I have all the water I need, and it’s basically free.
My socks are wool, and my feet are warm.
I have socks.
I have many socks.
I live in America in 2016. Not Siberia in 1953. Or Polynesia in 1497. Or Mesopotamia in 321 BC. My basic rights are assured, I have access to mind-blowing healthcare (if I get cancer they will cut me open and take it out), and there is virtually no chance that a maurading band of raiders will pillage my home and murder me as I write this.
I can go to a big building down the street and trade dollars (one of the safest currencies in history) for food. All kinds of food, and more of it than I could ever eat.
Here in rural Missouri, I expect bananas. And I get them.
Because I have a job, I have enough dollars for food. And I even have some left over for coffee. And beer.
Speaking of my job: I love it. It’s stable and engaging, and my colleagues are exemplary. I don’t have to chase down payment at the end of the month. I don’t even have to go pick it up somewhere, because it magically appears in my bank account.
I have a car.
In a car accident, the hood of my car would crumple up instead of shooting through the windshield toward my neck like a horizontal guillotine.
My taxes pay for roads, so I don’t have to drive my non-guillotine car in the mud.
I love my family, and I have an incredible spouse.
I have time to make music, write, and generally focus on self-actualization instead of desperately seeking food, water, safety and shelter for my family.
Life is pretty incredible, and I feel a whole lot better about it having taken some time for gratitude this morning.