November 27, 2009

Dear God,

Technically, Thanksgiving ended for the Midwest about three hours ago, but, I spent those three hours being harassed by vending machines, scraping ice off of a car, driving home, and cleaning up a hideous amount of canine waste products, and was therefore unable to reflect upon my thankfulness until now.  I did, however, manage to do a great deal of complaining–probably enough to merit its own holiday.  However, I would feel incomplete if I did not take such an opportunity, so I would like to do that now.

I’m not going to order this by priority, so first of all, I would like to thank you for cats.  Never before have I seen an animal be so deliberately obnoxious as Zoey, save perhaps for the squirrels that throw acorns at people from the safety of the treetops.  Thanks for them, too.  Thank you, also, for Don McLean’s “On the Amazon”, Colin Meloy’s “The Bandit Queen”, and for Kimya Dawson, in general, for teaching me that music does not always have to be serious.  On that note, thank you for Beret-wearing Existential man, and Randall Munroe for thinking him up.

I would also like to express my appreciation, amusement, and general slack-jawed awe-strickenness at your handywork in setting up the Earth’s orbit to be just the right balance of variables so that our water molecules would bounce constantly between states, which would, in turn, have them, not only forming a great deal of our ecosystems, but also floating around in the sky, then suddenly falling out of it.  Quite frankly, if this were a planet in a science fiction novel, The Water Cycle would surpass my willing suspension of disbelief.  On that note, we had some fog at school the other day, and I feel like it was just too darn thick to be realistic.  But thanks for making sure that reality stays unrealistic, just to keep us from getting too level-headed.

Thank you for 3/4 time.

I also appreciate the night time.  I would guess, rather astutely (just like anything else I think or say), that you put some sort of spell over it, or a perfume of sorts, that, when inhaled, causes us to become so silly that we laugh at all sorts of things, and finally let our guards down enough to open our hearts to one another.  Thank you for the majestic stillness of the nocturnal air, as well as its mystery and wonder.  I suppose that’s another thing I should be grateful for about cats: they don’t mind getting up and hanging out with me in the middle of the night.  It’s nice to have that kind of company.

Thank you for that paradox which we call Love; the bargain in which we gain through the gains of others, and they through ours.  Somehow you managed to code a blatant infinite-loop error into the Universe without causing it to crash–maybe that is why we are still going.

As much as sometimes I do not appreciate it, thank you, and this Love, for every time it viciously massacres its way through our bubble-wrap worlds and reminds us that so many of our loved ones are suffering horribly, that so many of our brothers and sisters had barely anything to eat today, while we feasted on all sorts of wonderful foods.  It’s painful contrast, God; I won’t lie to you, but I appreciate it ever so much, because that is Love and I could ask for nothing more.

Thank you also for the dream of your Kingdom, which takes these painful realizations and uses them to set us into motion, giving us the hope we need to survive such truth without being drowned in discouragement, because, with you, we can help bring the beauty of your Kingdom into Earth, and truly live out that Love.

I have a question.  Do plants ever get bored, not being able to move and all?  I sure hope not, but either way I appreciate them, especially seeing how much of my survival depends on them.  But I also think that they are quite lovely, like little cities built up all around us.  I used to watch the bugs fly around, like little spaceships in some crazy, science-fiction metropolis, taking off from the launch pad on one flower-building and soaring neatly onto another (or clumsily, in the case of june-bugs).

Thank you also for my ridiculously generous and loving family who not only understood (mostly) when I ditched them to visit a friend over Thanksgiving, but left me with a huge container full of my favorite food in all of my extremely limited frame of past experiences, Vegetarian Divine Runzas.

Thank you for limericks, God, for showing us that poetry doesn’t always have to be serious, either (though, really, limerick is a very rigid form of poetry).  The same goes for made-up words.

It may be materialistic of me, but thank you for dice, harmonicas, cards, writing utensils, and small pads of paper.  There are so many things that pack almost infinite entertainment value into a tiny object, and I appreciate them immensely.

And thank you so much for music.  Really, I don’t understand what is so appealing about creating patterns in sound vibrations, and layering the waves to fit together neatly (or just a bit off of neatly), but, for whatever reason, it seems to be the only way that I allow certain parts of my soul to escape their tangible anchors.

Finally, thank you for the all things I don’t understand.  It is wonderful to be so much smaller than the Universe.  Whenever Christmas comes around, I always find myself imagining what it would be like to be the size of an ornament, to get to climb around through the tree.  I would be surrounded by the giant green needles and outstretched bark branches.  I would visit the lights and find them to be giant, illuminating the entire area around me in red, yellow, blue, or green.  The tree would be my fortress, my city, my own little world of adventure.

Well, God, I am smaller than ever, and the Universe is my Christmas tree.  Please don’t let me take it for anything less, because, really, it is so much more wonderful even than that.

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