This is the most thankful thanksgiving I have had in a very, very long time.
In the interest of expressing my profound gratitude to the universe, I shall endeavor to list all of the things I’m thankful for here:

Beautiful apartment
Awesome landlords
New job
Incredible creative outlet
Amazing business partner
Inspiring friends
My girls – Amanda, Ming, Kathryn
Georgia (she’s not here yet, officially, but I can feel her everywhere)
Revival
Upcoming gigs
Les Coquettes
Carmen
Alex
The Storybook Cottage
Lenni
Josh
Oonagh
Kyle
My mom
My dad
Arthur
Toulouse
Autumn in Ontario
High Park
Having the strength to leave, once and for all
Paris
My health
My heart, which despite several cracks seems to still work really, really well
Gordy, and the way we can still talk
Clare and her amazing generosity
Books
Brunch
Singing songs
Talent
Writing
The incredible beauty and strength of my collective family
My Cousins
Locke, who showed me exactly what was what the first time he looked into my eyes
Beautiful almond eyes, spiced oranges, and the music we were making
English Alex who is paving the way for everyone else
Your red curls and how they are helping to restore my faith
My independence
My strength
Jackie who lives and breathes in everything that makes my heart sing
Nicole
Bertha
Lucienne
Sadie Marcia Poag
Learning to listen to my gut
Each day

Each pet I’ve had over the last seven or eight years has been a rescue animal. I hand picked almost all of them, and there was something beautiful, and sad, and stoic about them all. I know most of their stories. Some of them have been through hardship and strife, but all of them have one thing in common – they were unwanted, and tossed aside by their previous owners.

When you take something that has been abandoned or cast off, and you feed it and give it shelter, the very basic requirements at best, it is as though they completely and totally recognize you as their savior, and they form an attachment so strong, it’s often embarrassing. My current cat cries if he can’t be on me at all times, and when I do indulge him, he holds my face with his paw and drools all over the both of us.

My very first dog was three when he came to me, and I had to teach him how to play. He spent his entire doggie life never having anyone give him the doggie things that he so craved – fetch, chase, tug. When I showed him how to do it properly, he was relentless. I could not even say words that rhymed with ball aloud without him going mental.

My dog that I half-own, and who lives with me part time loves to spoon. I’m not supposed to allow him into my bed because it pisses off his other owner, but I often do it anyway, because he’s so warm and furry, and his breathing makes me feel so peaceful. He is happiest when he’s in my lap, or tucked under my arm. When we go for walks at night he growls at strange men until they cross the street and go around me.

A starved animal will never bite the hand of the kind-hearted person who decides to feed it and give it proper care. It will not only bring you the morning paper, but it will Google the most complicated crossword clues to make sure you are victorious. It will bring you your slippers, and give you a shiatsu massage before slipping them on to your dainty feet.

They can’t help the ridiculous amount of affection that they exhibit. It’s the only way to express their gratitude. Especially after you’ve made it perfectly clear that dead mice or disembodied deer legs are just not cool.

(And yes, this posting is metaphoric.)

Last night I drifted to sleep imaging long, angular ivory limbs sprawled across my tiny double bed…
Little bumps like gooseflesh rising along your back because it’s too early to turn on the heat and too late to sleep with a window open…
The lovely luminescence of your white, white skin bathed by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside my window…
The gentle ebb and flow of your dream-time breathing lulling me like the steady sighing of the ocean…
And so I slept, so sweetly.

Malalai Kaker

I am woven together with silvery fibres of infinite fragility, and deep within my core there is a well of sadness so deep that whenever we lower the bucket into the black abyss, we’re almost always certain that it will never return.

My sadness spills over from lifetimes that I can not possibly recall, but it comes always from the same source. Our very nature is swathed in mystery. We have been stifled and silenced, and held down, and sliced open, over and over and over.

I gave you my blood and my breath, and for that I will always, always be sorry.

I’m playing with power. I’m slipping trust on in different configurations, but nothing feels like it fits. My body is like play dough, and I’ve learned how easily I can turn it into an empty shell, and that empty coldness is exhilarating.

We should be honored. We are creators of life. We love deeply, and fiercely, and selflessly. We move through the world in beauty and we are matched to the rhythms of the tides and the cycles of the moon. We are the glue that holds every thread together in the world. We care for and nurture and sacrifice and give.

We should get nothing less in return.

Generally speaking I can cruise just high enough above my emotional well to not get seared by the intensity of the fire I’ve been stoking for thirty two years. Every once in a while though, I wake up like any other day, but suddenly feel as though my skin has been peeled back like a banana in the nimble hands of a monkey.

Today is one of those days.

I imagine it is easy to equate this description with feelings of depression, but I assure you this isn’t the case. It’s actually kind of lovely to be in this space, but I’m glad it’s only a once in a while thing.

Allow me to site some examples.

I’ve had only four hours of sleep, but I woke up this morning with my cat curled in a ball on the pillow next to my head, with a little golden trickle of sunlight streaming into my room, and I was all but purring myself. At the light, at the crisp cool temperature of my room from having left the window open all night long, at the happy feeling I carried home in my tummy last night…

Making morning coffee in my oversized purple kimono was sheer bliss…

The happy coincidence of sending a morning email to my darling friend in Paris just as she was emailing me…

Reading the epic email my brother composed to say goodbye to the woman he loves, and welling with pride at how despite his massive size, he’s really all squishy inside…

The quasi-Victorian, very autumnal outfit I chose with the swishy skirt that made me feel floaty and ethereal under the canopy of neighbourhood trees…

The soundtrack my ipod provided on my morning commute and the marvel of how everyone else seemed to hear the rhythm of the music…

The serene pleasure of being the first in the office, and checking phone messages and making coffee for the girls…

And then reading this, which made me cry at my desk…

It’s not even noon, and I’m looking forward to feeling how the day unfolds.