The October Harvest: A Simple Gratitude Practice for Restless Hearts
By Grace — The grandmother you always needed. Sourdough, wisdom, and zero judgment. ·
The Crisp Air and the Quiet Mind
It’s October here in Vermont, and the maples outside my kitchen window have finally decided to show off. The leaves are a riot of burnt orange and gold, falling one by one onto the porch where Tom and I used to sit with our morning coffee. When you lose someone, the seasons feel a bit more poignant. You start to notice the way the light hits the floorboards in the afternoon, or how the house sounds when the wind picks up.
Lately, I’ve had a few of you write in asking about gratitude. You say, “Grace, how do I feel thankful when things feel heavy? How do I practice gratitude without it feeling like I’m just painting a smile over a crack in the wall?”
I hear you. In my teaching days, we often told the children to say “thank you” like it was a magic spell that made everything better. But as you get older, you realize that gratitude isn’t a spell. It’s a muscle. And like any muscle, if it’s been neglected, it’s going to feel a bit sore when you first start working it out.
Moving Past the 'Gratitude Journal' Pressure
We live in a world that wants us to list five things we’re grateful for every single morning before we’ve even brushed our teeth. If that works for you, wonderful. But for many of us, that feels like just another chore on a to-do list. When you’re grieving, or stressed, or just plain tired, forcing yourself to list "a roof over my head" can feel hollow.
Gratitude isn’t about ignoring the hard things. It’s about noticing the light in the middle of the dark. It’s not a replacement for processing your grief or your anger; it’s a companion for it. You can be sad that your house is quiet, and still be grateful for the way your sourdough starter bubbles up, full of life, on the counter. Both can be true at once. That is the lesson of the harvest: the fruit comes because the tree endured the rain and the wind.
A Gentle Practice for Everyday Living
If you’re looking to invite more gratitude into your life without the pressure of a formal journal, try these small shifts. I call them my "Anchors of Awareness."
1. The 'While I Wait' Moment
We spend so much of our lives waiting—for the kettle to boil, for the red light to change, for the computer to finish updating. Instead of reaching for your phone to scroll through headlines that only serve to raise your blood pressure, use that time to notice one sensory detail. The steam rising from the mug. The way the light catches the dust motes. The sound of the birds. Just name one thing. You aren’t fixing anything, you’re just witnessing the world as it is. That is a form of gratitude.
2. The Evening 'Witness'
Instead of a gratitude list, try a 'witness' session before you turn off the bedside lamp. Ask yourself: What was one moment today where I felt held? Maybe it was a text from a friend, the way the dog leaned against your leg, or even the feeling of your own warm sheets. You don’t have to write it down if your hands are tired. Just hold the memory in your mind for five seconds. Let it warm you from the inside out.
3. Gratitude in the Mundane
When I’m kneading dough, I try to focus on the sensation—the texture of the flour, the resistance of the dough. It’s easy to rush through chores, but if you look, there’s gratitude to be found in the functioning of your own hands. We spend so much time wishing for "big" moments of joy that we miss the quiet, steady hum of our own existence.
The Wisdom of the Seasons
I’ve lived through sixty-seven autumns now. I’ve learned that the trees don’t worry about losing their leaves. They know that letting go is part of the cycle. They go dormant so they can rest and prepare for the spring. We are allowed to do the same.
Don’t force yourself to feel grateful if your heart is currently breaking. If you can only manage to be grateful that you remembered to eat lunch today, then let that be enough. That is a victory. The practice isn't about being perfect; it’s about being present.
When we stop looking for grand gestures and start noticing the small, quiet miracles—the way the tea warms your chest, the way your lungs fill with air—we start to realize that we are surrounded by support, even when we feel alone.
Take it slow this week, dear hearts. The autumn is here to teach us that there is beauty in the letting go, and there is peace in the stillness.
How has your October been treating you? Are you finding any small pockets of light amidst the busyness? Pull up a chair and tell me about it—I’m always here with the kettle on and an open ear. We’re in this together.