Gratitude March 30, 2022

I awoke this morning before dawn and watched the sunrise from my bed as it crept in through the large east-facing window, through the closed blinds. The open, screened window let in the crisp night air of springtime.

My previous winter rental faced north and, since Covid forced me to remain in Arizona through two hot summers, I was grateful for the shade provided for me by the building.

I never considered my morning thoughts on awakening as any sort of ritual, but I was reminded yesterday that many people, whether for religious reasons or as part of a sobriety practice, list  thier gratitudes upon awakening every morning. Some even text or otherwise communicate with another person, to share the day's gratitude list.

I have not yet felt the need for that level of support, but I do feel gratitude for my ability to begin each day recognizing the good in my life.

I feel especially good this morning; my family will attend Father Desbois' lecture next Monday on Holocaust by Bullets and my daughter, son, son-in-law and one grandson will listen to me guide them through the  exhibit before the lecture. Since the beginning of this exhibit, I have been acting as a docent on Sunday afternoons,, sharing the material of this horrific time which occurred in my childhood, when my  parents had no  idea  what was happening to their parents in Europe as we sat, worried and safe in the U.S.

My family has shown no particular interest in WWII, although my parents escaped from Hitler's grasp, three of my grandparents survived very traumatizing times during the war and one grandfather was murdered.There was a smattering of interest as I travelled to Europe  before writing my book, and then  they each read the book, but daily life takes precidence, as it needs to do.

This exhibit of Father Desbois' research into the genocide of the Jewish  people has come to my family in Arizona, to the university my younger grandson attends and from which the older one has been graduated.Perhaps their interest will spur  me on to write the next book, the one about my grandfather who was killed by the Ustasi in Zagreb, Coratia where my older grandson and I travelled in 2019 to bear witness. We stood at Pit number one, into  which his shot body was thrown; we gathered thirty-one stones to place nearby, one from each of his living relatives we could think of, as we stood, tears running down our faces and recited the Kaddish.