There are plenty of cliche things to be grateful for — one’s health, friends, a little cash in the bank… But if you’ve ever had poor health, or watched a love one suffer illness beyond the common cold, you value, and give thanks for, every morning you wake up without pain, every evening they fall asleep without fear. If you’ve been lonely — the nearest friend hundreds of miles away (and no cell phone service, or so far back in your memory there were no such things as portable phones or email), you value, and give thanks for, every press of the hand, every warm smile, that even a casual acquaintance gives to make you feel welcome.
Today, I can feel particularly grateful about a little bit of money in the bank, because it is no longer there — spent to buy a plane ticket back to Britain. In an unbelievably short time, this will be my view as the plane descends from 32,000 feet to the place I called home for 16+ years.
Ealing, St Albans, other people’s homes in Surrey or Bournemouth, eventually Arvon’s Totleigh Barton farmhouse-turned-writers-retreat: it’s all just waiting.
After a nice visit with Connie, I’ll turn my steps west to Wells, driving to the sunset to arrive on the first Sunday in Advent.
Wells cathedral is a most remarkable construction in its own right (I’ve been trying to take the perfect picture of the chapter house staircase for years now). But that evening will see the nave and choir alight with candles and alive with voices for a carols concert to kick off the yuletide season
I’ll be thinking of you, dear reader, as I lift a grateful voice in song (providing the choir doesn’t mind us layfolk joining in).
In short, I can’t wait.