Gratitude, the Sequel

I've written at least ten gratitude lists in my life, probably fifty. Yet however often I practice gratitude, I always seem to lose the knack for it. Like the food we eat, we seem to always burn up our gratitude, and need to replenish it.

Here is attempt number fifty-one.

I have a gorgeous husband who loves me. I met him before I was born in the spiritual world, where we created things for which we are only now finding words.

Thanks to the stocks Richard's Dad left him, and the popping of the real estate bubble, we have a physical home, which is paid for. In our house, we have two rooms we can rent to supplement our income, which, low by American standards, still gives us all we need.

This house has a beautiful floor where we can dance together, worship together, practice speech, and perform.

Thanks to our easy going natures, and emotional intelligence, we can trust our instincts that we will be able to get along with the people with whom we are sharing our house.

I have a job that I love. When I look back at the posts I wrote before Kerry hired me in the Snowdrop Nursery, I remember how isolated I felt. How dry and dark a life without children felt. My colleagues trust and respect me, and vice versa. We laugh and we cry together.

I work in a school which has been called the cutting edge, where colleagues laugh, parents befriend teachers, good things happen based on honest work. A school where humility and good will rule the day.

I have some childcare situations where I have creative freedom to shape the time and focus on just two children. I began a serial story with one of the families, thereby committing to continuing the story till the end of the year. I have already found that this story is bearing fruit.

I have the gift of Rudolf Steiner's pedagogical tools, whence comes the prototype for that story I am telling. You translate the child's issues into a story with clear pictures. Then you find a way for the story to resolve itself. For the stuck-ness to get unstuck. Somehow the child's difficulty also unravels itself, without the child ever being admonished or punished.

I have been blessed to learn that what I get out of life is what I put in, and that what bothers me about others is a clue to my own shortcomings, a hint for my further becoming. Without this wisdom, life would be fruitless suffering.

I have the freedom to follow my love, or my laziness. Laziness, says M. Scott Peck, is really a lack of love. If I can love my life's work enough, I will be able to tap energy to invest in it. If a child is floundering, my only way forward with them is interest, love. Love alone, though it takes many forms. Peck describes Love as attention plus effort over time. Nothing else will open a way forward.

I have a variety of amazing children in my life; they all do quirky things which delight and puzzle me.

I have spiritual homes: the West Philadelphia Quaker Worship Group, the Christian Community in Devon, the 5 Rhythms tribe worldwide, the body of the students of Steiner who call themselves Anthroposophists. Most importantly, the school of Michael, which contains all the previous groups and many more. These are all the earnest spiritual seekers in our time and the centuries to come, on earth and in heaven. That's a hell of a big tribe. My spiritual home is not a place but a time. My spiritual home is now. That's a hell of a place.

I have a family which most of my friends tell me is cooler than theirs. Hee hee. It's certainly more eclectic than most, with a right wing politician father and a feminist radical mother and some righteous funky sisters. I have a cool Grammy who taught me how to mash potatoes and put plastic bags on my feet so I could play in the snow. She is almost ninety-four years old.

I have a training in Creative Speech and Acting, an art with the potential to fuel the teachers (and all other professions) of the future, whoever and whenever they choose to take it up. I have a few students who give me the opportunity to learn how to teach it.

I have a spiritual practice with the potential to help me grow indefinitely, as far as my will to work (love for activity) can take me.

There is only one thing I don't have. Now. Once I have it I'll want something else. I know what that next thing is too. I can probably predict the list of things which will follow from that thing. Once I have a child, (after the child grows up a bit) I will want another child. After that child grows up a bit, I'll want a job as a class teacher. After a few weeks of being a class teacher (an eight year commitment), I'll want a sabbatical! After eight years and a sabbatical I'll want to teach again. I'll want to be a better teacher than I am. After teaching I'll want a sabbatical again. If my husband gets sick and moves toward death I'll wish I'd met him earlier. If he dies, I'll grieve. Then I'll want another partner, though no partner will ever be the same. I'll wish he could have lived to see how his children grew up. At some point I'll wish I had the money to send my two children to college. Maybe my Dad will fulfill this wish. I'll probably start to see the Waldorf movement and the world through wider eyes, want to give it something for the future, want to be big enough to encompass what is needed. Can't see much beyond this. Too many particulars to work out. I guess at some point I'll want to finish my first novel. Or write another one. Or write other books about teaching and life.

Indeed, there will always be something I want. That is the desire to be better, to do better which reminds us to move forward. But why dwell on it? It will always be replaced by the next thing. Whereas the list of gratitudes, it simply broadens and deepens, placing our heart in a well of security. What a wealth of wisdom has guided us to this place. What a potential remains to be tapped. Can we live the longing, love the longing, and thereby love our life?