from a place of gratefulness

It is only from such a place of gratefulness 

that we can perform beautiful acts — 

from a place of absolute, ravishing appreciation

 for the sheer wonder of being alive at all, 

each of us an improbable and temporary triumph

 over the staggering odds of nonbeing and nothingness

 inking the ledger of spacetime.

 But because we are human, because we are batted about

 by the violent immediacies of everyday life, 

such gratitude eludes us as a continuous state of being.

 We access it only at moments, 

only when the trance of busyness lifts 

and the blackout curtain of daily demands

 parts to let the radiance in, those delicious moments

 when we find ourselves 

awash in nonspecific gladness,

 grateful not to this person,

 grateful not for this turn of events,

 but grateful at life — a diffuse gratitude

 that irradiates every aspect and atom 

of the world, however small, however unremarkable,

 however coated with the dull patina of habit.

 In those moments, everything sings, 

everything shimmers. 

In those moments, we are most alive.

~ Seneca

from Letters from a Stoic