thank you notes (Sara Black McCulloch)

I'm thankful that this morning, I woke up before my alarm clock—not so that I could be smug about it, but so that I could linger in bed and watch the sun flood my room. I’m thankful it’s the weekend and I can do this without feeling any urgency to get up and ready for work. I’m thankful that my circadian rhythm has synced with the sun; it’s more consistent when the days are longer. I’m thankful that the sun is less of a fair-weather friend during the summer months, too. 

I’m thankful that I woke up craving a coffee made by someone else. That, and my legs wanted to move, so I also needed to walk. The longing got me out of bed and dressed. As I tried to fit myself into a pair of high-waisted jeans, I hopscotched around piles of books. I leave a mess behind when I make myself feel rushed, whether it’s a rush to get out of the house or going to bed (see last night’s casualties: scattered books). As I jumped up and down, I noticed how the sun-streaked leaves outside my window were still. They were also concealing a small chorus of chirping birds. I couldn’t hear any man-made sounds except for my own. 

I’m thankful that there’s no equivalent of muscle memory when it comes to writing, which I’m trying to do again. This makes me hate writing more and avoid it (persistently), but it also makes me question my own motives for writing—or what I choose to write about. Every time I sit down to write, I have to confront myself and that unwillingness a little more each time. I have to question myself and intensify that line of questioning too. These are the only ways I know how to push myself. On good days, this tricks the mind into believing that writing can be consistent. I miss my ability to fall into a kind of dream while doing it.

I’m thankful that I can’t read a book without a pen in hand. I’ve tried to shake this habit all my life and it’s here to stay. If the book isn’t mine, I bring along a notepad. When I re-read a favourite, I like being distracted by what I’ve underlined. I like stumbling on things I once tried to commit to memory.

I’m thankful for my favourite figures of speech: “Almost there!” and “I’ll be there in five minutes.” But I’m not always the one waiting; I’m usually the one texting those phrases to friends. The older you get, the harder it is for you and your friends to find common free slots in your agendas. The older you get, the more you’re reminded that you and everyone you know are slowly building lives to settle into. This includes rooting and uprooting. This makes finding time to see other a little more challenging. These aren’t bad things.

I’m thankful for to-do lists, which equally incite anxiety and satisfaction. I’m thankful for how quickly I forget the time and effort it took to accomplish a task while crossing it off my to-do list. I love how these lists make some kind of order out of scattered thoughts. I’m thankful that even though I’m not as frantic about time passing, June is already almost over, and that while the sun can’t tell me so, the days and tasks crossed off my calendar and list do. I’ll always live with the fear that time is running out, but by striking a line through a few words, I can feel like I’m making some use of it.

- Sarah Black McCulloch (6/26/16). Sara Black McCulloch is a writer living in Toronto.