Gratitude

Grandpa, whose principal concerns were his good name and the health of his business, was both shrewd and wise. When he was an old man and I was a boy, he would often ask me why he couldn't compare himself to people who were poorer rather than to those who were richer.

Of course, I never tried to answer his question, and I don't think I could answer it now. Whatever the reason, his ambition led him, throughout his life, to a series of expansions and acquisitions, each of which made him anxious. I remember passing his desk calendar when he was negotiating the largest acquisition he had made up to that point. He had written on that day's date, "This too shall pass."

I thought of him last Monday night, during the second meeting of my Mussar class. Mussar is a Jewish tradition of spiritual refinement, whose earliest text was written about one thousand years ago. The practitioner focuses week by week on a different trait, such as humility, silence, or generosity, and during the week tries to act in such a way as to find balance in that trait. When, for example, the trait of humility is in balance, we take up no more than the space that is appropriate for us but no less than that either. The practice includes reading relevant texts, daily recitation of a mantra concerning the trait, self-examination through keeping a daily journal, group discussion, and discussion with a partner.

The other night we were asked to consider, before our next class meeting, the trait of gratitude, and the suggested mantra is "be awake to the good and give thanks." The Mussar tradition asks us to be grateful for what's positive in our lives and to recognize the possibility that the painful things we suffer might eventually lead to good. We take for granted many good things, such as electric light, indoor plumbing, and central heating, and to tell the truth, before encountering Mussar, I had never thought to be grateful for them. They would, however, have delighted Grandpa when he was a boy, since he grew up in a hovel without any of them. I once asked him where he went to the bathroom when he was very young. "In our backyard," he said, "which of course was someone else's front yard."

I thought about Grandpa because of his frequent question: why did he compare himself to those richer rather than to those poorer, a comparison that led, of course, to dissatisfaction. In a world of infinite desire and finite resources, concentration on what we don't possess or on what we haven't accomplished leads to perpetual dissatisfaction, since there will always be more goods than we can acquire and more work to be accomplished. But was it not my grandfather's dissatisfaction that impelled him to continually strive?

I wonder if he was thankful for what he had been able to achieve. His rhetorical question suggests that he was not. His ambition, never to be slaked, could not have been without cost to him, his wife, or his children. What then does it mean to be balanced with respect to gratitude? Surely there can be too little, but can there be too much? Can we awaken to the good in our lives and give thanks for it, yet continue to strive?