Gratitude

It is not that I do poorly with the idea of gratitude. I am thankful for so much in my life. It seems cheesy to say too often that I have been blessed, though I might hesitate to ascribe the blessing to one force or another.

In the circle preceding the potluck, the people before me enumerate reasons they must be grateful. Too quickly, the spotlight is coming my way.

Some witches tell long stories, but I am not so rude as to only half pay attention in my attempt to mentally rehearse something to say that will be more than choked awkwardness. I might be more grateful if I did not have to tell near-strangers why I am grateful.

Others are brief, little more than a few sentences, which is both a relief and a burden. It permits me to say as little but also brings the focus one person closer when I haven't found my ideal phrasing.

I say, swallowing my nerves, that I am grateful I am permitted to pursue writing, my purpose in life, so actively and that I was born with a propensity toward it that made my relentless pursuit a pleasure. I have said things of this sort a few times too often for it not to sound a touch arrogant, though I mean it with as much humility as I can muster. I know why I exist in the world and will do all I can to honor that, as I think is well evidenced by the tens of thousands of words I write, post, and publish a week.

This is only the preamble, getting the basics out of the way. I detail in brief -- at least as briefly as I can, though I could go on for tedious minutes -- how utterly I credit Amber with my life at present. I respect who I am now more than I ever could because she guided and inspired me with her love and faith. I did not imagine someone could treat me this well or that I could relax enough to let them.

Amber later tells me that I was a hard act to follow. She didn't think until I said it that she was grateful for me, though, of course, she was. She didn't need me to become the person she is except to provide her with a home in which to find herself further. Amber would do what she wanted and become who she needed no matter what. She did not need her hand in mine to accept that she has autism. When she was in high school, one of her teachers said that she hoped to be Amber when she grew up, so thoroughly was Amber herself in a sea of students who wanted to be one another.

I may have still been offered my job with the state, but I don't know how I would have acclimated to it without knowing Amber would be waiting for me at home to help me unpack vicarious trauma. I doubt I would have had my epiphany that I was mentally ill and needed treatment had it not been for wanting to be a better partner for her. That inner work improved every other part of my life, allowing clarity that has bettered my writing and daily happiness.

I won't speculate where Amber might be without me -- the idea of it lodges an icy lump in my stomach -- but I can only see a holding pattern without her. My life had been fraught at times. Not unhappy always. I love Melanie, and most of our romantic relationship was joyful and more loving than any before. However, I still felt stunted, trapped in a studio apartment from which I made too frequent calls to the crisis hotline because I could not cope. My writing was a pale imitation of what it was in intention. I often stared frustrated at a blank screen or hated my procrastination. I recall the times I hid in my apartment because the idea of leaving it filled me with a panic that I now find alien.

I cannot spectate the lives I might have had without Amber, but I struggle to trace the threads to one where I am more fulfilled. Eleven years together, eight of them married, and she persists in being my favorite person. My love for her only deepens and expands. When I make her laugh, I am exhilarated. When she loves something I have written, I feel accomplished. In a sense, I mark meeting her as the beginning of my life. It started me on the overdue path to do more than waiting to grow.

How could I even do anything but immerse myself in gratitude?

last watched: Freaks and Geeks
reading: The Stupidest Angel