Stopping to give thanks, reflect
By Beverly Beckham
November 23, 2008

Willie Nelson sings a song that asks, "What have I ever done to deserve even one of the pleasures I've known?" Sometimes you feel this way. Full up. Content. God's in his heaven; all's right with the world.

But sometimes you don't. Sometimes you feel lonely, sad, angry, disappointed, fed up and used up, wondering what it's all about.
It isn't easy being human.

My late friend Sal gave me perspective. He was an artist and he had ALS. When we met, he couldn't walk, talk, swallow, breathe, hold a toothbrush or a paintbrush. He could do nothing but raise an eyebrow and smile.

There was a tree outside his hospital window. In the winter it was gangly and gray until snow painted it white and gave it some heft. And in summer it was leafy and green until autumn turned it orange and red. This tree, which was his for a while until his room was changed, made him smile, an ordinary tree, doing its ordinary thing. And people coming to see him. He loved this, too. And music - show tunes and rock tunes and Linda Eder and Pavarotti. And gossip. And the movie "Cinema Paradiso," because it reminded him of his youth. And every one of his pretty, young caretakers.

After I would visit him, I would go back out into the world and see people walking, talking, crossing a street, running with a dog, pushing a baby carriage, carrying books, riding bikes. And I would think, isn't it amazing, all of it? Walking and talking and running and laughing? Such fluidity of movement, such magic and mystery and grace. And we do all these things as we do most things, without any thought.

Without thanksgiving.

In East Berlin many years ago, before the wall came down, I ducked into a grocery store to see what was there. The shelves were mostly empty. There were a few jars and cans, some potatoes and bananas. And bread, lots and lots of bread, all the same - newly baked loaves, which women waited in line to buy. But that was it. No rows of cereals and cookies. No frozen foods. No sliced cheese. No candy.

For months after I came home, I didn't mind food shopping. I actually liked it. I appreciated the bounty, recognized the abundance. But the appreciation wore off and in time I forgot.

It seems to be that way with everything. You don't think about how lucky you are to be able to get out of bed, until your back goes out and you can't. Or how great it is not to have a cold, not to ache and cough and sneeze and wheeze, until you get one. You don't think about being a kid and running everywhere, from morning to night, out the door and across the street, arms and legs pumping (What's your hurry? Where's the fire?) until you're a grown-up watching a child run and wondering, when did I stop?

Maybe it's impossible to live in a state of heightened thanksgiving. Maybe we'd get nothing done if we spent all our time counting our blessings. Maybe this is our curse, that we don't see all that we have and how good we have it, until what we take for granted is gone.

"What have I ever done to deserve even one of the pleasures I've known?" We've known so many pleasures. Food on our plates. A roof over our heads. A fire. Family. Friends. Wine. Laughter. Conversation.

Last year at our family's Thanksgiving dinner, we went around the table, each of us, grown-ups and kids alike, taking turns and giving thanks for just one thing. It was hard to do, limiting our thank-yous to one. Because, although we seldom talk of these things and hardly admit them to ourselves, once in a while for a little while, we know exactly how lucky we are.

Beverly Beckham can be reached at bevbeckham@aol.com.

http://www.boston.com/news/local/art...ct_1227420514/