I stopped keeping a gratitude journal.

Nearly every morning for ten years I had committed myself to a ritual of journaling what I was most grateful for. I would pour myself a cup of hot lemon water, stream some ambient calming music over my Bluetooth speaker, pull out my Virtues Project Cards and my favourite pen (whose singular job was to be the conduit of my musings), and get down to the serious business of identifying the specifics of my gratitude from the day before.  

My staid ritual also included naming my intentions for the day - how I wanted to BE (sometimes for myself, but mainly for everyone else in my life), and how I most wanted to FEEL throughout the day. Once I had pulled my Virtues Project card and deliberated on the profound universal attribute that I as a responsible, empathic human citizen needed to put forth into my day, and chanted my self-appointed mantra "I am enough...I have enough...It is enough...", my ritual was complete. 

This ritual was my non-negotiable. If I was interrupted by my ex, who would often wander absent-mindedly into my sacred space with transactional questions and commentary about the day, I would become agitated. The spell had been broken. His disruption was an invasion of the one moment I carved out to make sure I was on track for my daily spiritual gold star. 

But the problem did not lie in his disruption. 

The problem lay in my own deception.

I was not enough.
I did not have enough.
It was not enough.  

I orchestrated and committed to my daily gratitude ritual because I needed to convince myself every day that everything was just fine.  

I was fine with our communication tinged often with a low-grade hostility.
I was fine with our arguments always being about the same thing, agreeing on the same solutions, and then predictably returning to the same pattern.
I was fine with the disparity in our income that seemed always to be source of derision for him, and a source of scarcity for me.
I was fine with the shadow of disdain that crossed his face when telling others that I was on yet another yoga teacher training course that he paid for.
I was fine with feeling like he was never really on my side, especially with his family.
I was fine with watching the stack of couples self-help books on his nightstand grow taller and more dusty, despite my enthusiastic urgings that he take a quick peek, in his spare time, if he felt so inclined.
I was fine with never really being seen, or touched, or held until he needed his own needs met. 

My gratitude ritual was an exercise in coercing myself to be quiet and be grateful for what I had, so that I could bypass the constant, subdued hum that whispered..."but what if?"

* * *

And then "What If" sauntered suddenly and unexpectedly into my life, carrying an armload of marble tiles that would serve as the centrepieces for each table at the wedding of our respective best friends. With a single look, I knew that enough would not cut it anymore.  

I realized that I wanted more.  

I wanted more looks that declared "you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." I wanted more curiosity. More revelations like “I have been searching for you my whole life.” More conversation. More tenderness. More honesty. More vulnerability. More disclosure. More investment. More wonder. More recognition that our pasts formed us but did not rule us.  

More gratitude. 

Not for what I ought to be grateful for, but for a love in which I am seen and cherished. A love in which - through his eyes - I am more than enough. An Untamed love like Glennon Doyle has described in aching accuracy: “Now that I know this kind of love exists, I can’t pretend it doesn’t anymore.”

In the past year I have released my ritual of writing my gratitude every morning. Not because I have taken for granted that which I am grateful for, but because every moment of every day I am immersed in gratitude.  

My sacred morning ritual has become redefined by gestures of love - for myself, for us, and for the life we have created together. I wake up every morning entangled in Curt's arms. I snuggle my sweet pups - catching Hugo in his insatiable morning tear around the house in search of his favourite toy, and lifting Libby, still drowsy, into my arms and placing her gently on the bed as I nuzzle her little belly. I put the kettle on for my hot lemon water (yes, that stuck), and make Curt's coffee in his to-go mug while he readies himself for work. We take our vitamins together, and we sneak in a few more kisses and at least one good belly laugh before he dashes out the door.  

As the sun rises, I gaze wondrously through our south-facing window, bearing witness to the magnificent metamorphosis of colour that plays against the gnarly silhouette of Garry oaks that surround our cozy home. I whisper a silent prayer of gratitude for the abundance of blessings that surround me.