Why is it so hard to give thanks?

This is something I constantly struggle with. It’s so easy to lose sight of what we have and who we are in the constant thrust of day-to-day life. I get launched into my routine, I get side-tracked by text messages, I find myself floating from conversation to conversation, sentence to sentence in (sometimes) mind-numbing reading assignments. At no point do I stop to take stock of who I am, where I am, what I have, and where it all comes from.

Giving thanks doesn’t require much. If anything, it necessitates perspective. Where does this abundance—all that I have, from breath to bread—where does it come from?

In order to give thanks, I have to remind myself that these things that bless my life—be it family, friends, food, fleeces in frigid weather—none of these things come from me. I did not pick my family; I did not accept my friends into Duke; I did not prepare the chicken tikka masala at Tandoor; nor did I make this Randolph quarter zip that I definitely over wear. Where did these things come from? Something, or someone, entirely outside of myself. The act of giving thanks implicitly recognizes that I am not alone, I depend upon others; I live in a world where I am not a god and where I am not the sole source of my own sustenance.

But this is exactly the contemporary struggle I mentioned before. It is so easy to live as if all things I do, all that I am, depends upon me. I need to show up. I have to write my paper. I deserve this grade because I worked for it. I, I, I—it is so easy to let this become all about me when we do not stop to realize that we are participants in a daily, cosmic orchestra much greater than ourselves. Yes, we are instrumental—but only because of the sounding off of other instruments, all strung about by someone, something, that composes and weaves our very squeaky, off-beat, and at times, bitter sound-bits together. The beauty of the orchestra doesn’t come from me pounding upon the ivories or tickling the tuba. No, the grand-package, the full composition is the piece to be proud of. And you and me, as instruments uniquely tuned, sound off in our own ways.

This notion recalls Dante’s image of the Empyrean, his version of a heavenly vision, in Paradiso: all share in the divine life of God—all are brought together to this point of unity. Yet each individual maintains his or her own uniqueness. Francis of Assisi is not Bernard of Clairvaux. Dante expresses diversity in unity or the oneness of plurality. We can be apart of something much greater than ourselves and in doing so realize the fullness of our own individuality.

What does this have to do with gratitude? All of this is to say this: giving thanks requires selflessness. We have to step outside of ourselves, looking beyond all of the things we have and do, and people we know, and realize that they don’t come from us. This is the foundation for thanksgiving, rejoicing in the face of a bounty that we’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve. Knowing that these things don’t come from us; yet knowing that they come to us and we are capable of rejoicing in that, reveling in that, living into the fullness of those gifts and sharing them in order to live a full human life.

Thanksgiving is a response to disinterested love; disinterested love is a love that is shared without any bias, no preconditions. It simply is. Breath is ours. Bread is ours. The bounty of food that we might be blessed to partake in has been made our own. All is given; and the question for me this holiday season is how will I receive it? (Will I receive it?)

Will I eat it without acknowledging my grandmother’s labor of love? (It might be hard to ignore her “labor” if her hair ends up being baked into the pie…that’s a different issue I guess.) Will I look beyond myself and consider what it is that I have and where it is that it comes from?

In closing this reflection, I think I find it so difficult to be grateful, to truly be thankful, because I don’t consider how deeply I am loved. To consider how loved I am requires me to take stock of a few things…the Lover, the beloved (me), and the love that is exchanged and shared. It’s easy for me to get caught up in the love that is shared—how great my relationships are, how strong these feelings feel, or how beautiful the gift of nature is. The tough part is this: admitting that these things have been especially given over to us by individuals—a God—who uniquely and personally loves us, each and every day, willing us on to the next breath, and the breaking of the bread. To say, I am loved, I am grateful, I am thankful also says this: Someone loves me. Someone has blessed me. Someone gives to me.

This Thanksgiving I recognize the own desire on my heart to dig a little deeper on manifestations of love in my life—whether that be of friends, family, or of something on a much more supernatural, transcendent scale. A fruit of this is something like this, a short piece of writing. Gifts are given us to be shared. Gratitude acknowledges these gifts, which are given over to us in love, compelling us to say thank you—in both word and deed.

I’ve stopped writing part and parcel because I’ve stopped reflecting (kind of…). I’ve stopped considering the abundance of gifts I do have and do want to share. And my mantra (the reason I still serve as an RA is this): even if these feeble ideas touch one heart—even if that heart happens to be mine—it is well worthwhile.