Fabulous Things

Some days gratitude comes in bunches

I’m inside my tiny writing shed on a glorious September afternoon. The window is open. Low sun and the kind of breeze that brings autumn on its wings. The air is different—more dense, carrying the scent of sage and browning leaves. When I was out for a short walk earlier in the day, a neighbor had lamented the cool morning, how fall was throwing a heavy blanket on us too soon. But I applaud it. These days are fabulous.

And that got me thinking.

What else is this fabulous? What are life's fabulous things? Some days those things seem to come in bunches.

Without falling into the sentimentality of New Age thinking, or self-realization, or sounding like the worst of the Hallmark cards, I began to list in my journal the most fabulous things I could think of today, a stream of consciousness exercise. Here is what I wrote. No editing involved. And in no particular order of priority or importance.  

September mornings
My beautiful newborn granddaughter's eyes
Walking the dog just before sunrise
The guitar of Stephane Wrembel
The sax of Miles Davis 
My sons, and their smiles
My sons, and their laughter
My wife in her garden
My wife anywhere
My 40-year old Yamaha guitar 
The journal I'm writing in right now 
Mary Oliver's poetry
Patti Smith's prose
Robert Macfarlane's observations
Henry Miller's radical thoughts
Dylan Thomas' romanticism
The small, black-and-white photograph of my parents' wedding
A Manhattan made with Irish whiskey
Irish whiskey any possible way
Golf alone with the morning dew under my shoes
Golf with my best friends
A Cohiba cigar, preferably one from Cuba
The scent of sage
The scent of peppermint
Coffee, its aroma
Coffee, its taste
More coffee
Joni Mitchell's lyrics
A good bourbon with my stepson
Tapas with my stepdaughter 
The dialogue in the film Goodfellas
The storyline of the film Children of Men
Remembering my father telling stories
Remembering my mother tending to her lilacs
A cool breeze through the bedroom window at 2 a.m.
A lonely mountain cabin
A lonely seaside cottage
The art of growing old 
Van Gogh's imagination
A train chugging along tracks in the dark of night
Reading in bed by a single light 
Nectarines
Mangoes
Blueberries
My wife's Thai peanut stir fry
Fresh basil on ripe tomatoes 
Marmalade 
Humphrey Bogart movies
The generational pull of my English and Irish heritage
Sun through the tallest of pines 

I could have gone on with my list, I suppose. Instead, I put my pen down, leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath, and there out the window, along the fence at the back of the property, a blackbird hopped from post to post. Its agility had the beauty of ballet. I watched for several minutes until it flew up and beyond the trees.

What was more fabulous, the sight of it, or the memory of its dance? 

I do not know which to prefer,   
The beauty of inflections   
Or the beauty of innuendoes,   
The blackbird whistling   
Or just after.   

       —Wallace Stevens, from "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"