In the United States, we have this very specific time to give thanks. 
Thanksgiving, of course, with its bounty and harvest themes. 
But what about the rest of the year? 
Should I simply walk underneath dogwood fruit without a breath of thanks? 
When I see a cascading waterfall of grass, would it be silly to stop and thank its Creator? 
Every shadow on a leaf, 
every curl of a flower, 
every color permeating through a bush is worthy of thanksgiving. 
Shapes that delight and tickle my fancy — snakes and
round, hard candies and
angel wings and
ruffled petticoats all deserve my gratefulness.
Every day.
Any time of year.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
January: I’m grateful for the promise of a fresh, new beginning.
February: That I can still clown around after failing to complete a single New Year’s resolution.
March: I’m thankful my husband makes me a loving breakfast every morning.
April: I’m grateful for the aesthetics and deliciousness of food, plus for pretty plates on which to serve it!
God, thank You for the gift of wonder. 
Thank You for holding tightly to my heart; for never letting go.
Before I wind my way down a staircase of driftwood, a sparkling drop of dew catches my eye. Its tension creates an egg shape as it rests within a nasturtium-leaf nest. I am thankful for circular connection: dew, fog, cloud, rain, ocean.
I climb down the stairs to the beach and see another leaf. This one is as red as the nasturtium was green. Its stem has made a trail in the sand, moved by wind. Its path parallels a ribbon of flora from the sea. Can that which comes from the land and that which comes from the sea—so different—become traveling companions?
A bouquet of pink lace and olive twine presents itself arranged as beautifully as the most meticulous still life. God, when my life seems to be a tangled mess, remind me to take a step back to recognize the exquisite design.
Flat white seaweed conjures the image of a spine. God, give me the courage, the backbone, to do what’s right. Deep inside, I always know.
Kelp and seaweed join forces to create blossoming beach gardens. A bit abstract, but that’s where imagination comes in. I am grateful for creative minds that see beyond what eyes perceive.
A dachshund seaweed? Floppy ears, a long “body” and paddle-like paws scurry along the sand. Thank you, God, for just plain fun.
A rust and ochre leaf is laid out just above the surf line, accented with bits of ocean debris. The feeling is playful, like a 
A few strides over, a pile of purple seaweed has been tossed onto the shore. The mass is inches from being reclaimed by the sea. Translucent “arms” reach out in every direction—does it yearn to be reunited with the source from whence it came? Do I?
I’ve reached the edge of the small swath of beach and turn around to see a broken leaf that resembles a headstone. Sand caught in its veins creates a tree shape. Symbols of life and death, endings and beginnings. Thank you, God, for every ending that is a new beginning. Amen.
I am thankful for: Living on the edge of the western United States. The very end.
Feathers in the sand.
Dew-kissed dahlias.
Making art on a regular basis like this Little Soul entitled There Was a Tree.
Coy koi.
Potted gazanias on our back porch.
A husband who likes to hike.
Our dog Remy, especially when he’s sweetly sleeping.
Fire hydrants.
Helicopter seed begonias.
Succulent geckos.
And headland flowers that grow by the edge of the sea.
The adventure began as many do: piled into a car with others, wondering what we might see. Candelabra trees came first, their menorah-like limbs reaching out, then up. Shafts of sunlight pierced their fringed canopy.
Back at the trailhead butterflies alighted on purple thistle pompoms.
Moving on to the beach, we came across a flattened car. Some dared to climb on its rusty metal with bare feet. Others, like myself, merely observed.
We broke into smaller groups and ambled along the surf line, watching waves break.
I stopped to take photos: lemons and lures in the gray sand.
A seaweed odalisque reclined on the wet sand, her brown pearl necklace a tasteful ornamentation.
I wandered away to experience some solitude and found a beautiful gull’s wing poignantly separated from its owner—its last flight was heaven bound.
I noticed a tiny crab shell that looked like a heart—with strings attached. I realized my own heartstrings were being pulled to rejoin the others. Comradery and community—where true adventure often begins.
Sometimes I have to pinch myself to believe what I’m seeing is real and not just a dream or part of my wild imagination. Yet I felt the pain of my fingernails digging into my arm as I looked out on an incredibly colorful vista. Ice plants in hues of crimson, lemon, emerald, ochre and lime covered sand dunes that led to a cyan blue ocean. This place still seems unreal, I thought.
Next I came to a giant piece of driftwood, its creature-like legs wrapped in kelp. I let out a little laugh. Farther along, a sea monster—mouth gaping and crammed with sharp, pointy teeth—stared at me through eyeless sockets. Even though it was really a fish head, its presence sent shivers up my spine.
Is that a cave? A shallow opening had formed below a bluff, just big enough to curl up in with a journal and pen—a perfect view of the Pacific.
I caught sight of bright orange in the distance. What in the world was that? Could it be a rock? As I approached, I realized it was a conglomerate of brick and cement—refuse from a building project. Even so, it was a delight to the eye, as was a clump of bright green grass (or was it seaweed?) tossed upon the shore.
My final stop was on a bridge overlooking a snaky creek cutting through the sand. I’m constantly fascinated that this coastal area is an ending point for many rivers, streams and creeks that have traveled miles upon miles to spill into the sea. I have also traveled many miles to be here: my cup runneth over.
Winter on the Mendocino coast is unlike any previous winter I’ve experienced. Blankets of snow are replaced by buckets of rain, and slippery ice by slick mud. Temperatures hover above freezing rather than below, so litter is never swept under the rug of pristine white snowflakes until spring.
A trinity of leaves strewn over the pygmy-poor sand overlap, like family. One is heart-shaped and facing down so that its back veins protrude, forming a miniature tree.
I pass what I presume to be car parts. I am mesmerized by the way four compartments hold water and forest detritus in a rusted engine block as if this were their intended function. The inner workings of a wheel appear to be a clock telling of timelessness.
A pale greenish yellow plastic disc hidden in grass emits a yo-yo-like charm. Even though it is most likely the wheel off a cart, it reminds me how children, when unwrapping presents, often play with the boxes. How they can make dolls out of hollyhock flowers, clothespins or corn husks.
I am offered more presents as I round a bend: a halved pine cone, an axe-chewed bough—its tip an orange flame, a wooden crown fashioned by termites.
My final gifts stand under a small redwood whose needled arms hover as if in blessing. They are fairy-tale mushrooms, otherwise known as amanita muscaria, packaged in brilliant red studded with white. Their graceful gills rise upward to receive their blessing. I, too, have received mine.
Driving snaky Route 1 on an errand, I notice, in my peripheral vision, particularly high waves crashing on a tiny beach. I find a place to pull over and wind down a path where Pudding Creek spills out into the sea. A single swan is swimming there among ducks, as if it is perfectly normal for swans to be set against a backdrop of seaweed and frothing waves. As I look down at my feet, dune grass, lettuce-edged pink seaweed and a blackish pod create a lovely abstract piece of art.
I mosey along and see a swath of ice plants, their flowers bursting forth like pastel suns, petals erupting from the centers in exclamation points. An intricately patterned snail is nestled inside a lavender-pink bloom, finding nourishment and respite there. I understand why.
I’m inside the beach cove now. Tilting my head up, I see a craggy golden rock. It behooves me to look both up and down, for there is glory both above and below. Arms fling up in praise; knees bend to the sand in prayers of supplication and thankfulness.
While close to the ground, I see a broken twig, its buds like hands clawing the sand. An echinoderm is washed up, its lifeless translucent body and thorny arms gently cup the ocean breeze. From what depths did it travel? A fragile, clear jellyfish filled with bubbles rests nearby. Life and death meet dramatically and beautifully on the northern California coast.
Water trickles down from the rock cliffs making a fresh, minuscule stream across the sandy beach. It meanders near a deceased bird whose wings are half buried, yet still graceful. From what heights did it travel? Sea palms, pulled up from the turbulent waters, resemble fantastical flowers. I know that I, too, can be torn from this life at any time. This is why I appreciate the depths and heights—and why I pull over to explore creation without a moment’s hesitation.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 