Gratitude is Its Own Reward

Gratitude, he thinks, is the highest form of worship; perhaps its only true form. One needs no intermediary to practice—no preacher or pope, no dogma or liturgy. It is efficient, effulgent, easy. The sole function of gratitude is to cast a light on the perpetual dance between souls. It is breath and intuition, sight and smell, taste and touch illuminated. Nothing is more satisfying that gratitude, he thinks, because it is love in practice. It licks clean all wounds and readies one for better things. It laughs at itself. Like its sister “forgiveness,” it cannot be denied. Nothing heals like gratitude.

He keeps a special vision close at hand and in his heart. How wonderful the world would be if each and every person could be satisfied because we all recognized that each breath was a self-love prayer. At its seat, there is forgiveness, compassion and possibility. Gratitude is like laughing while you orgasm—it feels good and that’s it, that’s all. One might consider asking what, if anything, are they grateful for? Compliments wear off, beauty fades, money disappears. Everything is temporary. What’s left?

You.

What are YOU grateful for? The question begs an answer because therein lies the key to happiness. Like energy attracts itself so be aware: it is the grateful farmer who yields a bountiful crop. Do yourself a favor and do not get caught up in what you perceive as the happiness of another—don’t covet your neighbor’s gifts. Instead, celebrate them. And when you do that, look at your feet; there lie your blessings, no one else’s. Wishing for the good fortune of others saps your moment; milks its nectar so that by the time it hits your tongue, it’s tasteless. Learn to thirst for your own.

Gratitude is its own reward, its own perpetual garden. He knows that of the few that read this meditation fewer will take this matter to heart directly. Yet he is not deterred. He knows the power of words. Each one leaps off the page and into the consciousness and nests until it is ripe and ready for consumption. One might have to lose everything of value, stripped of clothing, rocked by disease, fleeced of finances, struck by tragedy or death, locked down or beat down to truly see and yearn for gratitude’s replenishing fruit. Gratitude swings swollen with patience. It waits quietly on the limb waiting to nourish sort throats, empty arms, broken backs and ailing hearts. When you decide that you are ready for change, reach for its medicinal splendor. Don’t worry about eating too much. There’s always more.

He writes in a gratitude journal as a recognizing exercise. He thinks of giving smiles when he doesn’t necessarily feel like it. He loves unselfishly. For doing so helps him bring the matter of life into sharper focus. The moments become the matter of course. This is where the blessings are, numerous, infinite. No more monsters under the bed, or demons waiting in the closet. No time spent trying to convince anyone of anything. He is his own thing again, like when he first opened his eyes in this world. Only now he is his own caretaker and actively chooses the adventure. This, he thinks, is bliss.

Gratitude, he thinks, is the highest form of worship; perhaps its only true form. One needs no intermediary to practice—no preacher or pope, no dogma or liturgy. It is efficient, effulgent, easy. The sole function of gratitude is to cast a light on the perpetual dance between souls. It is breath and intuition, sight and smell, taste and touch illuminated. Nothing is more satisfying that gratitude, he thinks, because it is love in practice. It licks clean all wounds and readies one for better things. It laughs at itself. Like its sister “forgiveness,” it cannot be denied. Nothing heals like gratitude.

Monday, February 16, 2004 @ 01:20 PM