A few nights ago, I began my annual tradition of locking myself in my bedroom, digging to the back of the closet, and pulling out a few bags of presents that I tucked away for friends and family over the year. These bags are a walk along my memories…a summer craft show, a cute little shop tucked on a side street in Philadelphia, or something I made especially for someone. A pile of bags and boxes of presents, collected and waiting to be gifted, I pull them out onto my bedroom floor. When I unwrap the item, sometimes I know or remember the intended recipient immediately, and sometimes I figure it out as I go.

I have also begun some baking. I cherish the time and process of baking. As always, I don’t make anything fancy or overly decorated, just a few family recipes we enjoy only once a year. Pizzelles, cranberry biscotti, and crisplles are welcome treats. The taste has been the same since my childhood, and the comfort is warm and snuggly. Truly, I can’t think of a better nightcap than a pizzelle and a warm cup of tea.

This year though, as I have been organizing my treasures and filling my cookie tins, I feel tired. This past year has been filled with challenge. We are collectively traumatized, exhausted, and often unsure of what is coming next. I find it difficult to plan because a small sense of uncertainty hangs over everything. Extra time and energy is needed as we protect, safeguard, and consider others in our lives in ways we never had to before. And yet, in this confusion and darkness, I see small points of light. A new hobby, a new job, or a new friendship. A new major life event, or the small movement forward of a child running around on the playground with her friends. The dichotomy of this exhaustion and joy is sometimes so hard to understand. I am confused and hopeful at the same time.

I take comfort in something that exists outside of this dichotomy: gratitude. I am reminding myself that gratitude exists beyond suffering and joy. True, I can’t wait for the challenges and difficulties to pass to appreciate the gifts in our lives. But this year, I will try to see the presents, the cookies, the people, and the gatherings as the gifts I always have—as treasures that provide delight and warmth. But gratitude is a state of fulfillment unto itself.

Gratitude reminds me to pause and look around, deeply look around, to see that the smallest gifts are the most meaningful.

Relish the hug from a friend you have not seen in two years, taste the sweet goodness of a treat, gaze over the candles and lights and breathe in the scene. Constant joy is not my wish. I simply want to be present and appreciate the gift of each moment. Whether life is a bit more tiring or a bit more painful, it still goes on, and there is a rightness to that, a righteousness even, and I feel gratitude to be able to experience this life even during these long dark days of the year.

These presents on the floor around me are a sign of normalcy and planning for the future, but they are also a sign of ideas forgotten and order lost, or at least postponed. In appreciating the holidays this December, I must be able to accept this duality and find grace in that. Baking flour on my face and clothes. Wrapping tape on my fingers. Bigger problems too. Feeling gratitude takes a reminder or two, but the more I do it, the easier it is to be surrounded by it.