Waypoints: 30 Days of Gratitude

This month, Moteventure turns its compass toward the quiet power of thankfulness. Waypoints: 30 Days of Gratitude is a daily storytelling journey through resilience, grace, and the moments that anchor us. Each post will be a marker — a pause along the path — where gratitude reveals itself in unexpected ways. From small gestures to life-altering kindness, these stories invite reflection, connection, and a deeper appreciation for the light we find (and share) along the way.

Every path has its waypoints. If gratitude lit yours, leave a note beneath this post.

The Corgis at Windsor

In the final years of her reign, Queen Elizabeth II often took her tea alone in the gardens of Windsor Castle. Not out of loneliness, but ritual. The gravel paths, the clipped hedges, the scent of roses and rain — they had been her companions longer than most people. She had walked those grounds as a child, a young monarch, a mother, and finally, a widow.

But she was never truly alone.

There were always corgis.

They trotted beside her in pairs and trios, their short legs moving with surprising speed, their ears perked like sentinels. Some were descendants of Susan, the corgi gifted to Elizabeth on her 18th birthday. Others were rescues, adopted later in life. All were loyal, mischievous, and deeply loved.

A footman once recalled a spring afternoon when the Queen paused near a rose bush. One of the corgis had dropped a ball at her feet. She bent slowly, carefully, and picked it up. The dog barked once, expectantly. She laughed — a soft, unguarded sound. “They still think I’m young enough to chase them,” she said.

That moment wasn’t photographed. It wasn’t televised. But it stayed with him.

Because in that instant, the Queen wasn’t a sovereign. She was a woman with muddy knees, laughing in the sun, surrounded by creatures who didn’t care about crowns — only companionship.

Inside the castle, portraits lined the halls. History weighed heavy in every room. But outside, in the garden, the corgis tugged at her sleeve, nudged her hand, and reminded her of something simpler: presence.

After her passing, staff noted how the dogs lingered near the garden gate, waiting. Not for ceremony. Not for command. Just for her.

Gratitude, sometimes, is found in the quiet rituals — a walk in the garden, a shared glance, a ball retrieved. And in the love that asks nothing of us but to be there.

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