Gratitude

While walking Harley the Dog this morning it occurred to me that my 60th birthday is right around the corner — and that all signs point to my spending that day alone. It made me quite blue to think that no one was throwing me a party or baking me a cake. I had planned my upcoming snowbird escape so, like last year, I would arrive on my birthday. But I will arrive alone; if I want there to be chocolate cake and champagne upon for this significant day I shall have to arrange for that myself.

I did not expect to be quite so single at this significant age. Three years and one remarkable rebound fling after my divorce I appear to be quite the spinster. It is me and my grumpy anti-social dog most of the time. I mess around in my garden, prepare complicated food with my best friend, swim laps and go to exercise classes at the YMCA. That routine is occasionally interrupted by the freelance writing work I have taken up since quitting my day job. A few days a week I struggle with the essay collection I am trying to compile; that work is going slowly and is beset by the usual writer’s trials of imposter syndrome and the fact that nope, I don’t have an agent so even if I finish this thing, I have to do all the work to get it into the world.

There I was, wandering the neighborhood feeling a bit sorry for myself when I thought, “Maybe let’s not do this. Maybe let’s consider how much you have weathered recently, and yet here you are, walking the dog on this brightening fall morning.”

Today is Harley the Dog’s gotcha day. Two friends came with me to the shelter to pick him up on this day in 2015. I wasn’t sure I would keep him, I just wanted to bring him home over the weekend to see what it felt like to have a dog around. He was a mess. He was terrified of everything, he’d been chewing on his paws, he had fleas, his eyes were dull and colorless, his coat was rough. I gave him a bath and he fell asleep in my lap.

Things had started to fall apart for me about a year before. My now ex-husband decided he wanted to go back to his job in Austria. My stepfather was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The US took a hard turn to the right with the election of that fucking guy. I was diagnosed with severe depression. I filed for divorce. COVID landed. My aunt died. My freelance markets dried up. I signed divorce papers. My mom’s health declined and then she died. It was a lot.

But I had a dog who got me out of bed on days when nothing else could. I had friends who showered me with all kinds of gifts when I shared my mental health struggles. When I stopped traveling so much, people came to see me. During peak COVID, one friend who would stay for two-week stints breaking my isolation and cooking excellent meals in my kitchen. A long-term work friend hooked me up with an excellent gig; that turned into a staff position with benefits at a time when none of my editors were working, not to mention assigning work out. I’ve finally done things I’d wanted to do to my house but had been putting off. I published my memoir and then, an internet friend taught me how to write screenplays and we bagged a bunch of awards for the screenplay we wrote based on my book. I used what she taught me and wrote a short that also won some awards and then, I got to see it get made into a film by an Emmy award-winning team. We funded it in no time because friends and family said “Shut up and take my money,” and made it happen.

I inventoried all this in my head while my dog had his nose stuck into a patch of ivy. There’s a lot of research around how taking a minute to feel grateful for what you’ve got is good for you in real ways. It lowers your blood pressure and calms that flight or flight adrenaline hit you get when you’re freaking out about how it looks like you might be spending your 60th birthday alone. An animal companion can also be medicine. When I was in treatment for depression, I was often asked what I was doing for exercise. When I said that if nothing else, I walked my dog every day I was met with a sincere “Oh, good. VERY good.”

For some time I have been pondering the idea of having a house rewarming party. The house is different now that it’s just me here. It’s been a while since I’ve thrown the doors open, put the waffle iron on, and invited everyone to drop in and say hi. I don’t have to have my celebration glued to a specific date on the calendar, I can do it when the sun is high in the sky come evening. Summer solstice is good time for a party and there’s a park just ten minutes walk from my house where there’s a spectacular view of the sunset. It can be my half-birthday, I will still be 60, after all.

I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself. I am spending my birthday alone because I will be in a gorgeous place of my choosing. My home will be cared for by my screenwriting partner. It’s likely friends will come to visit me at my winter escape just as they did when I spent last winter away. I won’t have a human travel companion, but Harley the Dog will be with me. While he can’t drive, he is a superior road tripper, calm in the car and snoozing easily in roadside hotel rooms. And I sleep better for his company.

Thanksgiving can be fraught, dining table politics and historical context will fuck you up every time. It’s important to say no to things that are harmful or just plain wrong. Also, no matter how you want to interpret where the holiday came from, it’s okay to take a minute, be super literal about the name, and just give thanks.

Because of his timing, my gratitude at this time of year starts with the arrival of a little brown and white dog, extends to the friends who helped me bring him home and radiates outward from there.

Thank you for helping me through so many difficult things and also, for being part of what makes my life good.