Prefatory remarks:
The chief danger imperiling a writing upon gratefulness is banality, for, upon their every turn, the essayist is compelled to platitudes. Indeed, the greatest sin of the modern artist may very well be a general dearth of
originality. However, as is quite obvious, I have liberated myself from modernity’s yoke and, therefore, may indulge in triteness. Dear reader: do forgive me.
The art of gratefulness – for it is, generally speaking, a cultivated virtue, not necessarily inherent within man – is one not often practiced. One may put forth such a claim without documentary evidence. This lack, if the writer is permitted so bold a statement, is particularly true of America. Though a faulted nation, as are all others, the lives of the majority of its citizens are sufficiently comfortable. So proliferated is the average American with items coveted by many that few, I fear, properly appreciate their true position so as to render thanksgiving a rare, seasonal practice. This is to say that gratefulness, though often prescribed by parents to begrudging children, is significantly undervalued. Altogether, what we have before us is an unfortunate state of affairs.
Yet I do not despair, for if one loses hope, one has lost all. Therefore, in the spirit of progressivism and in the interest of the common good, I write.
The recognition of life’s positive aspects brings two chief benefits: upon first reflection, one gains a lovely perspective
upon life, which soon blossoms into an equally delightful sense of contentment.
I sit, writing, and I cannot help but turn to the sweater I wear, insulating me from November’s harsh chills. Knitted from the softest of yarns, dyed a handsome blue, it is a garment which is accessible to only a certain portion of humanity, which I just so happen to be a member of. My library, which I would prize above my dukedom, had I one, is quite bursting with volumes, all of which I may read during my relatively lengthy leisure time. I am regularly fed, daily bathe myself in warm waters, and am generously blessed by God with loving family and kindly friends.
Now, I do not write with the attempt to brag, but, rather, to provide a brief illustration of an exercise I prescribe to all
my readers.
The preceding litany one may retain as a soothing comfort in times of sorrow – gratefulness is the balm we may always rely upon, applying liberal amounts to even the sorest of wounds. It is as if one has placed new, pleasantly tinted lenses over one’s eyes: all appears to be rearranged, and, quite suddenly, a cherished scene appears. One may have lost a love, but does one truly lack love? Though one may have lost a game, do not one’s legs remain strong, one’s arms mighty and eager for success the future surely holds? Is not the human spirit indomitable, and the mind, unlike our frail bodies, unshackled by physical limits?
Though I cannot, in good conscience, market thanksgiving as a panacea, it is undeniable that a moment’s reflection upon gazing at the radiant sun – source of all life, feeling the cool water passing through one’s lips, and observing the stillness of a meadow bathed in starlight, engenders a calm worthy of written praise.
