Yesterday, I walked.

Ta.

I’d been sick for days. All of my organs and joints throbbed in pain, waves of nausea kept me still, a headache bloomed and bloomed and bloomed. In my misery, I imagined I would never recover.

Ta.

Yesterday, I sang.

Ta.

Today, I heard a Mary Oliver poem read aloud. I remembered yesterday’s walk.

Ta.

Yesterday, I listened.

Today, I searched for a word to explain/label my experience. I found Ta. Etymology of Ta: 1772, "natural infantile sound of gratitude"

Ta.

Here is Mary Oliver’s poem:

I lounge on the grass, that’s all. So
simple. Then I lie back until I am
inside the cloud that is just above me
but very high, and shaped like a fish.
Or, perhaps not. Then I enter the place
of not-thinking, not-remembering, not-
wanting. When the blue jay cries out his
riddle, in his carping voice, I return.
But I go back, the threshold is always
near. Over and back, over and back. Then
I rise. Maybe I rub my face as though I
have been asleep. But I have not been
asleep. I have been, as I say, inside
the cloud, or, perhaps, the lily floating
on the water. Then I go back to town,
to my own house, my own life, which has
now become brighter and simpler, some-
where I have never been before.

—Mary Oliver

Ta.