A Thousand Reasons: Canto III

{15} Thank God for warm atmospheres—cozy nooks to curl up with a drink and some idle purpose of your choosing.

{16} For relaxation—the ability to simply lay back, loosen the muscles, and do no more than be still and comfortable, even if only for a while.

{17} For life-mates: those whom we share our day to day with, surrounded by the warm, unpressured atmosphere of familiarity. 

{18} Thank You for moonlight, and the manner in which it illuminates everything in a cold, enchanting glow. Its reflection on the dark water seems almost magical: a call for mermaids and sirens to rise of the depths—or sea monsters, perhaps. Funny how all beauty seems to bear the possibility of the frightening, no doubt a reflection of its Creator.

{19} For the words of the ancients, preserved on pages through time. Thanks for all, of course—Aristotle, Caedmon, etcetera, etcetera—but especially for those people of God preserved in His Word. It is strangely beautiful, how I may read the words of David and think, "ah, good... he felt it too. This distress is not new. It is ancient, even." And there is something soothing in having the unknown ancients made known as brothers in arms.

{20} Thank You for lineage, the passing for mother to daughter, father to son. It is so simple, and yet so thrilling: standing with your mother in the kitchen, asking questions and soaking in knowledge. I felt a warmth spread to the very tips of my toes, thinking of how some of her vast wisdom was gained from her mother, and her mother before that, all the way back to the first woman who learned to preserve the food her family needed in a jar. It's these times which make me feel what a shame it is that the just struggle for women's rights has given so many a bad taste for the kitchen. For it is here and so many other "sexist" settings that we have our dearest, oldest right of womanhood: to learn from our mothers.

{21} I thank God for stories about nothing.* After so much time straining to understand the intricacies driving the action in this movie or that novel, it is refreshing, from time to time, to stumble upon a story about nothing in particular. Before realizing I find myself asking, "Where is the plot?", almost frustrated. But then it comes to me—"Ah, there is no plot. It isn't really about anything, just life. And, you know, I don't really mind in the slightest."




*If anyone is curious, the book I'm currently reading in this category is The Little White Bird by J.M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan. If you want to laugh and read about nothing in particular in the life of a quirky, humorous author, I would highly recommend it.