Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | January 11, 2015

January Sunday abundance and gratitude practice

I pour my first cup of rich, dark coffee on a quiet Sunday morning. I look around the room and the first thing I notice is

      a big bouquet of bright flowers:

green, white, and red, red roses. Brought here by

      my new sweetheart

because one thing he has observed is: I like flowers (<3). The flowers rest in

      a pale green vase

– the color of a luna moth – salvaged from Goodwill because I couldn’t resist that color. Pulling the crumpled dollar bills from my pocket that day, trading them for this voluptuous vessel made, and still makes, me feel RICH! Beside the vase is

      a balsam pillow

hand-stitched and stuffed with fragrant woodsy needles by friend E. at Christmastime. “Here – ” she said, as she handed me the  pillow, “This is for you. I know you’ve always loved this fabric.”  Such bounty in my life! And I don’t mean money. Next in my line of vision,

      a bird book

handed down from Jeff’s mother. It’s on the table because of the plethora of flying, chirping, swooping creatures I get to observe and  ponder, who claim my yard as their own. Also on the table, lying by the window:

      the cat,

this mystery boy, who somehow arrived while I was NOT coveting a kitten. He chose me, and there was no denying him. Til I got him home that day, I had not noticed he had a white heart-shaped patch on his tiny black chest. Then I stopped wondering from where and why he appeared and simply accepted his presence. He’s technically not allowed on tables, but this I allow because it’s a good perch from which to oversee

       the bird feeder

which is stuffed with black oil sunflower seeds – the finest and most prized by all the creatures. I act like it’s a gift that I have all these birds around, but probably: it’s the seeds. I keep that sucker filled and my reward is the cardinals who swoop and strut like they made it happen; they expect nothing less. And it is my extreme pleasure, a worthy trade, to do so. In my line of vision on the table,

       a stained glass lamp.

I built the stained glass shade, my first of several, a hundred years ago, or maybe only thirty. Back when we were merely the best of friends,


bought for me the sheet of opaque rich rosy ruby-red glass from which I cut out the flowers that dance around the edge of the lampshade, a hundred years ago or maybe only thirty. Propped against the lamp so I cannot possibly forget it is

      a bill,

due tomorrow. Even this is a symbol of goodness and gratitude, if I choose to see it that way. I have the money to pay it, and whatever I bought must have brought some measure of joy and peace to me, or to someone I love. Right? Right. Okay.


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