The Art of Gratitude

I once heard a story of someone who got sober,

and they felt that they didn’t deserve to be a writer anymore,

because the sadness that fueled their creativity was gone.

I stared in complete empathy because I, too, often feel that I cannot write without the accompaniment of sadness and melancholy.

That I need to be dragging myself along asphalt with my heart exposed to be able to write something that’s halfway worth reading.

But the longer I continue my journey into sobriety and healing,

the more I realize that I am the artist,

and the present moment is the art.

Lying on a Navajo blanket in late September with those who I’ve chosen as my family,

gazing at the stars and wondering if the constellations could ever fall to the earth, while simultaneously being filled with so much gratitude that I can’t help but let tears fall from my eyes.

is art.

Falling in love with you, the unprecedented,

as you trace with your finger the features of my face,

as we both awake in the wee hours of the morning,

feeling the warmth and life emanating from you,

and smelling of last night’s incense.

Is art.

Looking at the woman I’ve become in the mirror.

Every morning, I look at her naked and completely natural before the rest of the world sees her.

Scars on her arms and faded purple lines around her hips.

And I have the strength to tell her that she is the most beautiful and gorgeous woman in the world.

That I love her.

And that is art.

Art does not constitute sadness.

And sadness does not constitute art.

Every emotion is worth the words painting on the page.

There is a beautiful life worth living after allowing yourself to receive the fruits of your labor.

Stars will burn out,

but the stars in their place burn much brighter.