Practicing Gratitude
Taking the Risk of Moving in the Direction of Travel
In August 2021, a few days after my forty-eighth birthday, one year after my ex-husband moved out and eight months after our divorce became final, one of my besties told me to write down what I wanted in a job. After I hung up the phone, I pulled out my sketch pad, closed my eyes, and waited. When I opened them a few minutes later, I drew the full-color words that popped up. But I captured so much more than an ideal job situation; I defined, for my self, what living life creatively means to me. After I added some bright yellow shading, I ripped out the sheet and hung it up on the wall across from my bed. From then on, it was the last thing I saw every night and the first thing I saw every morning.
In May 2022, after writing something, anything, almost every single day for six months, and in between trips to New York City, Connecticut and the Eastern Shore, I printed out what I had written so far. Then I took down the sheet of my heart’s desires hanging in my bedroom, and taped everything to the wall in my studio downstairs. Then pulled out a big Post-It, wrote myself a note and hung it above my desk on the opposite wall. From then on, any time I sat down to write new stories, pay bills or join a Zoom meeting, I looked at that note. And sometimes I read it—out loud.
In October 2022, one month after joining a writing cohort, putting together the first outline of my book and amassing several chapters, my friend Phil came into town. Using an old cardboard box we found in my garage as his canvas, he worked on a piece I commissioned from him. While he sat in my kitchen and painted, we talked. About art. About music. About life. Then I read some of my stories to him. The result of all of that talking, painting and reading got framed and mounted to the wall of my dining room. From then one, anytime I walked to, from or through the kitchen, I saw that painting and looked for the part I needed to hear in that moment.
Today, three years after I wrote down what I want, two and a half years after I wrote that note to self, and two years and one month after I hung up Phil’s painting, I feel stuck. That’s why today, “get it done” sounds less like an encouragement and more like a threat: “get it perfect or give it up.”
But why? To get to where I am now, I just put one foot in front of the other, overcame difficulties, weathered disappointments and celebrated successes. And I did not do any of that even remotely perfectly.
So, what if, just for today, I replace the idea of perfection with the action of gratitude? What if I list all that I already have instead of looking right past it? What if I embrace my anger, my fear, and my self-pity instead of using it against me? And what if I appreciate who I am now instead of regretting who I was yesterday or agonizing over who I might be tomorrow? Just being willing to act my way into being that kind of grateful opens me up to new ideas. It also allows me to notice all the remarkable things coming my way.
So, from now on, when I walk by the window in my studio and see the easter egg Phil drew on the window pane, I will practice (not perfect) saying:
“Thank you, Hella. I am really grateful for you today.”
Gratitude is an action, not a feeling. It is a guiding light that helps me see my path (not someone else’s), harness my energy (not dilute it), and finish my task (not avoid it). When I practice gratitude for everything in my life, I walk into my future in the present.
