With the turn of the calendar to November and Thanksgiving this Thursday, gratitude is on my mind. It’s a practice. And a choice. Gratitude, I’ve shared, has become a salve for me, in particular, when I wade into the depths of fear far beyond my control. When I’m lost and at risk of falling under with the sheer overwhelm of a reeling world. “Gratitude,” writes poet David Whyte, “is not a passive response to something we have been given, gratitude arises from paying attention, from being awake in the presence of everything that lives within and without us.”
This weekend, I was feeling particularly unmoored: scenes from the post-apocalyptic novel (Station Eleven, an extraordinary read) and images from the front page of the Times jumbled together after a particularly hard nap. It was hard to make sense of what was real as I wandered downstairs, re-entering the jumble of my own life of three under five on a Sunday afternoon. This novel has been sitting with me, in part, because of the simple wonders the narrators (who change as the story drifts between before and after the pandemic) describe about the before: going to the dentist, a room brightening at the flip of a switch, talking to someone across the world. It’s an invitation to look at everything anew. “Gratitude,” continues Whyte, “is the understanding that many millions of things come together and live together and breathe together in order for us to take even one more breath of air, that the underlying gift and incarnation as a living, participating human being is a privilege; that we are miraculously, part of something, rather than nothing.”
After nap, we piled in the car and drove to the store, the horizon already pink and the sky dripping with color. The moon was up, a waning crescent a little hazy beneath a drift of clouds. Clear enough for my five-year-old to shout, “there’s the moon!,” which hung above the scraggly outlines of the oaks along the road. “What do I notice here and now?” I wondered, trying to stay afloat. The moon, already brighter than the fading light of day. The wash of pink across the horizon. These oaks leafless and moving. The warmth of my seat. The slightly musty scent drifting from the vents. The drone of wheels spinning across hard pavement. My children, singing. And the beautiful symmetry of two verses: let’s be thankful, let’s be generous.
Generosity is a practice of gratitude. Showing up for our families, friends, colleagues, strangers, even, makes us “a part of something,” spinning miraculous webs of connection. “Thankfulness,” continues Whyte, “finds its full measure in generosity of presence, both through participation and witness.” It deepens our connection. As we wandered through the store, a little lonely and filled with shoppers, I took the time to talk to the clerk when he asked if there was anything he could help us with. I moved a little slower. We did a lap to look at the Christmas decorations, the lights, the red and green everything, just to notice. On the drive home, before dinner, it was already dark. And the moon a little brighter.
for reflection
What are you grateful for today?
How has another person’s generosity impacted you?
What does practicing generosity look like for you today?
for the library
David Whyte, Consolations (Many Rivers Press: Langley, WA 2018), pp. 89-91.
The Juicebox Jukebox, Thankful (2022), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YeSdQmO51Ps.