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
