Tag Archives: gratitude

The Anatomy of Happiness

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I had a nasty head cold a few days ago, but feeling lucky and grateful that it wasn’t flu or anything more serious. As my symptoms locked me into a muted world of silence and drowsiness, I reflected on luck – what it is, who has it, who doesn’t seem to have it and how to get it.

Many books and internet sites describe luck. Some give you definitions and synonyms. Some give you tips on how to get lucky. Others help you feel better about not having luck. Some send you to psychics; others to astrologers, still others to sites that sell jewelry to protect you against the evil eye, an ancient superstition that many still believe to thwart your chances for luck.

I’m reminded of the story I heard about a workshop for millionaires seeking to increase their material success even further. The facilitator asked participants to share what they needed to feel even more successful.  Each  described what they didn’t have yet, but wanted to have in the future. One man, who meditates daily at dawn, said “When I wake up , get out of bed and feel the floor below me, I feel lucky and I figure I already have it made”.

Would more money, cars, homes and all the trappings of wealth make this man feel any happier or luckier? Not likely. What he relates to is his awareness of short moments, repeated often,  that he is alive, upright, feeling lucky and content to be blessed with another day of awareness and the opportunity to enjoy it.

On balance, a happy life seems to built on a series of breaths and moments. How we bridge the spaces between them is the difference between heaven and hell.

Life in a Random Universe

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Two stories caught my eye this morning on the Huffington Post. A train wreck north of New York City that killed four people and injured 70. The train was scheduled to arrive at Grand Central Station an hour after it left Poughkeepsie. The crash is under investigation.

The second story concerned Paul Walker, the star of the “Fast & Furious” movie series, who died Saturday in a car crash outside Los Angeles. Walker, 40 years old, was a passenger in a friend’s car. A preliminary sheriff’s report cited speed as a factor in the crash.

Opposite sides of the country, different mode of travel, different reasons for the accidents, but something in common. We place our safety, often our life, in the hands of others. We assume they know what they’re doing; that they take their responsibility for our life seriously. We hope they are not distracted by their phone or compromised by alcohol or drugs. We take for granted that they know the rules of the road, and have the reflexes to respond to unexpected situations.

This is the stuff of everyday, ordinary life, not the hazards of being in a battle zone or a besieged territory in a third world country. It’s not the danger of being trampled to death at a Walmart on Black Friday, nor the randomness of being shot at or having the roof collapse at a mall.

We must believe that it’s safe to be a passenger instead of the driver. But when you get right down to it, even when we’re the driver, we have only the illusion of control. Irony,  coincidence and luck are always in the driver’s seat. That’s why gratitude is the antidote to life in a random universe.

 

The Gift of the Ordinary

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The poetry of life lives in the daily rituals, the ordinary activities we often do mindlessly without appreciating how lucky we are to be doing them. Not me, not ever again.

One of my favorite ordinary things is making coffee in the morning. Grinding and inhaling the aroma of the beans, filling the coffee maker with water, emptying the ground beans into the filter, and pushing the brew button. How much more ordinary can you get?

Ever since my husband died suddenly in an accident years ago, I’ve been aware that ordinary events can turn extraordinary in a second. The Boston bombings, 9/11, a plane or car crash, a fatal heart attack, a drive by shooting or the diagnosis of a terminal illness. These sudden events, woven into the tapestry of daily life, are reminders that the ordinary is a gift.

One of my favorite poets celebrates the ordinary. Jane Kenyon, who died of leukemia at the  age of forty-seven, understood the importance of celebrating the dailiness of life.

Otherwise

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.