"Attention is the doorway to gratitude."

Those words stopped me cold on Sunday morning. But then I started turning them over and over.

Attention. Sometimes, upon reflection, I realize I have gone through the whole day with very little attention.

My mother was attentive - to beauty, especially.

She noticed the nuances of the seasons - geese flying north or south, yellow-green of new willows, golden Norway maples, the snow-scented air, greening meadows.

As we drove she pointed out daffodils by stone walls, sunsets, creamy clouds in blue skies, shadows dancing across stretches of patchwork fields. Small, bountiful things.

But she was also attentive to feelings. She knew the smallest child at church by name, and visited elderly friends in retirement homes on sunny days, sweltering in their over-heated rooms. She laughed, cried, joked, cajoled, comforted with family, friends and neighbors.

She saw life between the cracks.

Thankfully, I remember.