Gratitude Can be Hard

 I find it hard to be grateful. The feeling is somewhat foreign to me, as I am oft mired in self-loathing and sadness. Thus, finding things to be grateful for is difficult.

That’s not to say that I am lacking such things, only that I am very bad at seeing them. Thus, in the spirit of this week’s prompt, I have decided to enumerate the many good things in my life, in the form of a handy- and easily digestible -numbered list.

1. My Good Looks.

To start off, we have perhaps the least valuable item. I am, by most accounts, at the very least decent looking. To my great-aunt- as close to me as a grandmother -I am handsome. To my mother, I am the most gorgeous person alive. To myself, I am perfectly satisfactory.

I understand that this may not be the most important thing in the world; however, I am often surrounded by people who find themselves hating how they look, regardless of whether or not they truly are attractive. Thus, I am grateful that I am able to see myself in a positive light.

2. I Have Only Known Peace.

War is perhaps the ugliest of human foibles. I live in Normandy, surrounded by endless reminders of the horrors of war. It was here that one of the bloodiest battles in history- the D-Day landing -took place. I’ve often visited the graveyards and battlefields of the second world war, with school or with visitors. Silence still lingers in those places, the deep quiet that chattering children and tourists can’t really disturb.

I am reminded that peace is fragile, and the wounds that war leave are not easily healed. One of the friends I made at university had witnessed war first hand. She is Syrian, and grew amid rubble and violence. She lost family in that conflict, which endures to this day.

Seeing her, the stress, the fear, the anger that war brings, makes me grateful to have only lived in peace.

3. I am Surrounded by Beauty.

Asides from the war, Normandy is known for something else: its natural beauty. The countryside of my childhood is lush grasses and managed forests, vast-stretching beaches and rolling dunes of grassy sand. Normandy is so very alive.

One of my teachers, I believe of History and Geography- the two being taught together in France -had a saying.

“Every place in the world has a colour.”

When I was a young child, that colour was grey. We moved from the USA, a country I have few childhood memories of, to the UK, where we stayed until I was twelve. England, for all its qualities, is a country of endless greys. From the light filtered through ever-present clouds to the subtle shades of sun-starved faces, grey dominates in permanence.

When we moved to Normandy, everything changed. The colour of this world is green. The trees, the grass, the fields, even the bearded dunes are green. Perhaps it’s no surprise that green is one of my favourite colours. It’s a colour that one never really tires of.

But, still better, the green is not the only thing of beauty here.

Normandy is clothed with the texture of history. Not to sound like a tour guide, but we range from the horror and heroism of the war to the ancient history of the medieval, and even further back! This is a country of conquest and conquerors, Vikings, warrior-kings, occupation, resistance. The beauty of that history is what it leaves us.

The countryside is littered with churches, abbeys, and cathedrals, castles and palaces with gorgeous gardens. Not far from where I grew up is an abbey that features in Ken Follet’s The Pillars of the Earth. Not much further than that is Bayeux, home to a towering cathedral, my favourite French coffee shop, and the Bayeux Tapestry that recounts the story of Guillaume the Conqueror. If it took your fancy, you could even drive a couple of hours and visit le Mont-St-Michel, the world heritage site of a medieval monastery.

We used to go there quite a lot. There’s a feeling of tremendous weight on that island, as if all the years of its standing dust the streets like snowflakes. It’s almost always cold, and the sky is often as austere as the monks, but nothing can upset the tranquil beauty of it all- not even the tourists!

What I wish to say with this, is that I am grateful to have grown up in a place filled with such beauty.

4. I Have the Privilege of Knowing Animals.

As I write this, I need only raise my gaze but slightly to look at my dog. Her name is Noisette, French for Hazelnut, and the name is fitting. She is a medium-sized strip of legs and energy, always running everywhere she goes. Right now, she is basking in the sun, her black coat silvered by its rays.

When we take her to the beach, she sprints about, never pausing, pursuing every sight and scent. For years, it was difficult to catch her, even in photographs. With age she has slowed, though only slightly. Just enough to take pictures of her.

If you saw her running towards you, you might think she was like to take off. Her ears flap so wildly that, like Dumbo, she seems about ready to take flight, to soar away into the vast sky. I’m glad she doesn’t; I would miss her.

To see her now, you would never know that she was abused. She came to us at the age of about eight months. She had been abandoned very young, taken in by a local mayor’s office, then kept in a cage barely big enough for her and yelled at whenever she tried to be a dog. Five families attempted to take her in before us, but none were willing to put in the work.

I can’t say I blame them, really. She was not in her right mind early on. The boundless energy that she still has was soiled by trauma back then. She couldn’t settle, endlessly pacing our kitchen, never sleeping. She wasn’t house trained, didn’t listen to anyone, and pulled relentlessly on lead.

My mother and I put in a lot of work to get her to where she is, and we had a few scares along the way. One day, when we took her to the beach and let her off lead, she refused to come back to us. It was getting dark, and catching her was already a near-impossible prospect when we could see her.

Being a teenage boy at the time, I was light enough of foot, and fast enough, to climb up a very tall dune and catch her. I was frustrated after near an hour of chasing, and I roughly grabbed her collar to attach the lead. Noisette, in response, let out a series of sharp yelps of fear, and went limp. She had fainted, but I thought- for a brief, horrible moment -that she was dead.

She awoke slowly, with both my mother and myself stroking her and speaking softly. I think that incident, where her fear of a beating rendered her unconscious, only to awaken to love and support, decidedly unbeaten, was the moment that built the most trust between us.

Noisette has never fully recovered from the trauma of her youth, but she has learned that she can count on us. She is the most wonderful dog in the world, and I am grateful to have her trust.

Noisette is not the only animal in my life. My mother has four cats, and I have one. Her name is Valhalla.

When we first met Valhalla, mum already had her four cats. We used to keep only three at a time, but after my cat, Rivendell, died, mum adopted two kittens that were brother and sister. They had had a hard start, living in a massive feral colony, malnourished and worm-bound. Mum couldn’t bear to separate them.

It was just after Covid, and I couldn’t continue my studies at the school I’d been at. So, I was staying at home, and mum got a call from friends of ours about a kitten. She’d been found on the side of the road, too tiny to be away from her mother. At first, they thought she was a baby hedgehog, but she was actually a very furry ball of spice.

Valhalla has always been fierce, from the day we met her. Even at only a few weeks of age, she didn’t put up with any nonsense. She is quick to anger, territorial, as spicy as a ghost pepper. She’s also the most affectionate cat I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Where the other cats defy physics to avoid a stroking hand, Valhalla will lean into it. She raises her head to accept forehead kisses, she puts a paw on your face when you take her in your arms.

She makes a funny little sound when she’s settling into sleep, a kind of happy honking. I love her to bits, even when she hisses at me.

I am grateful for her affection, glad that we accepted her into our lives, and she accepted us into hers.

Last but not least are the horses. My mother keeps a small herd of seven, five big horses and two miniature ponies. While I am not, myself, a rider, I have spent a lot of time with them, looking after them when my mother is not at home. Caring for a herd has taught me things. Responsibility, for one, but also firmness. Horses test, they push boundaries, and you have to make sure that your boundaries are strongly set.

I’ve also learned patience. Sometimes, animals and people just won’t do what you want. Trying to force them won’t get you anywhere, but it can hurt both them and you. Horses are great teachers of this lesson. They are strong, and they can be stubborn, but they have a cooperative core to their nature. Horses love to help, they want to go along with the herd, they just have to be sure that you know what you’re doing.

So, you have to learn to communicate. Yanking on someone’s face can only get you so far, and sometimes you won’t like where it takes you. For example, the hospital. Thus, I am grateful that horses have helped me learn this lesson.

Also, they’re just wonderful creatures, kind, intelligent, curious, and endlessly funny. I’m grateful to know so many.

For all the animals I know, and all that I’ve lost, I am grateful.

5. My Family.

My family tree has two very separate boughs.

On one fork hangs my mother’s family, and on the other my father’s. I’ll start with the latter.

My father has never been present in my life. The last time I saw him, I was six years old. I am grateful to him for only two things: he gave me life, and he hasn’t made it worse since.

I have three half brothers, however, and a slew of aunts and uncles and cousins. I don’t often see them, as they live on the other side of the planet, but I love them all. My eldest brother Paul, the last time I was in the US, arranged for me to take a plane to see him without me even having to ask. Sandor, the middle of the trio, came all the way up from Texas to Chicago for the weekend, just to see me and our brothers. Aaron, the youngest of the three, listened to my drunk ramblings for hours on the first night I was there.

I have a lot to be grateful to them for, far more than my father. They have been far more present, made more effort, and invested more emotion than him. I am grateful that they are such wonderful people.

My mother’s side of the family is much more familiar to me. My great-aunt, aforementioned in the first item on this list, is the closest I have to a living grandmother. My maternal grandmother sadly passed a couple of years before I was born. I never met her, yet still strangely miss her.

My great-aunt is one of the most generous, kind, intelligent people I have ever met. She has supported the whole family through thick and thin, always host to Christmases and holiday getaways. She helped inspire my artistic pursuits, being, like me, an avid reader, a lover of theatre and cinema, and a singer. She, along with my mother, taught me to cook, and encouraged me to bake as well. Without her, I doubt I would get much done.

My great-uncle, her ever loyal partner, taught me a valuable lesson. My step-father was a cold man, at least with me. He told me that men couldn’t love each other, not even family. This was a notion that stuck with me for a long time, and my great-uncle is the one that rid me of it. He showed me that men can be loving, caring, generous, and open with each other, especially family. I am grateful for the love he gave me.

I have several cousins, all of which are lovely, but there is one of particular note. I have three brothers of my blood, but four of my heart, and he is the fourth. Throughout our childhoods, we played together, learned together, became men together. Without him, my young days would have been far more empty. I am grateful for his kindness, and his charity.

There is someone missing from this list.

6. My Mother.

I don’t know what to say. Not because there isn’t anything for me to be grateful for, but because there is far, far too much.

I owe my mother everything. From the very life I live, to all of my talents, all of my qualities, all of my good looks and sound mind. If not for her, I would not be the person I am, nor could I be anyone else. She has supported me through every hardship, uplifted me when I was down. She tries to help me even when I refuse to be helped.

I am grateful for her kindness, her patience, her thoughtfulness, her intelligence, her beauty of spirit, her love. Her love most of all. I am grateful for every part of her.

You may wonder, having read this helpfully numbered list, why I said that it is hard to be grateful. Having written it, I myself wonder the same. I think that sometimes, the more good things we have in life, the harder it is to appreciate them. We shape our worlds around our disappointments, our guilts, our moments of failure and loss. That’s how humans are wired, in a way. It is more important for survival to concentrate on fixing problems than celebrating successes.

Just last week, I won this competition, yet my happiness and gratitude for that success faded in a few short days. I felt validated, seen, in a way I’d never felt before. Which was strange, since my family supported me from the start. It was the validation of strangers that I celebrated, rather than the people who know me.

With the limited attention my works have received since, I find myself craving that validation again. It wasn’t enough, my ego whispers. I don’t think that I’ll listen to it any more. But it does give me a little idea.

7. You.

Thank you, my readers, and the judges of this competition, who deemed my previous work worthy of recognition. I hope to continue to entertain you in the future, and to one day entertain- and, perhaps, to inspire -many others around the world.

I am grateful for your attention, and for your enjoyment.

Thank you all.