When you simply let gratitude in, just to sample, not to buy necessarily, just a sip, swiftly savor its exotic taste, take the measure of it, meditate briefly upon it, but no, not to trust: only simpletons and saints trust it for the long haul—yet, what if you did just that, lay your sweet exhausted body down in gratitude, on the other, the softer side of the soul, let your ardent fragile magnificent body be gathered up by gratitude?
What if you let your hottest and most wicked thoughts rest in the nest of gratitude, let them hatch more hungry angry questions, scream your suffering punished, passed-over self? Would gratitude feed you anyway? How would it harbor your entitled victim self, your competitive, contemptuous comparing self? Would it shake you off in horror? Would the helpless shame of human hurt cause gratitude to turn its back and as you always suspected-- abandon you?
Gratitude has no judgement except for mercy, no secret except for service, no mission except for love. Gratitude holds its wings open for any one who dares risk speaking, becoming translucent, carrying its light, to share its greatest gift:
Love is the act of paying tribute, giving thanks, offering gratitude, to others, to life whenever and wherever it is due.
