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