If you’re wondering if you are the you I I mean, the answer is yes.
You are the shy one. The nerd. The writer. The florist. You are the book pimp. the games designer. The immigrant. The hobby farmer. The movie buff. You are living the health journey. The dating game. This newly discovered world of hired companions. You just turned thirty. Forty. Fifty. You hike. You search. You run. You sail. You raft. You write.
You have found, in my presence, joy. Pleasure. Meaning. Confidence. Inspiration. Collaboration. An invitation.
I have found, in yours, also joy. Also pleasure. Different meaning. More confidence. Inspiration. Awe. Fear. Confusion. Helplessness. Irritation. Astonishment. Disappointment. Love. Gratitude.
And, inevitably, repeatedly: the reignition of joy.
Every year, today, I give thanks. And every year, I feel it more. As I learn and grow, adapt and change, I return over and over to the truth, the inevitable conclusion, that I am lucky as God damned fuck.
Somehow, at the end of twisting Corridor of un-unmakeable choices, you are here, with me, and, somehow, by some unfathomable fate, it is good. Still. Somehow.
And for that I give thanks on a day that, for many, is not a day of gratitude. I thank you for your part in making it good for me.