A few night ago, I decided I would make a list of all that I was thankful for. But when I sat down at the computer, my mind was muddled. Maybe I was tired and the words had gone to sleep. Maybe, at this time of year, it seems that reasons to be Thankful are said over and again. Of course we are filled with gratitude for our friends, our family and the freedom we have as Americans.

But what else? What are the daily, small moments that make us happy to be alive?

At that point in the evening, I didn’t see those moments in front of me, I didn’t feel them, taste them, smell them, hear them. Actually, what made me happy at that moment was the thought of crawling into bed, feeling the pillow under my head and hearing the wind bending the tall lodgepole pines in the National Forest next to my house. I felt my Dallas, my St. Bernard, George, my chocolate lab, climb, groaning at the effort, onto my bed and then wiggle their way into comfortably sharing the space with me.

And then Coal, the black cat bounded along the bookshelf and pounced onto my pillow to cuddle up purring against my shoulder. I was grateful, they were content, we all sighed happily, happy for the company and the warmth.

In the morning I set upon the quest for gratitude, giving myself a time limit, to see how many special moments I could experience in the next couple of hours, figuring once I got to town, there would be plenty of thanks evoking things.

Upon waking, we all struggled to find our legs, but before I got out of bed, I looked out the skylight above me and saw a flock of ravens souring through the grey-blue sky, raucous in their chatter. They would soon light on the branches of trees around my chicken coop, waiting for the breakfast leftovers. They would be joined by blue jays and squirrels. Also waiting. For me.

I creaked out of bed, ready to do chores. The house was warm even though ice crystals clattered against the window. There were times when waking to a warm house was only a wish, a shivering desire, as I tried to reignite the embers in the wood stove. There was a time when I didn’t know if water would flow from the faucet after a teen temperature night. I am so grateful for heat, for water, for the bags of feed that sit in my pantry. Carrying a bucket of beet pulp mixed with equine senior and a bag full of chicken feed, I head out the door, to be greeted by crisp, clean air. I lived in Los Angeles for a while and waking up to smog-filled, ash-littered, traffic-sound polluted, heated air was a norm that drove this mountain girl to jump into her car and head to Angeles Crest mountains to sit by a stream and breathe. Now all I have to do is walk out the door.

I follow my footsteps in the snow to the chicken coop. A teen-aged bunny sits still, thinking I can’t see her until I am a few feet away and she decides to hop to the side of the path where she sits still again. Invisible. I walk past saying good morning. My horse whinnies, the pony kind of snorts, the rooster crows, the hens squawk as they line up inside the coop waiting to be let out. Snow swirls around all of us.

Sometimes in the morning the feeding thing seems like hard, cold work. This morning, as I set my mind on thankfulness, I find that bringing food to the animals in my life is a gift truly worthy of gratitude. Because, whether they know it or not, they express their gratitude with the eagerness of their eating, their eyes watching me as I watch them peck and chew contentedly.

Back in the house, George and Dallas and Coal sit in their well-defined places, patiently, as I fix their food. They know it will come. They trust me. They are gentle and kind to each other and they stick with me no matter how grumpy I am. It is way more than I deserve and I thank God every day that we have all of these wonderful animals to travel with us on our journey through life.

Time to head to town to visit some shops, see what good deals there are. I climb into my Jeep, grateful for the studded snows my lifetime friends gave me when their Jeep died. Being prepared for winter can be a major concern and having good tires is huge.  I don ‘t mind that they are wider than my old tires and have a habit of spraying magnesium chloride mud onto the sides. One day I pulled up to the gas station where a few high riding four-wheel drive trucks and SUVs had just come from an adventure, when the drivers noticed my mud-splattered doors and windows and they looked at me and said, “Hey dude,” and gave me a thumbs up. It must have been my hat and sunglasses that confused the gender.

The Jeep started on the first try. There were many years when the old cars I drove were iffy on a winter morning. It is amazing to have a vehicle that fires up on command. The engine pushes me up the long, steep driveway that has been recently graded, yay, and I head up Magnolia road where I see cars pulled over on the side of the road, their emergency lights blinking. Oh, no. I didn’t want to start the day seeing someone else’s begin badly.

It wasn’t an accident. The cars parked at the Reynolds Ranch Open Space were watching one of nature’s great spectacles. A herd of elk gathered in the grass spiked snow meadow. Young bulls sparring with each other. The clash of their horns painfully loud, the high bugling sound eerie and wild, the herd ignoring the cars, the cameras grabbing their shots. The hair along their spines was silhouetted by rays of sunshine low in the sky.

This is a scene often seen by Magnolia Road residents who are always in awe of these magnificent creatures who stroll through our space. Except it isn’t our space. It is theirs, and they share it with us and show us the strength and endurance they have to prosper with what nature offers.

I leave realizing I am running out of time and that if I want to find more gratefulness in town, I better get going. I turn onto the Peak to Peak highway, hitting the highest point of the switchbacks at the Sundance, where the mountain peaks dance along the horizon, their white tips stabbing the sky, their feet fettered in crevasses packed with snow. The view opens in front of me as I listen to the KOA weather and traffic report, picturing the creeping stream of traffic, bumper to bumper, windshields mucked up with highway-dirty slush; impatience and frustration leaking out of almost closed windows.  I feel this peace, a sense of a soothing absence of what most of the commuters deal with every day on their way to work.

I smile, gratefully.

Time is up. I have barely begun to list all of the things I am thankful for. In just two hours, in one trip to town, which I didn’t even accomplish, I have felt more pleasure in the world around me than I can name. Imagine the list I would have if I arrived in town and met with friends who greeted me, a community who wraps itself around those in need and brings music and light to the dark nights of December.

I am so blessed to live here; I am so grateful that God’s plan for me was a journey to Nederland many, many years ago. Many.

I don’t need a list. I just need to hug my animals, visit with friends, light a fire, drive through mud, stop at a meadow, walk out the door, take a deep breath and really see the gorgeous, giving world around me.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.