If you haven’t done it recently, let the rats race without you for five minutes and think about what you have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Here is my short list of things I give thanks for.

That a mouth can hold mashed potato, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy all at the same time, and still taste each.

That God made hills and snow to make them slick, that gravity propels a child-laden sled down those hills, and that such small thrills make the human spirit laugh from toes to nose no matter how old.

That at 51 I am still a kid at heart who recently passed such a hill and wished wistfully for winter.

The sweet relief of sound sleep, which with a growing prostate and older bones I no longer take for granted. When my head hits the pillow these days I now understand what Bill Cosby meant when he said he enjoyed sleep “like a good steak.”

The New York Times and Sundays to read it. I am smarter, wiser, and more thoughtful on Mondays as a result. There is no such thing as a great republic without great newspapers to guard its freedoms and inform its people.

That rare day with no American deaths in Iraq.

That I have a photographer’s eye for details I would otherwise miss in my busy world. That eye focuses through the kaleidoscope of blurred images – the infant happily nuzzling her mother’s neck, the autumn-reddened leaves of a solitary maple amidst its evergreen neighbors, a storm’s remnant raindrop sunlit on a red holly berry, nature’s intricate physics painted in the pattern of frost on my windshield, and so much more.

That I know everyone has a story worth hearing, from the man sweeping up trash in the mall to the teenager from a broken home with dreams for a better life, from the couple married for 56 years to the child with the iPod earpiece cover stuck up her nose. It is my privilege to be included in those stories and more.

That an elderly patient of mine I thought was sure to dwindle away and die in a nursing home after a prolonged and severe illness recently walked back into my office with a smile on his face, meat on his bones, sass on his lips and some more good years to live.

That my patients still intrigue me. They sass me, recover when I thought they were going to die, and do things that leave me scratching my head in wonder.

That my children still intrigue me. They sass me, drive safely over treacherous patches in life’s road that would previously have put them in an emotional ditch, and do wonderful things that leave me scratching my head in wonder.

The Boston Red Sox, whose second world championship in four years has got to have all of the rabid, white-haired, female Red Sox fans I know in rural Maine thinking they have died and gone to heaven, and wishing their fathers could have been around to see it. This World Series win proves beyond a doubt that, while the Babe and his bat may have been traded to New York, his heart never left Boston.

The genius of New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick, whose Patriots – with three Super Bowl victories in the last six years, and 10 victories so far this year – are almost enough to make me forget how often those darn Yankees have won the World Series.

The stupidity of New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick. His videotape cheating scandal serves to remind us that brilliance and success often breed contempt for rules, and that nothing sinks a great reputation faster than a self-inflicted hole blown in yourself below the ethical waterline.

A glazed donut heated up so that it melts like butter in a mouth full of hot coffee, and tastes like a bit of heaven on earth. At such moments I would not care if the rest of the hair suddenly flew off my head.

A best friend who drags me out to jog the stress and fat off even when I don’t want to.

That moment when I can tell a really sick patient is getting better, when the fluid begins to drain from the lungs, when the brain starts to get more oxygen so the patient wakes up, or when the morphine kicks in and pain begins to lose its grip. Tom Brady walking off the field victorious again does not feel any better than I do at such moments with my team.

Kids who are glad to see me in my office. They ride around on my rolling stool, tell me what’s cool about school in sentences that meander more than they do on the stool, and still apparently have not figured out I am the one who orders their shots.

That my girls are coming home for Thanksgiving. The kitchen will be overrun with women singing and dancing while they cook, the phone will ring for everyone but me, my Samsung flat screen “Official TV of the NFL” will be commandeered for romantic chick flicks, and my heart will fill with thanks at Thanksgiving.

Erik Steele, D.O., a physician in Bangor, is chief medical officer of Eastern Maine Healthcare Systems and is on the staff of several hospital emergency rooms in the region.