Praise and Thanksgiving

Most of us doubt our worth or the value of what we do, and like heat-seeking missiles, we home in on praise, affirmations, and empathy.

Oh, yeah.

It feels so nice to be told we’re doing well, we’re special, we’re understood. Our slip-ups are forgiven. Our intentions are recognized as good even in the face of bad outcomes. Our efforts are applauded, our failures explained away

I had a grandmother who loved me like that.

“Too bad you didn’t turn out to be more like her,” Unkind Voice says in my head.

“Rough night?” I ask with a knowing smile. “Coffee?”

Unkind Voice sits stiffly, clearing her throat. Sipping. Breathing. Trying to accept the day as it is.

I can see the battle playing out in the muscles around her mouth and eyes. They soften and tighten, soften and tighten.

“Stop watching me,” she demands. Then clenches her teeth and adds, “I’m very strong. I’m stronger than most people realize. I’m very, very strong. No one has seen anyone stronger than me.”

I wink across the room to the rising sun, the petunias, the geraniums. I nod to the brown and steady hills and refill her cup. “You are very strong,” I agree. “Tough as nails.”

Then I consider my survival. What can I give away today? What’s something nice I could do? This usually helps.

“You have nothing to give,” Unkind Voice interrupts my internal recalibrations. “Nothing of substance. You’re a self-absorbed ingrate.”

For a split second, she has drained me. The saccharine sweetness of revenge threatens a toxic bloom in my soul. But no.

No.

The soothing voice of Grandmother rescues me. “You’re not perfect, sweetheart,” she reassures me. “But you’re better than this.”

I take heart. With intention, I recenter. This is not easy. In limited light, Grandmother stitches her patchwork quilt made of scraps I remember well. Grandfather gathers eggs and prepares breakfast for the cousins and hired hands.

The fruit is ripening, but the vines still need tending. They’re dry, and the weeds have not given up their greedy ways.

I give Unkind Voice a kiss on the cheek. She pulls back.

“Don’t feel bad,” I murmur. “You gave it your best shot, but I’m not going down.”

She howls and bangs her head on the table as I slip out to the larger world. “We’ll meet again tonight,” I add, leaving her to finish her own vicious meal.

The heat of the day engulfs me. As I tend the waning garden, I offer thanks and praise to all the sources of thanks and praise. I fill baskets and address envelopes to the future.

And for this day, I am replenished.