For so much.
For landing here among berries and forest and sea.
For each morning’s walk and talk with trees and the discovery of edible fungi, for the galette I’m about to make with freshly picked apples, for moss and clover.
For the smell of salt air.
For the kindness of new friends and gifts of manure, jam, books, music, laughter, excellent advice, garlic, and conversation.
For family farms and wool mills where you can bring your own fleece to have cleaned and spun and where you can buy a skein of wool in any colour you choose and send it to a friend who will magic it into a toque, just for you.
For friends and family who stay in touch no matter how far away you roam.
For the luxury of warmth as the nights get colder.
For a sky full of stars.
For a good harvest of mint and the winter teas it will make.
For bees on the sunflower and how the bright red geranium, which has the same name as my newest nephew, has come inside to warm its toes on a sunny windowsill and how when I send my nephew pictures of it I receive pictures of a cherub’s toes in return.
For an excellent vacuum cleaner. This is not small potatoes.
For potatoes. And a garden in which to grow them.
For having become really good at cutting hair.
For not caring if a haircut looks a bit funky.
For the endless love in a cat’s eyes and how they become teachers, and sometimes angels.
For screaming less loudly at the sight of a snake (aka Kevin).
For the smell of supper cooking as I write this and Tea for the Tillerman playing, reminding me of the centuries that have come and gone, all of them leading to here.
For afternoon light and a porch that is made for watching it.
For the frog in the tomato bed, the ladybug in the shower, for the person I saw swimming in the ocean and mistook for a seal until they emerged and I realized they are not a seal but a selkie and who has since become an almost friend. Who would not want a selkie as a friend?