On workday mornings, my radio eases on to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. What a glorious way to begin the day as his familiar voice rambles huskily through famous birthdays, not only of writers, but people who have made a difference in science, music, politics - and every area of the arts. Today his poem was called "Lucky" and the last line was "as if you had/stacked up bricks/at random/ and built by mistake/ a lucky star."
And that's the way I feel, lucky.
The worst ills known to mankind could descend on me in the next hour, but I would have to acknowledge that I've had a lifetime of generosity - of birth, health, family, friends, work, home environments - just as if I were stacking the bricks at random and building a lucky star.
How can I not give thanks?
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