually not natural gas, but one of Jack’s old vacuums that had internally combusted.

I did not wish to discuss the child who roamed the house last night between 2:00-5:30 AM; or the fact that he eventually fell asleep, while I could not.

I had little desire to recount the story of the cursed “permanent” ear tube which fell out of Jack’s permanently sickly left ear, which foretells yet another ear tube surgery in coming days.

In no way did I want to write the details of my close relation who has been sick, and hospitalized, and is still recovering post-surgery.

So instead I turned my mind to something else.

I thought about my friend Lindsay, who asked sincere questions about my life over sandwiches and then listened to me. Then she asked more questions, and kept listening.

I considered my dear neighbor, Chris, who handed me a box containing a homemade meal and a note which read in part, “Thank you for bringing a fire truck to our street so my children could sit in it and get a sticker.”

I reflected on my husband, who cleaned the entire basement (an awful task), before loading up the boys for an outing to the mountains, giving me an afternoon apart.

I noticed that when the wind rustles the leaves of the Cottonwoods outside my window, peace and satisfaction simultaneously wash over me.

I thought with pleasure of my Charlie, who pushed through his mammoth anxiety and boarded the bus to kindergarten with such bravery.

I anticipated Halloween and fall weather; also November, and pumpkin pie, and glorious Turkey feasts, and the birthdays of my eldest and youngest.

I reflected on the darling neighbor kids who play happily for hours in our cul-de-sac with my kids, and who like them the way they are, in spite of their issues.

I decided to focus on the gooey warm chocolate chip cookies which graced my oven and my lips this evening.

It was much better this way, you see, once I decided to be thankful.

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