To Say Nothing But Thank You by Jeanne Lohmann

All day I try to say nothing but thank you,
breathe the syllables in and out with every step I
take through the rooms of my house and outside into
a profusion of shaggy-headed dandelions in the garden
where the tulips’ black stamens shake in their crimson cups.
 
I am saying thank you, yes, to this burgeoning spring
and to the cold wind of its changes. Gratitude comes easy
after a hot shower, when my loosened muscles work,
when eyes and mind begin to clear and even unruly
hair combs into place.
 
Dialogue with the invisible can go on every minute,
and with surprising gaiety I am saying thank you as I
remember who I am, a woman learning to praise
something as small as dandelion petals floating on the
steaming surface of this bowl of vegetable soup,
my happy, savoring tongue.

To Say Nothing But Thank You

One can never hear those words too often. Lohmann is breathing thank you in and out with every step, a worthy practice whether inside your home or outside. She sounds equally grateful for the lowly shaggy-headed dandelions and for the tulips whose black stamens shake in their crimson cups.

She is saying thank you to this burgeoning spring, this slow-to-arrive season with the cold wind of its changes. There is easy gratitude for the hot shower, when eyes and mind begin to clear, when we can more plainly see all that surrounds us. Though of course, there are times when it is easy to forget to say thank you too.

I like what she calls dialogue with the invisible, which is also my experience of paying attention with gratitude, thanks for what is, just as it is. She is a woman learning to praise even, or especially, the smallest details - yellow petals of dandelions floating on the surface of her hot vegetable soup, the visual effect, her happy,savoring tongue.

Be it dandelions, hot water, a good soup, the last parking spot, there are always opportunities to say thank you, even if we say nothing else, even if we just breathe the thought.

8 thoughts on “To Say Nothing But Thank You by Jeanne Lohmann

  1. I just came in from watering the garden on a day cool now that promises to be hot by noon – The pink phlox, the white faced daisies, the little zinnias, the spread of milkweed for the Monarchs that come in August on their way south. That baking kind of hot that leaves the ground hard and cracked. Deep summer in Missouri. Thank you for reminding me to say Thank You for the reminder to let my heart settle on these wild things that don’t listen to the human news of things out of our control, who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. They sing sunshine, they sing water. The grass is cool under my bare feet.

    Liked by 2 people

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