It’s been one of those bluesy Sundays. The kind of day when you know in your head and even your heart that your life is fantastic, but you can’t quite shake the low-lying melancholy. The reason I started this Sunday gratitude journal–to remind myself even on a gray Sunday of all the good things.

And this afternoon, the sun came out, and I did the very best thing I could do–went outside and hacked away at the killer roses, pruned some shrubs that have burgeoned beyond control, pulled some weeds. Enjoyed the honeysuckle, the iris, the very first Cecile Brunner roses that are almost too high up to see. My arm hurts, but mostly I feel much better. On to the gratitude journal:

My busy week and enough energy to get through that busy week.

Hearing T. Clear’s poems on Monday night–a poetry date night with Tom, and with music, with beer. Such good poems.

A chance to hang out with friends (and friends who are winemakers) and taste Cabernet Franc.

Another trip to my mom’s, going through every piece of paper, every photo, from our trip to Scandinavia in 1974. Memories of Norway and Denmark. Memories of being 14 and on that cusp–wanting to be older and cooler and more confident.

Thursday poetry writing group–wonderful poems and some much-needed help on the poem I brought.

Any sleep I got.

Birds in the morning.

Sunny afternoons.

Time with my mom and my sister. Time with my dad and my daughter.

Stories.

The dinner Tom’s making right now.

And a couple (!) of poetry acceptances.

I confess I’m looking forward to more at-home week ahead.

Open the door. Open my heart.

I’m thankful for time with my mother yesterday–and time with all three kids, and for the delicious brunch they made. So lucky in this world.

And then unexpected good weather and a chance to lop at the roses. A trip downtown to the market (traffic getting there was hairy, but once we’d parked it was great and the sun was out and we bought pea vines and scallops and a few other things).

I’m thankful for the lilacs and their reminder. Here, just one week later, they’re looking pale, ragged, beginning to brown. Pay attention to the good things, enjoy them now.

Open the door. Open my heart.

I’m thankful for poetry month and thankful for the end of poetry month.

I’m thankful for the sun and the warm weather–and that now it’s light out by 6:00 a.m. I’m thankful for the birds singing.

I’m thankful for my family.

I’m thankful for a Saturday with many things to do and nowhere I really had to be. That meant almost three hours of whacking and weeding in the yard. That meant lemon almond biscuits. That meant submissions to six contests. And kale chips.

I’m thankful for a quick wine-tasting trip with Tom–a nice day to luxuriate, good wine, no rush.

But before we left I was having one of my melancholy Sundays today–gorgeous blue skies, sunny and warm, and I’m in my own blues. Which got me thinking about the nature of gratitude. I started this gratitude journal because of my recurring Sunday blues–a way to remind myself of the many things I’m thankful for. But it’s easy to be thankful for all the good things and kind of skip over the not so good. This morning, I realized that part of gratitude is being thankful even when the good stuff isn’t write-it-down obvious. It’s out there.

This day. This life. Spring.

And I’m thankful for all the blooming–especially right now the lilacs.

Here’s a poem I wrote years ago–recalling some other lilacs even more years ago. And the photo is of that better-year bush. It’s flowering now.

The Garden of Waiting

In a land before you, I lived
beneath the gauze of hot mornings, heavy air.
Lilacs filled my open window,

their thick scent stitching sorry
with the dizzy hope that comes
from trying not to look down.

A breeze paused at the screen.
I wove words into a close hedge,
held a great space inside.

You looked through the garden of waiting,
spied me behind the hardened limbs
caught, without a language for help.

In a better year, a kinder climate,
I sent for a bare root in the mail,
wanting to share the pale cascade,

the heady smell of summer.
I dug out a space on the shadowed south side,
planted the shrub too close to a bully laurel.

Without enough sun, it grows leggy,
bears only leaves. I’ll wager on greenery,
place no faith in the absence of purple blooms.