God-bothering

January has come fast and I notice a change in the light already. When I lived in Perthshire, we all longed for January 25th. Besides being Burns Night, it was the date when the sun, after laying low in the horizon for months, finally made its way over Birnam Hill, shining glorious weak, watery light into the village. The dark days of rainy gloom and dark skies would soon be over. I still hold this date in my heart even though the winters here bring blue skies and crisp pale sunlight. The coyotes are not as active these nights but the deer have emerged from their hiding places to nibble on spruce buds. I see them at 3 am if I am awake. They are not skittish at this time of year and we carefully stare at each other as I stand on the porch, wrapped in my shawl. I walk back inside, close the door quietly, and they resume their slow, meditative chewing on the edge of the dark forest.

I've been thinking a lot these days about the wondrous beauty of this world. I have to. I must. If I don't, I fall easily into the poisonous abyss of the daily news where I become obsessed with the latest, horrific political polemic. I read every article from the BBC, The Guardian, and CBC. Gaza, Iran, Venezuela, Minneapolis, Greenland, Nigeria. Where does it all end?? I despair. And then I stop. I have to. No more news, I say, but it only lasts a few days.

My friend Rab from Glasgow calls me every few months. When I answer, he always says the same thing: How's the God-bothering going, pal? I laugh and say, Shite! How's it going on your end? God-bothering. An old Scottish phrase for praying. He knows that it is a contentious issue for me; that the God-bothering has been put on hold for a number of years now. But in true Glaswegian style, he gets to the heart of the matter immediately: What's worrying you, hen? What can't you bother God about these days? So I tell him my latest thoughts, the things that are keeping me up at night. And again, he always says the same thing: The mind is a dangerous place. You should never go there alone. He tells me to make a list of the ordinary things that matter. So I do.

Show up.
Cook dinner.
Make breakfast.
Wipe the counters.
Apologize.
Feed the dogs.
Listen when I'd rather not.
Take the garbage out.
Stack the firewood.
Set the table.
Wash the dishes.
Water the plants...

Rab calls again just after New Years to tell me about his latest AA meeting. He religiously goes three times a week with his dog. He's been doing this now for over forty years. He says he's making a list of all of his favourite things. I ask him what this is all about. He says eloquently, Once you stop noticing things, you're fucked, pal! We banter some more and then we hang up. I take out my notebook and begin a new list. Favourite things. It sounds trite, almost silly. Something my 13 year old self would have written in her diary. But I must do it because we are surrounded with such immense beauty and life and goodness and if I stop noticing it all then, yes, Rab is right. I will be fucked. So I put pen to paper and begin this list that I will return to again and again when I walk that razor-thin edge.

Favourite Things.

A mug of lapsang souchong with a teaspoon of honey and a drop of milk.
The change of light in the house throughout the seasons.
Baking sourdough bread.
A bowl of warm porridge.
The smell of wood smoke on a cold, autumn morning.
The first coffee of the day.
Caring for houseplants.
A bowl of cheesy pasta.
Hot buttered toast with peanut butter.
Hugs.
Reading a book in a quiet cafe.
Knitting outside.
Going to bed on a cold winter night.
A midnight bath in the dark.
My woolen shawl on a cold morning.
The quiet of the house.
The sound of wind chimes.
A handmade mug.
Vintage textiles found at the thrift store.
Making and eating soup.
Coyotes howling at night.
Owls calling.
Watching the deer at 3 am.
Stars and the milky way.
Honey crisp apples.
Old quilts that need repaired.
The sound of the river at night.
The smell of old books.
Nag Champa incense.
Homemade hot chocolate.
Chandrika soap.
A Prayer For Owen Meany.
To Kill A Mockingbird.
Wuthering Heights.
Jane Eyre.
The colour blue.
White rabbits.
Broken blue and white pottery found in the garden.
Casablanca.
1970's soul music.
Winding the cuckoo clock every morning.
Washing and drying the dishes by hand.
Hanging out the laundry on the line.
Weaving to music.
Dancing in the kitchen.
Sunday morning farmers markets.
A roast chicken dinner.
Breakfast at a diner.
Swimming in the river.
Riding a bike.
A hot water bottle.
Mending clothes.
Knitting socks.
Sitting in a library looking at books.
The smell of soil.
The first ripe tomato.
The sigh of a contented dog.
Children laughing...

To be continued...

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