Just a little churlish

If you have been here before you may have noticed a small- tiny really- strain of churlishness in my writing. Sure, you would require a clear and penetrating eye to pick it out, but don't you think that describes your eye wonderfully- clear and penetrating?

And so you are right again! For instance let us take a look at gratefulness. When I see the admonition to be grateful, I curdle a little inside. There are surely no more things to be grateful for than there are things to be bitter about, and I don't see any reason for hoisting one over the other. If I have any Shakespeare level quote for you today it is this: Anything you carry you eventually have to set down.

I was terribly thirsty after an eight mile walk I took today, and, as I drank cold water from my quart mason jar at the library, all of me rejoiced and luxuriated. Why would I want to foist gratefulness on that? But when I started that same walk, before my feet started their angry blistering and before I was stressing about how late I was running, I was so completely delighted to be in the world, walking, just walking, that my heart sang and my lungs filled and I had this feeling, this strange feeling. It was gratefulness. I was grateful!

And so here is where I will relent. I believe it is fine and good to open one's door to gratefulness. And if gratefulness walks in, it is welcome. And if gratefulness should sit down at my table then it is a fine and beautiful guest, to be treated with all honors and proper hosting. But if gratefulness should tentatively slip across my threshold, look at my table disapprovingly, and wander diffidently back out my door, then I am not going to be dragging it back in against its will. Like all good things in this world gratefulness should be free to go where it likes. The bastard.