If “thank you” is the only prayer you say, that will be enough.—Meister Eckhart

 

On the dresser in my bedroom, next to the perfume bottles and the black-and-white picture of my mother when she was a sophomore at Ole Miss, I have a pottery jar with the word “blessings” stamped on it. It contains assorted bits of paper on which I occasionally jot down reminders of what matters to me, such as experiences and encounters for which I’m grateful.

These moments of joy—instances when I believe with certainty that there is a rhyme and reason to it all—range from “Quay snoring” to “afternoon on Alison’s porch.” I do not need the details to recapture the feeling of contentment that watching my dog sleep or catching up with a childhood friend afford me. A few words are enough to bring back the scene, and the sentiment. The most recent addition to my collection is “couple dancing in courtyard.”

While eating lunch one day on the Vanderbilt campus, where I attend graduate school, I watched as a young man and woman put down their backpacks on a weathered, wooden bench, walked to the center of the grassy area outside the refectory, and began to dance. They did not seem to speak to one another. Instead, in a graceful display of partnership, they came together and fell away, came together and fell away. All the while, they were smiling. After several minutes, they picked up their belongings and walked to class, perhaps, or the student union. Where they were headed, I have no idea. But I do know what they left behind: a memory.

When I was in high school, I served as an officer of a social organization that held a formal dance each year during the holidays. Wallflower that I was when it came to boys, I didn’t have anyone I was brave enough to invite as my escort.

“Isn’t there a classmate you might ask?” said my mother, eyeing me incredulously.

“No,” I said, looking anywhere but straight into my mother’s eyes. “No one.”

“What about the Mitchell boy, the one you met at that Children of the American Revolution meeting last month?” (Name changed to protect the unsuspecting.)

You’ve got to be kidding me, is what I thought. But what I said was, “I think he’s visiting his grandmother in Paducah.”

“Well, then I guess your father will just have to go with you.”

Bingo.

It might sound pathetic to some, a senior in high school relying on her father to take her to the Jackson Country Club. But Daddy wore his tux, and I got a new dress, and we had fun. I have a snapshot to prove it. As it turns out, there were other parents there, too, so Daddy wasn’t the only person over 50. And a few of the girls’ dates were college boys who thought my father sort of cool. After making sure I had fulfilled my duties to the group, my father asked me to dance.

I have never been all that graceful, and have in fact been labeled more than once as the kind of person who dances “like no one is watching.” But my father led, and I followed, and we came together and fell away, came together and fell away. It was not the last time I would rely on my father to get me out of a jam, but it was one of the most fun.

That young couple in the courtyard did more than make me smile during my lunch hour. They reminded me what life can be about if we let it. It can be about finding joy on a daily basis, even if for a few brief minutes. It can be about noticing the remarkable while you’re eating tuna salad and drinking iced tea. It can be about taking time to remember what matters to us, whatever—and whoever—that may be.

As we enter this holiday season of giving thanks, I suspect my “blessings” jar will be filled with Post-Its and index cards, anything I can get my hands on when I stumble over a bit of wonder or awe. I’ve already got a good start, what with “harvest moon in Memphis” and “trip with Mother” resting near the top.

And who’s to say I won’t uncover some other example of all that’s good and unexpected in life on my way to work tomorrow? Surely there are more fox-trotting couples out there worthy of notice. You just have to know where to look.

 

Published in Northside Sun Magazine; copyright 2007, Amy Lyles Wilson 

 

Tags: Blessings, Gratitude