Thankful for the Clouds?

Have we blessed the clouds for their thoughtfulness?
Have we thanked the rain that falls on the fields?

Robert Bly, from The Threshers

Thankful for rain that falls? Easy. For the rain’s thoughtfulness, for anyone’s? Of course. Thankful for the cat who meows horribly till I sit down and she jumps up, makes herself into a neat ball and yawns. Thankful for breakfast, for night giving up its hold, for the bunch of beets, for the egg’s yellow center, for all the small kindnesses—Roxane’s smile, Bill carrying the chairs into the living room so I didn’t have to, the grocer who touched my hand slowly when he gave me change and looked into my eyes, slowly too, though there was no reason to. Damn. I reach into my purse and, wouldn’t you know it, there are my keys. Thankful that my father calls. My mother-in-law and I sneak away from the dying house and linger over Indian food for lunch, take an imaginary trip to Italy over Indian Chai. Thankful. A smile comes over your face. You bow your head, move your lips silently. Or you don’t.

What about the other stuff? All the nasty shit? How to be thankful for that? How do I thank God for the politicians’ suited-up, tie-tight posturing? For the lies the radio blasts over the airwaves? For the guy who cuts me off in the rain to get one car length ahead and vrooms his engine like he’s some sort of big deal in a fancy car? Can I be thankful for the stench of the water that makes the sunflowers wilt too-soon because I’ve been neglectful? Thankful for my neglect? For the lack of enough attention that we give to a planet that houses us so gorgeously, day in and day out? Thankful for day out? How about being thankful for the headache that bends and threatens to break me, if not today then tomorrow? How do I be thankful for this death in the wings, for the heavy black wings, not fluttering? Teach me. Teach me to be thankful for this gnawing grief.