Rediscovering Gratitude in a Season That Asks for It

It was suggested, given the season, that I write this essay about gratitude. It makes sense; however, to be honest, I have been struggling a bit myself to experience gratitude lately. I have been distracted recently by challenges in many aspects of my life, beginning with not feeling well physically for a few weeks due to my annual early winter sinus woes. There has been turbulence, reactivity, and misunderstandings in some of my important relationships. I’ve felt somewhat overwhelmed by the relentless challenges of running a business in the uncertainty of what feels like a chaotic world that is present in all of our lives. This has added to the cumulative and inexorable effects of aging, making facing every day with a feeling of thankfulness a certain challenge. That said, I looked forward to this essay as a vehicle to remind me about gratitude and wake me out of this ennui.

In the spirit of this, I was reminded of a beautiful book by the Irish poet David Whyte called Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Meaning of Everyday Words. In it, he writes small poems about everyday words—words like Ambition, Courage, Honesty, Friendship, and, of course, what I was seeking, Gratitude.

This poem was the perfect reminder I needed. It begins with:

“Gratitude. Gratitude is not a passive response to something we have been given. Gratitude arises from paying attention.”

He concludes the poem with this line:

“Being unappreciative might mean we are simply not paying attention…”

What Whyte’s line illuminated for me is something I already knew but had forgotten in the fog of distraction: gratitude is a function of attention. And attention—where it lands, how it wanders, and whether we can gently bring it back—is not an accident. It’s a practice.

In fact, rereading that line felt like being confronted, lovingly, by my own past advice. Years ago, I was asked by Michael to write an article for MB United describing my personal approach to living a healthy life. I wrote about the necessity of tending to our minds with the same commitment we give to tending our bodies. I argued then that a healthy life demands training our attention, sitting still long enough to see the nature of our minds, and learning to redirect our awareness toward what is nourishing rather than what is corrosive.

And here I was, momentarily lost in my own mind’s weather, forgetting the very tools I’ve encouraged others to use. Whyte reminded me that gratitude is not the result of perfect circumstances; it’s the result of a trained attention—an attention we can cultivate deliberately, especially in seasons when it feels hardest to do so. So it felt fitting to revisit that earlier piece now, as a reminder to myself of the practice that makes gratitude possible and to share it with all of you.

What is the most important thing that I have learned?

That we can change our minds.

By analogy, we all know that a healthy body requires exercise; it is a no-brainer. It seems, paradoxically—and I’d claim tragically—that we have not invoked that same attention to our minds. While physical fitness is universally accepted as a normal, if not expected, part of our lives, there still seems to be a stigma to tending to our minds. We don’t know if this comes from previous skepticism of psychotherapy, scorn of religious dogma, or wariness of new-age goofiness. I’ve been told by hundreds of people that they are too distracted in their minds to “be good at” meditation.

Real meditation—not meditation just for relaxation’s sake, but with a deep commitment to mental training—remains eccentric. However, I have learned that it does not need to be this way.

For years now, I’ve been lucky enough to have created the habit of regular meditation. I’m convinced that it’s the skill—the habit—we need to train our minds, and as we develop this habit, we can then bring a more mindful approach to the rest of our lives as we interact with each other. By reading widely in philosophy, spirituality, and literature, I’ve discovered this: no matter the source—whether ancient or modern philosophy, religious scripture or mysticism, classic or modern literature—the lesson is always the same. An open mind invites an open heart, which invites a deep compassion for yourself and for others. It also seems that there isn’t a single best technique, teacher, or dogma; we simply need to be still and meet our minds, in whatever state they show up.

From there, with consistency, the process will unfold for you however it will unfold for you. For me, this process has been challenging yet at times seemingly effortless, often restless but eventually calming, occasionally hysterical and sometimes sad, intimate and expansive, self-loving and self-loathing, enlightening but ultimately humbling. Physically, it had been initially painful in my knees and hips, but now it is much more comfortable. In fact, sitting in a disciplined posture has been, I’m convinced, the best thing I’ve done for my spine.

As we train our minds to rest in open awareness—as we become less distracted—we notice that we can place our attention on areas of our lives that prove fruitful and bring us fulfillment. Basically, we decide to pay attention to the right things. Among these right things, an area that I have found most fruitful is how I move.

What about movement?

Make it play, and make it variable. We are all endowed with a human body capable of an infinite range of potential movements. As we age, we can begin to lose many of these movements, some of which are fundamental. In the spirit of “use it or lose it”:

Let us walk often and everywhere (and if it might be too far to walk—ride a bike). Let’s walk hills, walk the beach. While walking, let’s rotate our spine. While walking, let’s look up from our phone. While walking, let’s bring attention to our posture. Let’s bring attention to our breath. Let’s breathe deeply or softly. Let’s breathe fast or slow. Let’s cultivate an intimate relationship with our breath. Let’s smile. Be still. Let’s practice a deep squat. Let’s hinge our knees, spin our shoulders, stretch our eye muscles, open our vision into the periphery. Let’s stretch our forearms, mobilize our wrists, stretch our hands. Let’s get outside, stretch our legs, stand tall and squeeze our butt. Let’s crawl. Let’s bring attention to our spine. Let’s take five minutes a day to stabilize our spines. Let’s sit cross-legged, or in lotus, or whatever isn’t a forced posture. Let’s take our shoes off. Let’s walk barefoot around our house, around our yard, on the beach. Let’s sit on the beach, lie on the beach, take a nap on the beach. Let’s stand up on our tippy-toes. Let’s do our chores as if they were exercises. Let’s place our attention on our feet. Let’s leave no trace. Let’s care for our mouths. Let’s shut our mouths (less food, less booze, less talking). Let’s check back in with our breath. Let’s sleep well. Let’s dance. Smile. Let’s laugh. Lie in Shavasana. Let’s create a regular routine of stretching, mobility, and calisthenics that we can do anytime, anywhere. Right now, let us pause reading this and take three deep breaths…

Let’s be still. Let’s lie in Shavasana. Let’s make way for others. Let’s get regular bodywork. Let’s pursue, prepare for, and practice with passion whatever sport or activity we love. Let us not rush. In other words (in fewer words), let’s create habits in which we pay much more attention to our bodies and how we move.

What am I most grateful for?

Outwardly, for my family, my community, and my health, especially at this time of Thanksgiving.

Inwardly, I am grateful for the fact that my work is caring for other people.

My practice is now to blend the inward with the outward. Because opening our minds and opening our hearts, paying attention, moving well, and all the while being grateful—these are all acts of love.

And miracles of all miracles: when we love the world.