I’ve had one of those weeks. You know the kind: my laptop went on the fritz, my car overheated, I was stuck in a torrential downpour without an umbrella, I caught the flu. There’s that old, familiar saying: when it rains, it pours. And it’s been pouring buckets here in Vancouver.
After consecutive days of misfortune, I spent yesterday chopping, baking and decorating for that biggest of American feasts, Thanksgiving. Worried that my bad luck would result in a charred and inedible turkey, I basted it incessantly. I made whiskey blondies, just in case—sorrows are best drowned in boozy confections. And then evening arrived, and with it, perfectly edible turkey and good friends.  As we sat down to dinner, I looked around at the familiar, cheery faces, the plates loaded with food, the wine and flowers and string lights, and it struck me: we need holidays like this to remind us of how damn lucky we are.

A broken car is not a disaster. A hurricane is. Major illness strikes like a thunderbolt, the impact deafening. The flu is quiet and temporary.
How precious are the days when everything is just…okay. When the worst thing that happens is a forty minute walk home in the freezing rain, to a warm house and a bath and a whole lot of good fortune.
I’m grateful for everything that is good, and I’m beholden to everything that is not. It reminds me to hold those indelible moments (the glow of string lights on the face of a happy friend) tight, tightly, tighter still.