By Tom Robotham

Several years ago, I published a list of people, places and things for which I was thankful. A number of people later told me that it inspired them to draw up their own lists. A local high school teacher even had her class do it as an assignment, and I ended up publishing their lists a few weeks after the holidays.

Creating such circles of gratitude seems to me to be a worthwhile enterprise.

As I reflect on that original list, I’m struck by the fact that most of the items still resonate with me, although my new list will have some notable additions. If this list seems overly familiar to many of you, I apologize. But it seems to me that there’s great value in revisiting, time and again, the things for which we feel gratitude because they’re all too easily taken for granted.

I’m thankful first and foremost for my kids, my mom and sister, and my wonderfully supportive and endlessly fascinating circle of friends. That’s a given for most of us; the list focuses on everything else that I can think of.

So here goes:

The opportunity to write. Rainer Maria Rilke once asked a young friend whether he would have to die if he were forbidden to write. For me, the answer is an unequivocal yes.

Books. I cannot begin to put a value on the solace, inspiration and enlightenment that I’ve drawn from my books over the years. I own a couple of thousand, and each day they comfort me, whether I’m reading them or just feeling warmed by their presence on my bookshelves.

Music. Glenn Gould’s recording of the Goldberg Variations was among the items on my original list. It remains the single most important piece of music in my life. But I’m thankful that my mother—a music teacher—instilled in me a love of all kinds of music: American standards; classical orchestral and chamber music; straightahead jazz, from Louis Armstrong to Jacky Terrasson, classic and contemporary folk, from Pete Seeger to Dar Williams, among others. I’m also thankful for my modest ability to play guitar and sing—and for my gorgeous Breedlove guitar.

My teachers and mentors: Chief among them are my father; Nat Hentoff, my journalistic role model for more than 30 years; Bill Odom, my martial arts instructor; Lewis McGehee, my guitar teacher; David Mowry, my philosophy teacher when I was an undergrad, Joan Richardson, a brilliant professor of English at the City University of New York Graduate Center, and Bob Richardson (no relation to Joan), author of Emerson: The Mind on Fire. And Emerson, of course—my intellectual and spiritual guiding light.

My students: I know at least one ODU professor who has told friends that his students are stupid. This is not only an egregious violation of professional ethics; it’s inaccurate. In my experience, most of them are love learning; if they are ill-prepared it’s because of people like the aforementioned “teacher” who have written these kids off. I’m grateful for the opportunity to at least try to awaken them to the glories of literature and culture.

The Appalachian Mountains, from New York to Virginia: “In the woods,” Emerson wrote, “a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child.” At the age of 52, this still rings true.

Ocracoke. As I wrote earlier this year, this island remains an essential sanctuary for thousands of other people who have discovered its charms. Perhaps next year, you can get to know it as well.

The Muse Writers Center. Thanks to Michael Khandelwal and Lisa Hartz, this little gem of an organization has grown from an itinerant group offering a few workshops a year to a vital institution that has helped hundreds of local writers develop their craft. What’s more, it’s headquartered in a lovely space in West Ghent, a block from my apartment!

Community. In his book The Great Good Place, Ray Oldenburg wrote of the importance of what he called “the third place”—that is, the collection of community spaces outside of home and work that give residents of a particular city or town an opportunity to come together in meaningful ways. For me, those places include The Taphouse, Elliot’s Fairgrounds, The Boot, Borjo, and the ODU campus.

Myths and Rituals. On my Facebook page, I call myself a Budeo-Christian. It’s partly tongue-in-cheek, but largely serious. Certain stories from the great religions bring me both peace and insight—especially, the story of Jesus of Nazareth, highlighted for me, not in his crucifixion or resurrection but in his hour of despair in the Garden of Gethsemane, when he asks God to let him off the hook, as it were, but in the end says, “thy will be done.” When I go to church, kneel at the altar rail and take the cup of wine, it is as if I am right there with him. Each of us, it seems to me, need such rituals; the particular tradition doesn’t matter—we just need something to remind us the miracle of creation and of our own particular destiny within it.

Happy Thanksgiving.