Gratitude In Just 22 Days: AKA "Dear Mom. I love you. Can you fix the wifi?"
We all have accomplishments that we’re proud of. I won an award for describing a colonial baby rattle once: a gap-toothed eight year old hugged her certificate from some historical society more proudly that I handled my high school diploma, which was given to me as an empty pleather folder anyway. That pleather folder apparently means I’m not a baby anymore. I don’t get a rattle. Not even one with a “coral handle, for teething.” So, let’s rattle off a cliché, shall we?
I have a lot to be grateful for.
Okay, don’t you run off now! Shockingly, I’m not about to go off on some rant about hugging trees and offer you a puff of some “special spinach”. We don’t need to go off the deep end yet. We’ll start with just one thing that we appreciate. Don’t give me that look - I’m sure you can name at least one. For one thing, we live in a world where it’s always an appropriate time for either coffee, kale smoothies, alcohol, or, again, coffee. So appreciate that and go pour yourself a cuppa. I’m grateful for aesthetically pleasing pens. That I’ve never had an arsonist for a next-door neighbour. For heat-resistant pot handles and for people who still write post cards. Still struggling? Full disclosure time. I, for instance, am personally very grateful for the fact that I was able to get away with handing in my 36 page thesis on a Modern Anna Karenina, written in one night, with the aid of a lot of Wikipedia, a lot of tea, and some oddly well-written bios from a sketchy Russian dating site. Now, I’m not grateful because I had some great revelation spurred by preachy Russian authors. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta get specific.
We’re still not going off the deep end - I’m certainly no enlightened literary genius. That thesis was utter garbage. But, I was able to write said garbage in a mouseless Manhattan apartment with access to electricity, the great interwebs, and a block from a bodega willing to sell me freaking tea at 4 AM. That tea came in those perfectly round packets that JUST cover the bottom of the mug (the perfection is orgasmic, I tell you) and I stapled that thesis with a mass-produced plastic cat stapler.
And my printer worked. Not bad.
So, I’m grateful for the modern world. Pretty unoriginal. There’s a “rattle, rattle” on the cliche radar.
So, we have a lot to be thankful for, and maybe we’re not great at it. We’ve got a great holiday devoted to being Thankful. It’s a great example of the stunning effectiveness of once-a-year reminders that something exists. In this case, it’s “Gratitude.” We’ve also those to annually remember the existence of dentists and the apparent nonexistence of local government elections. I wish I’d spent more of my past life celebrating holidays wholeheartedly and being grateful for not having severe medical worries. But, concerning remembering gratitude, we tend to have no problem facing some chronic Post-Turkey-Day-Dementia.
People love hating on Hallmark Holidays - be it Thanksgiving, or Valentine’s Day, Father’s Day as sources of temporary affection and really shitty travel mugs. And yet I’d venture that watching the news is a far more efficient way to manufacture sudden spurs of familial tenderness; It could be after Parkland or after yet another earthquake in a country I’ll bet 50 bucks you can’t find on a map - NBC should really get in on the Greeting Card business. We all have moments that make us hug our friends, family, or closest pillow a little closer. When we turn off the news and turn to the phone to call our parents. When something in our stomachs about three inches below from our gallbladder and a half-inch left of our Compassion feels all funny. The kind of events that lead uncles to make angry political posts on Facebook, or make you want to tell the planet that it’s beautiful (and it’s not even a booty call this time!)
I have notes on my phone saying things like “Life is so good” or “Your family is amazing” or “You’re so lucky to be alive.” Granted, those are nestled amongst “Look up song that starts with La la, la la la la la,” and whatever on earth “Your Kidneys are Canadian” was supposed to mean. Regardless, until recently, the dates on these notes correspond embarrassingly accurately with massive natural disasters or shootings in Not My High School. I always thought that the next “Call Mommy Moment” would be the last one I need. Each time I’m wrong. I call my mom again, to tell her how horrible the world is because my internet isn’t working. Guess I really do need Wifi to feel a connection.
A common idea for spurring daily gratitude is the Gratitude Notebook. Finishing every day with a list of things you’re grateful for. Imagine the retiree, pulling on a sleeping mask, wearing long, loose socks, placing a small leather-bound notebook with the note “Pretty sunrise. Healthy grandkids. Good beans at dinner” onto his night stand (next to a glass of water containing his dentures.) Or, imagine the 20-something woman, typing “Working trains. Social activism. Strong coffee” into some iPhone app.
I’ve seen it in blog after self help book after personal memoir. And it’s a fantastic idea.
But I couldn’t do it.
They say it takes twenty two days to build a habit.
I say I have twenty two 3-day-long Gratitude Journals in my room somewhere
Granted, some things happened in Masha’s life that increased her debt for gratitude a pug’s face worth of folds, but we’re not going to go into that search for meaning here. It’s a cold Wednesday morning, I need more tea, and there are other places for that discussion (cough cough, upcoming book. Wait what?) This girl happens to have maintained daily gratitude notebooks for a few years now. I'm not going to bother pretending that those aren't occasionally littered with some guilty-pleasure passive aggression, colourful language about the MTA, and a solid 12 pages of Law notes. And, even so, it took a solid 24 three-page flops which happens to be about equal to Masha's attempts at writing the final thesis she should be working on right now.
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