Gratefulness
lives in our bodies.
And
in the corpus of Earth.
It
resides there, next to the aorta or in the gray matter in our skulls.
It
moves and rushes and sizzles like lightning all over this planet, in all her
beings.
We
feel a rush of gratitude in our fiery bellies or in the tingle up our arms.
We
bear witness to gratitude painted in the growing pink of sunrise or in the
moonlit jewels doing pliés on night-black water.
Sometimes
we feel it in the lump that forms in our throats—gratitude moving up from the
heart, so substantial that it all but stifles us, choking us up. But we are
freed from the constriction as soon as we part our lips to let the gratitude
pass through us—out into the ever-needy world—in the form of words, a song, or a
kiss.
And
though it is as tangible as the bodies of vitally-alive coyotes or
green herons, I am absolutely convinced that gratitude is contagious. Because
yesterday when a once-mentor-now-dear-friend literally sobbed out his praiseful
appreciation to me, I caught his gratitude—palpably felt it rising into my own mouth—and
my arms lifted outward in a broad reach that became an embrace.
Shared
gratitude. Contagion. Inheritance.
It’s
a germ or a gene. It’s shared, and shareable.
It
does not live out there—in the world of circumstances, events, facts, or
fiction.
Gratefulness
lives right here (notice my hand placed gently over the left side of my chest).
And
here (see my palms buried in icy cold autumn grass, mud stains on digits, knees
soaked in bent supplication).
In
order to feel it, to cultivate it, to find it within—we must simply attend in
presence to what is. Right now. Right here. Abiding in this breath. If you are
reading this, if you have breath in your body and another inhalation within
you, then there is—indeed—a shining golden nugget of gratefulness just waiting there
to be discovered, again.
And
if that breath within you guides you to pause in a natural and wild place out
of doors, with hands on tree bark, flower, rabbit fur; with eyes on shiny bird
feather, crispy leaves, or tracing the dew on a fencepost; with the welcome
pungency of humus in your nose or the songbirds’ serenade in your ears … then
you will have rediscovered gratitude’s true home.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2017 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
