A Little Gratitude
A Little Gratitude
I've never been very good at this whole daily-reflection thing, but if Iever gave it a real shot, it was while I was scratching out these notes. Timepassed differently. I began to look at the day as a series of opportunities forthankfulness rather than obligations to a calendar. The discipline of thewriting gave me a morning ritual beyond a cup of coffee and the blathering ofSportsCenter. I started, for the first time in years, to work on myhandwriting. The morning didn't tear by the way it usually does. I found that Icould sit there and reconstruct the prior day by thinking of the faces of thepeople I met, the tenor of the things they did, and the places in which I metthem. With each day, I could remember more about each day that passed.
One day, toward the end of my experiment, I was called into my boss's officeand pretty much told my time was up. They couldn't offer me the terms I hadbeen working under any longer, and they wanted things to change, whether Iwanted them to or not. As I sat there, my head filled with anger. I could thinkof three people I blamed for this. Then more. Jealous, petty, careless people,each of whom had declared, without saying as much, that they no longer wantedto watch my back. Thanks, I wanted to shout. Thanks a lot. But I knew by nowthat no one would hear. I wasn't being fired; I was being dared to quit.
The next morning, as I set the notes down in front of me, I expected I'd beable to think of little else except my imminent demise. When I looked at theblank notes, my new memory kicked in. The day hadn't been that bad. One guy hadlent me a book on pigeons that I liked very much already. I'd also received alarge discount on a poker table I wanted. I had plenty to write about. I wantedto write my boss, too. I felt like I had something to say.
A Little Gratitude
But then I wrote ninety-one in the first week. continued...
I've never been very good at this whole daily-reflection thing, but if Iever gave it a real shot, it was while I was scratching out these notes. Timepassed differently. I began to look at the day as a series of opportunities forthankfulness rather than obligations to a calendar. The discipline of thewriting gave me a morning ritual beyond a cup of coffee and the blathering ofSportsCenter. I started, for the first time in years, to work on myhandwriting. The morning didn't tear by the way it usually does. I found that Icould sit there and reconstruct the prior day by thinking of the faces of thepeople I met, the tenor of the things they did, and the places in which I metthem. With each day, I could remember more about each day that passed.
One day, toward the end of my experiment, I was called into my boss's officeand pretty much told my time was up. They couldn't offer me the terms I hadbeen working under any longer, and they wanted things to change, whether Iwanted them to or not. As I sat there, my head filled with anger. I could thinkof three people I blamed for this. Then more. Jealous, petty, careless people,each of whom had declared, without saying as much, that they no longer wantedto watch my back. Thanks, I wanted to shout. Thanks a lot. But I knew by nowthat no one would hear. I wasn't being fired; I was being dared to quit.
The next morning, as I set the notes down in front of me, I expected I'd beable to think of little else except my imminent demise. When I looked at theblank notes, my new memory kicked in. The day hadn't been that bad. One guy hadlent me a book on pigeons that I liked very much already. I'd also received alarge discount on a poker table I wanted. I had plenty to write about. I wantedto write my boss, too. I felt like I had something to say.
