Donut Day

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the lavish ways of my office, there is a tradition known as “Donut Day” that is marked on the calendars of every employee here at my firm.  This carb festival takes place on or close to the 15^th of every month in our luxurious kitchen, and is complete with many boxes of bagels, muffins, pastries, donuts and the occasional assortment of other baked options.  (During the first two months of the year there is also the welcome addition of fruit and yogurt to help the handful of folks who have resolved to avoid treats during the year, but such resolutions are nowhere to be seen by March.)

I do not usually indulge much on Donut Day since I’m not particularly fond of such treats, (I'd prefer something like nachos) though I will have the occasional bagel, especially if I have some turkey in the fridge with which to transform it into a most excellent (free) sandwich.

In any case, I have learned over time to avoid the kitchen when it is occupied by other souls, since I am constantly mocked, belittled, scoffed, scorned or occasionally overly praised for my non-donut food selections.

I pose this question to all: what is this crazy culture that attempts to guilt folks for making good choices?

Catalina & The Longest Day

Find a gratuitously comfy chair, because this is an obscenely lengthy story, broken into two parts for your reading convenience.

PART 1: THE CATALINA CROSSING RACE

The finale to the Ka Nai’a outrigger canoe racing season could not have been more unexpected or adventurous.  I was already in love with my teammates, who are some of the most diverse, laid back, caring, tough, generous, and fun people I have had the pleasure of knowing.  We have been looking forward to and preparing for the National Championship Catalina Crossing for a long time; a race which begins in Newport Harbor and ends in Avalon, Catalina.  It’s a 27 mile race across the open ocean with a team of 9; 6 in the canoe at a time with 3 paddlers in a support boat that change places during the race.

Saturday morning the women and co-ed crews paddled out to Catalina, and then Sunday morning the men’s crews paddled back.  We are a small club, and happily able to tweak our logistics out so that we could have 2 co-ed crews paddle out, leaving the team free to relax and celebrate as a group Saturday night.

The race itself was delightful, and in many ways everything we had all been hoping for.  In the prior two change races, we had gone gender since the numbers worked best that way.  Our co-ed line-up, however, was very strong.  We jokingly referred to one match-up as “the beast boat” which felt like we had grease lightening beneath the canoe.  I was deeply honored to be a part of that starting line-up, and our expectations were high that morning.

"Ka Nai'a, Ka Nai'a, Ka Nai'a, do it, do it, do it!" We roared from our boats.

The women’s boats left 20 minutes before co-ed, leaving us time to chomp our bits and paw the ground at the starting line in eager anticipation.  It was incredibly difficult to keep my excitement in check; I dare say sitting in the canoe stretching my neck and feeling bolts of energy run through my skin was a special kind of torture.  We were like a pack of chained wolfhounds catching the scent of live game, nearly twitching to dive into the task at hand, for this was it: the race we had all been training for.  Not only was I feeling confident that morning in my own ability and conditioning, I was even more confident in the abilities of my team.

The start played out like a dream. 

Not the kind of dream where you’re quaffing a stack of buttery pancakes, but rather the daylight variety that dance through your mind the week prior over and over again and make you sigh thinking, “Now wouldn’t that be nice?”  When the flag waved, we shot out instantly to lead the pack off the line snarling and grinning, reaching out into the vast blue wasteland before us with unforgettable spirit.  It was a long road ahead, but the conditions were ideal.  We were caught by another team who is well known for their excellence, and paced them for the first couple of hours.  Feeling energized and invigorated, tongues lolling with the thrill of the chase.  The wind was actually whistling in my ears as we charged across the water, a sensation I won't soon forget.

As fatigue began to set in over the third hour, we lost some ground and began fighting with two other canoes who were steadily gaining.  It was a hard battle, and I can’t express how proud I was of our men who were left in the canoe for more than their fair share of time.  When at last we could make out the form of Catalina Island in the distant fog, the bulk of the pack was miles behind us, but we began to wane and slid into 4^th as we caught and passed the majority of the women’s boats who had left before us.

In the end, we placed 4^th overall in the co-ed open division, an accomplishment of which we are all incredibly proud; not to mention the fact that this qualified us for a pretty take-home trophy!  (Though awesome, I must note that nothing will ever compare to The Rig Run, which I think is etched forever in history as my favorite race.  4/6 of that novice crew was a part of the top Catalina crew.) The other co-ed boat also did very well, and once everyone found land we hoisted our gear to a rented house where we would be staying for the evening. 

I had not been to Catalina since I was very young, and I dare say the place is nothing like I remember.  Shops left and right, food everywhere, implanted sandy beaches and an eclectic pile of tourists were suddenly overwhelmed by an onslaught of outrigger teams high on post-race euphoria.  Outside nearly every café were rows of wooden paddles, swimming gear, and the atmosphere was buzzing with energy.

We proudly accepted our medals at the award ceremony, and quickly our thoughts had turned to more important things: FOOD.  The team gathered at a small pizzeria restaurant and crowded together merrily to celebrate the conclusion of the season.  We raised our glasses and toasted everything from coach’s dog to the large stuffed buffalo head on the wall and delightfully recounted stories of races past and histories of the club.

That night we danced, we ate, we laughed, we shared, we slept and we were very merry.

We had no clue what was coming.

PART 2: “THE LONGEST DAY”

I will not go into a play by play of each blow we suffered throughout the course of the next day, for in truth it would be tedious to recall and likely depressing to read, but I’ll try to keep the juicy stuff.

When my alarm chirped happily at 6 AM Sunday morning, no one could have known what kind of special hell was in store for us.  Since the men’s race was leaving at 10, there was a sizable amount of work to be accomplished early in preparation.  Many team members decided to beat the breakfast rush by rising with the sunlight so we could praise the incoming waffle calories with relaxed grins and cheers, laughing over events from the prior evening’s excursions and relishing the fact that we didn’t have to paddle back to the mainland.

Oh, how stupid and naive those hours had been.

As part of a deal to curry favor with the racing association, our team volunteered to assist the Sunday racers with loading their boats onto the water.  Though we were happy to help, none of us had expected quite the challenge we ended up facing.  Literally carrying canoe after canoe on our shoulders, fighting with wheels and straining our sore, stiff muscles, it wasn’t long before we were all thoroughly hot, sweaty, and tired.  The other teams were grateful for our assistance, but by 9 AM it felt like our breakfast had already worn off.

No one could have known our next meal would be long after sunset.

The original plan heading home had been to tow the two canoes we had used in our race with us back to Newport.  This number had increased to four by Saturday, which was doable.  However, by the time we were done loading boats, we reluctantly agreed to take an additional two unclaimed canoes.  That’s right, we were originally prepared to tow 2 canoes with our two support boats, and in reality we had 6 canoes under our care for the ride home. (3 canoes trailing each support boat.)

We had hoped to watch the start of the men’s race, but that did not happen.  It took over an hour of discombobulation to rig up 3 canoes to each support boat, mostly due to the fact that only one guy, Eddie, knew how to do it all correctly.  He was the super hero of the day, donning his swimming fins and giving orders to the lot of us who didn’t know the first thing about boats.  He managed to exhaust himself early, but was optimistic about the set-up and remained cautiously optimistic.

The problems began early.

We were hardly a mile away from Catalina when one of the canoes lines came undone.  Soon after that was fixed, another canoe flipped over and was swamped with water.  Each time something went wrong, paddlers in the support boats had to jump into the ocean to see what they could do.  We had packed each support boat haphazardly, which made the challenges especially tricky, since a person’s luggage wasn’t necessarily packed on their boat.

I, for example, didn’t have my duffle bag and was not wearing my swimsuit.  However, when half the team was fighting sea sickness and the other half was huddled under sopping wet towels to stave off the chill from the rising winds, I was frankly happy to jump into the sea with my street clothes in order to help.  This, however, posed a tricky issue for when I returned to the boat with little to nothing dry to change into.

Later in the day, a line broke completely.  At one point we had to get out of the way of an enormous cargo frigate en route to Long Beach.  We didn’t have much food on either boat, save a few power bars that had been gobbled up many hours before and a jar of peanut butter that had been squirreled away here and there which we ended up dipping into with our fingers. 

To complicate matters further, each time we stopped it took nearly an hour before we were making forward progress again.  With each bump and jolt of the sea, more and more of us became ill or queasy, and before we knew it we were losing daylight.

There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.
-James Russell Lowell

Despite what you may think about folks who are into outrigger canoeing, a surprising majority of them become easily sea sick.  If I were to guess of the top of my head, I would say at least a quarter of our team “fed the turtles” at one point or another, some many times over, while another half certainly acquired sea related headaches.  The few of us who were left standing did what we could on empty stomachs and limited water as we made excruciatingly slow progress across the channel.

If you noticed the race results I linked above, you may have seen that our lead canoe raced across the channel in roughly 4 hours and 30 minutes. 

Our return journey took 10 hours.

It must be remembered that the sea is a great breeder of friendship. Two men who have known each other for twenty years find that twenty days at sea bring them nearer than ever they were before, or else estrange them. 
-Gilbert Parker

There is, I think, nothing that compares to bonding in the face of great adversity.  As cheesy at it feels to say, I can’t overstate the heart, the courage, the tenacity, and the spirit of every individual on those two boats during that long sojourn home.  To the souls who were fighting a war of wills with their stomachs, I salute you.  I have never had motion sickness and can’t imagine what it must be to deal with, but each and every one of them were troopers.  To the boys, who I think at one point or another all had to jump into the ocean for one task or another, many of them multiple times, your sacrifice did not go unnoticed.  To Eddie, who at times was too tired to even fully express his frustration, summoned up an endless pit of patience and generosity, diving again and again into the frigid waters to tie knots, bark orders and yet managed to keep the safety and well being of his passengers a priority.

One of the canoes swamped again while we were still roughly 18 miles off the coast of Newport when the sun began to set in full.  Bobbing up and down in the water with the fading yellow glow of the day on our faces, feeling like drowned rats and most of our teeth chattering, I wanted to hug everyone.  Not once did I hear anyone lash out cruelly against another, not once did an act of kindness go without a returned gesture of gratitude.  Not once did anyone start blaming someone else or fall into the pit of self pity, and not one resource went unshared.  Despite feeling half starved, sun burned, and dehydrated, the company was excellent at all times.

As darkness crept over the waters, we were at long last aided by one of the race support boats who removed our sunken vessel from our tail, and left us free to make haste to the port.  Pummeling over large swells, the lot of us were jostled, tossed, flounced, and beaten against the boat and against each other.  We all had the look of terrified gnomes beneath our hoods and soaked sweatshirts, but that wasn’t what mattered.  Everyone was safe, everyone was accounted for, and we were all going to make it home.

When we finally made it into the blessed harbor, it was fully dark.  The water was black and glassy as we slowed our speed, and the tranquility that settled upon us was surreal.  The lights of the city docks were dazzling, especially since the moon was a mere sliver among the stars.  Passing large cruise boats filled with folks in tuxedos and fancy dresses, we began scoffing them to one another wondering what they had done that day that could possibly compare to our adventures. 

We were welcomed on shore by a pair of immensely grateful race officials, who began promising us our own fiefdoms for all our hard work.  Their grandiose gestures of wealth and riches were met with a simple chorus of “Please just feed us!” 

In my soaking wet khaki shorts and cotton tank top, all I could think about was finding my duffle bag and putting on dry clothes.  I was not alone in my sentiment, as another teammate sighed with relief as he donned his first piece of dry clothing in several hours.  Others could feel still their legs and heads rocking as they took to the shore, while some seemed to struggle with simply opening their eyes.  It’s amazing how the simplest things that make a world of difference.

Since it was nearly 9:30 PM by the time I made it to the car, our next challenge was indeed finding a restaurant that was still open.  Good old Denny’s didn’t let us down.  There were five of us at the table, but we placed an order that would have serviced an army.  Pancakes, skillets, burgers, onion rings, chicken strips, hot chocolate – the scene played out like something from Hook.  I could actually feel my body reacting with animated appreciation from within, and the influx of sustenance was followed by a very strong urge to sleep.  The Denny's manager nearly bowed to kiss our feet as we left; not a scrap of leftovers to clean from our plates.

Satisfied and happy, the day wasn’t over, for we still had over two hours of driving to do.  Though sleep took one of our passengers, I couldn’t abandon my driver and managed to keep us both entertained for the final leg back to Santa Barbara.  (Kawika, you’re a rare gem indeed!)

When I at last said my goodbyes and dropped my duffle bag like a zombie in the hallway of my home, it was 1 AM.  The pillowy goodness of my own bed never felt so soft, so dry, so deeply wanted.  I only had five hours to sleep before rising again for work, but it was one of the deepest five hours of rest I’ve had in a long time.  

The next day an email went out from the race officials to the rest of the teams singing our praises, and Ka Nai'a was awarded the "Catalina Crossing Most Inspirational Crew Award."  


Damn straight.


It may not have been a "high note" on which to end the season, but it was certainly not an experience any of us will ever forget, and I personally will cherish.  


Did it, did it, did it!

Loss

As many of you know, our beloved tabby cat Sake Bomb departed this life yesterday.  I will be honest and say the loss hit Chris and I pretty hard, partially because it was so sudden, though I’m very grateful for all the happy years he spent with us.

Chris brought Sake to the Jesmary house five years ago when he was the definition of “itty bitty.”  Selected from a litter of free kittens, the residents of the Jesmary house eagerly adopted him, and fed him more than his fare share.  Sake grew and grew and grew, despite infamous “exercising” chase routines around the house.  He never learned to jump and was altogether not a very activity driven creature, but he loved being scratched and lounging in the sunshine.  The vets always praised his handsome full features, and I will miss the way he would head-butt me to request attention.  Though his demeanor could usually be described as quite grumpy, we all knew it was merely a clever front.

His death was entirely unexpected.  I currently cling to the idea that he went peacefully, since he was not sick and had shown no signs the previous day of discomfort.  Though I hate not knowing what happened, I am grateful I didn’t have to make the decision to put him down, as I don’t think I would have handled that well.  Inara, our other cat, so far seems to be her usual adorable self and was a great comfort.  Folks have been asking if we’ll get another cat, and I think that decision will rest almost entirely on Inara’s perceivable loneliness.

Making a short video in loving memory of Sake was incredibly helpful to Chris and I, as well as talking about some of our favorite memories as we attempted to fall asleep.  I found the process somewhat fascinating, and took note of the way my ache and sorrow slowly transformed into a warm, pleasant set of memories, neatly packaged for my referential comfort.  I have not had to face much loss in my life like many others have.  For some reason I always believed I would handle it coldly, stoically – which I suppose I could have tried, but there is something about allowing myself to mourn, to hurt, that is a necessary part of the process.

You were a good kitty, Sake – loved by all.  Your legend will not fade.

Faith Musings

“I’m kind of searching.”

 “I don’t really think about that stuff.”

“I’m a ‘spiritual person’ – not religious.”

Oh yes – time for another essay.

As a child, I was a curious, open minded mind who continuously absorbed information from school, parents, friends, friend’s parents, neighbors, and so on. Slowly my mind began to fill with images, sensations and experiences; the world around me began to take form and meaning.

When it came to faith and religion, I gobbled up everything I was taught as fact by my school and household. The Bible is true. The Bible has all the answers. God loves me. Jesus died for me to void all the bad stuff I do. Every word from every mouth was true, true, true. I didn’t understand when my friends struggled with their faith, and I didn’t know how to help them “see the light.” I didn’t understand the appeal of Hedonism. I had never read the Koran, and I didn’t know what made Allah any different from Adonai.

Instead of embracing my ignorance, I became very curious … but quickly discovered very few people in my immediate circle had much information on other religions or religious texts, or at least few were willing to share. I got the impression that other faiths and their writings were in some way bad, and that by reading them I would taint my spirit somehow or that my Christian identity would be marred by the stains of their dark and evil powers. As in the Garden of Eden, the tree of knowledge seemed to be forbidden.

My mind was quickly filled with simplified derogative summaries of those other people. Mormons were crazy and wanted to be aliens. Muslims were also nuts and felt obligated to kill people. Jews were bitter because they missed the boat. Buddhists and Hindus were uneducated and had no logic in their philosophies. New Agers were basically leftover hippies.  For a long time I felt as though I was taught to pity these poor “other” people who had rejected the message of Christ. Lucky for me I was going to heaven, but how sad that they were all going to burn, burn, burn.  This mentality was thankfully short lived. As my own faith deepened and matured as I grew up, my curiosity expanded and matured as well.

Traveling to Thailand, I saw what it was like to live the life of a Buddhist in a culture where Buddhism was standard. I had the opportunity to teach English to a class of monks and serve a small orphanage.  I saw that these people were not stupid, and I noticed things in their faith that were beautiful; their teachings were basic, but they tried to answer similar questions; what is this life, and how are we to live it?  I was in Thailand as a missionary for Christ.  My goal, as I understood it, was to enlighten the people I met with the good news of the gospel.  In the time I spent there, however, I found myself changed and influenced deeply by the faith of Buddhists, Christians, and even Atheists.  I drank in the beauty of the land, people, and culture and widened my own life perspective and reality in a breathtaking way.

Much later, I traveled to Jordan and Israel and encountered Jews, Muslims, and Christians in the Middle East.  The majority were lovely people, searching like me for answers in a broken world, taking hope in their faith and traditions, some with vastly more devotion and love than I had ever before encountered.

"Seek first to understand, then to be understood." - Stephen R. Covey

(Who is this Covey guy? A Christian, right? Nope, he’s a Mormon.)  I wish with all my heart that people followed this principle; an attitude like this embodies such humility, such respect, such love – it could easily bring me to tears if I allowed it.  In recent years I feel as though I find the most ‘Christian’ things in non-Christian places, and like many for a long while I was disgusted and angry with organized religion as a whole.  (Why is it fury is so much more comforting than sadness and despair?)  It is a challenge not to choke and suffocate on the failures of the church as an institution; it is a daily struggle to keep my enthusiastic inner cynic quiet.

Not to mention the painful friction of evangelism I am still learning to embrace.  On one hand, I believe I have this gift, this faith, this beautiful knowledge that I want everyone to share with me.  When people don’t want that gift, I feel obligated to somehow sell them on it, like one might sell insurance on a DirecTV dish.  (Convince them it’s useful, they need it, and they’ll regret not taking it later.)  But then I remember that faith is not for sale, and I’m not trying to earn a twisted spiritual commission for padding church numbers.  It is free to accept and free to reject, and there is peace to be found in that fact.

“Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.” – attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi

In the end, it all boils down to a choice; one which leads to a lifetime of choices.  I choose to believe the gospels; I choose to alter my behavior in accordance with the teachings of the church.  I freely admit that this choice is part logic, part emotion, and part hope.  I know and accept that I could be wrong, and acknowledge the pitiful holes in my understanding.  My prayer is to love others in the way we have been called, to be a living witness to the hope I have accepted, and always be quick to listen first.

NaNoWriMo

This post may seem a little early, but I figured I'd get people excited well before the grand event.  What is National Novel Writing Month? Well, it is madness, chaos, pain, sweat, tears, agony – and it’s glorious!  If you have ever thought about someday writing a novel (or even if not), this is the most exciting kick in the pants ever.  Thousands of people all around the world participate each year, accepting the challenge to write 50,000 words in one month.  (That month being November.)

Last year I “won” with flying colors, finishing at around 71,000 words by the last day.  (Though I must admit I kind of jumped the gun and cheated by starting a couple days early since I was so excited.)  I have yet to go back to that rough tome I pounded out for editing, but I know it’s there waiting for me.  I struggle to put into words just how proud I am of what I did, and how incredible it feels to watch the little word counter click upwards bit by bit.  At the end of the month, though the frustration can be incredibly burdensome, you have produced something many have never managed: a fully loaded rough draft.

I have started my outline for this year's story already, thinking through characters and plot twists, arming myself for the frenzy.  Last year I wrote an adventure story which took place in Australia that vaguely resembled a fanciful trip I took there when I was in high school.  This year I'm planning on doing a more blatant fantasy/sci-fi style story that is so far turning into a freak hybrid of Heroes and Narnia that follows a girl who has the ability to smell lies.  Should be interesting!

If any of you fellow writers think all this sounds exciting or fun in any way, I highly encourage you to sign up and join the madness when the time rolls around. Let me cheer you on, or join us for a late night keyboard mashing party. You won’t regret it.

Santa Cruz Island

3 Days.  60 miles.  Fracking awesome. (Video here.)

This weekend Ka Nai'a outrigger embarked on an epic journey that many of us have been looking forward to all season: paddling out to Santa Cruz Island.  (A training run for our upcoming race to Catalina.)  For you non-locals, the Channel Islands are a lovely little chain that you can see on clear days off the coast of Santa Barbara.  Roughly 30 miles of open ocean separate Scorpion Harbor (our destination) from our home harbor of Santa Barbara.  (Below, I added a nice little line to this photo to demonstrate our approximate route.)

Questioning our sanity, we awoke obscenely early Friday morning to be on the beach ready to go at 5 AM.  Chris was gracious enough to get up as well and drop me off, with a simple command to have fun and be safe.  The sun was not quite out yet as we excitedly slid the canoes onto the black, still ocean waters.  The harbor was wrapped in mist and fog, giving an eerie glow to the pier and dock lights as our voyage began in full.  Co-workers and "friends" had tried to scare warn many of us in the days prior of recent shark activity in the area, but we were undaunted.  Numbering 17 brave souls in total, 6 in each of our two canoes and 5 in the support boat that lead the way, our excitement far outweighed our collective nerves.

Half way across the channel the wind picked up, and steadily got worse as we approached the island, which loomed illusively in the distance.  It took a little under 5 hours, but we made it across with no problems.  The whoops of joy and pride echoed from the boats into the hills as we came into the harbor, greeted by awestruck kayak tourists who had been ferried out that morning.  (It was hard not to judge them, but I managed to keep my prideful smugness at bay despite their dorky bright yellow helmets and life jackets.)


Our campsite was a small trek from the loading dock, and we forced our aching bodies to haul our double bagged possessions for the weekend over.  We made ourselves at home with tents and a small feeding frenzy of power bars, relishing our accomplishment.  The local red foxes eyed our food greedily, darting in and out of our campsite with catlike agility and little to no hints of intimidation.


After hydrating thoroughly, the day was still young so a few of us took an 8 mile hike into the hills of the island.  The views were lovely, and peering back at the mainland was invigorating.  "Can you believe we
just paddled across that channel this morning?" we kept asking one another in mild disbelief.  The feeling was indeed quite unique and incredible.  Collectively we had done something that few others will ever even think to do, and we could not have done it alone.  (At least, I wouldn't want to try.)

One of the paddlers had taken it upon himself to be the weekend chef, and our bellies were never in want.  From breakfast burritos to home-made salsa and granola, it was a heavenly feast.  I slept well both Friday and Saturday night despite a torrent of wind that swept through the canyons, and relished the company of teammates and the beauty of our surroundings.  There was swimming, laughing, toenail painting, stretching, sleeping, eating, more eating, and good company.


Before we knew it, the time had come to do it all over again.


The return sojourn had some unique surprises in store.  To begin with, the wind picked up early so the first hour of paddling away from the island could have easily been featured in some kind of I-Max film, or at least accompanied by Indiana Jones theme music.  The waves were cresting as I was stationed in seat 1 of the canoe, taking full hits of white water to the face and whooping like crazed cowboy; feeling very much alive and grinning like a fool.  It was a tough run back, and the mainland was encased in a thick cloud of fog which made it incredibly difficult to figure out exactly how far away we were.  Tired, hungry, and low on energy, it was an sensational moment to recognize "the red bell buoy" straight ahead.  Spirits soared and we dug in hard for the last leg, cheered on by a smattering of tourists along the pier.

Incredibly enough, we all had plenty of energy left over to put the canoes away and haul ourselves back to the launch ramp of the harbor to sort out our gear.  Happily, there was also a pile of leftover food to greet us on which we feasted while slapping one another on the backs with gusto, so happy to be home.  What started as an already tight team resulted in something else, something special.  I'm not sure what that bond is exactly, but it's good.  Almost as good as the hot shower I took when I got home.

Gratitude as Virtue

"When asked if my cup is half-full or half-empty my only response is that I am thankful I have a cup." - Sam Lefkowitz

Today I decided to be grateful for several things, the first one being my job.  Yesterday was a little rough because it was Monday, which means it was an incredibly slow day.  I’m talking snail stepped in bubble gum slow.  Lots of folks are out on vacation, and generally there is always a lull in the already pitifully light workload around the office during the summer.

When things are incredibly slow, it’s easy to let myself feel whiny.  What am I doing here? Does this work define me as a person?  But then I was reminded today how grateful I am to have a job that I honestly do enjoy and allows me to afford an abundance of things, both necessary and frivolous.

"In our daily lives, we must see that it is not happiness that makes us grateful, but the gratefulness that makes us happy." 

- Albert Clarke

 But all that got me thinking, what is gratitude? Is it saying “thank you” when expected or appropriate?  Consider the following scenario:

Mom: Eat your peas.

Child: I don’t wanna.

Mom: You should be grateful for the opportunity to eat peas.

Child: I’d be more grateful for some ice cream!

Both child and mother in this case here misuse the term “grateful,” I believe.  It is perfectly possible to be grateful for the opportunity to eat peas/ available food and still prefer to not eat it.  By not wanting the peas, the child is not necessarily being ungrateful.

Gratitude is not simply a sentimental feeling, much in the same way patience is not a feeling.  I think the ability to remember to be grateful is learned, and can be something to strive for.  Thus gratitude is more like a virtue that shapes not only emotions and thoughts but actions and deeds as well.  In reflecting on this, I decided to do a little research and was struck by some of the things I found. 

Apparently, “Grateful people are happier, less depressed, less stressed, and more satisfied with their lives and relationships.  Grateful people have more positive ways of coping with the difficulties they experience in life, being more likely to seek support from other people, reinterpreted and grow from the experience, and spend more time planning how to deal with the problem. Grateful people also have less negative coping strategies, being less likely to try to avoid the problem, deny there is a problem, blame themselves, or cope through substance use. Grateful people sleep better.  Numerous studies suggest that grateful people are more likely to have higher levels of happiness and lower levels of stress and depression.”

Sounds like something worth pursuing, right?

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of the virtues but the parent of all others.” - Cicero

That’s pretty interesting, when you think about it.  Do all other virtues first stem off from the ability to recognize how much you have to be appreciated?  Does this often naturally lead one to thank an outside force larger than themselves?  God/ the universe/ chance/ fate?

A traditional Islamic saying states that “the first who will be summoned to paradise are those who have praised God in every circumstance.”  It was also suggested that profound gratitude is among the signs of true religion. 

"Gratitude is the heart's memory." - French proverb

It does ring true that anytime I am tempted to envy a neighbor for x,y,z or wish that my life looked more like ______, a quick list of the things to be grateful for can put it all back into perspective.  It seems then that gratitude is a virtue to be practiced at every opportunity, over things both great and small.

This is not about becoming someone who is constantly reminding people to look on the bright side or be thankful for the crappy hand they are dealt, but rather recalling (on some subconscious level) at all times that there is always something good to hold on to.  This does not mean, I think, that you have to see the upside to every situation, but rather dwell on the brighter spots instead of the dark ones and keep your priorities in a healthy place.

Know and appreciate what you have before you lose it.