Giving thanks for life’s small things

Thanksgiving is touted to be the most popular holiday of the year. Of course, some years are better than others. There is a lot to be thankful for, even now, if we stipulate to holding our collective breaths and refrain from wondering whether or not the country is about to disassemble.

I am tempted to begrudgingly invent a little gratitude, to dredge up morsels of appreciation. But I’m trying to remain authentic, and in all honesty, this has not been one of my favorite years. What’s worse, I don’t feel like an outlier. Not, poor little me, out of sync with a general serendipity. Nope. I suspect I’m just part of a wave of dissatisfied customers.

Gratefulness may not be expansive. It is possible we’ll find we’ve gathered to commiserate. End up talking about how difficult things have been, how fraught with qualifiers the journey into the future is likely to be.

Back in the days when the kids were still living at home and our family gathered each evening to eat and talk and share, we were in the habit of going around the table asking one another to tell the assembled one good thing that had taken place during the course of the day.

Some of the entries were joyful. New friends, new books, unleashed abilities, useful discoveries, sweet moments, interesting facts, and a little bit of harmless gossip. If you were having an insurmountably horrific day, finding a positive among a glut of negatives could prove daunting. We helped each other, and if it wasn’t possible to come up with a satisfactory example, our fall back was to be thankful we were trying to do so.

Perhaps, this year, I’ll tell the family I’m thankful that I am not particularly thankful. I have standards. I guess I’m thankful for that.

What often carries me through harsh days are fond memories. I appreciate the opportunity to reflect on past joys.

Simply uttering what in every regard was a random word, at the right time, in the right context (I was a 14-year-old assistant counselor talking with my campers as we made our way through the forest on a nature walk), revealed that I was more than a shy, introspective kid. We were discussing ferocious jungle creatures, and instead of naming a lion or a bear, I found myself crouching low, turning over a large rock, and dramatically whispering “salamander.”

I had no idea I was going to name that particular beast. My mouth opened, and driven by whimsey, out from under the rock and out from under my brain, came my example. I’d regaled a bunch of eight-year-olds. Who knew I could be funny? Not me. I had no history of exercising the skill, no reputation as a class clown. It transpired that I had an ability to make people laugh. I set about honing the talent; laughter seemed to make the world a friendlier place, and it pleased me to contribute an occasional guffaw.

I’m thankful for that realization. Also …

For a certain teacher. Not mine. My friend’s art teacher. The friend had painted the kind of reasonable — impressive for a high school Rembrandt — portrait of his girlfriend. It was perfectly OK. Then Mr. Bressler happened by, picked up a brush and added a single stroke to the lips. The portrait came to life, taking on a vibrancy, a soul. How wonderful to realize that art, and life, are works in progress, and that sometimes, if you add just one more stroke, you can vastly improve outcomes.

I’m thankful for the look in my mother’s eyes when I rang the bell and announced my return from Vietnam and for the kids being bedside when the anesthesia subsided and I awoke with a repaired heart.

You can get a great deal of mileage out of memories. I offer as exhibit E, the moment I first spotted my wife. Of course, she wasn’t my wife back then, just a coed who, on the first day of class, had moseyed into the lecture hall so late there were no available seats.

She made her way (she was conspicuous) down the side of the room, found a comfortable spot on the floor next to a dog that someone had taken to class, retrieved a cigarette, looked around, put it away, and lifted her gaze toward the professor. The entire class was transfixed by her actions. She seemed to combine innocence, entitlement, self-awareness, sincerity, and a sense of undaunted confidence. She smiled at me.

I think I’ll always be thankful for that.

Kraus is the author of “Baffled Again .. and Again.”