At our center, our divine intellective activity knows that the supreme value of our life rests in gratitude. The first actuality of our joy was to appreciate the senses. As a small baby, the comforting sight of my mother's warm breast at feeding time when I had no idea it was meant for nourishment. Barely able to walk, I screamed with laughter at the shore of the beach water splashing at my feet unaware water could pose a danger. The sound of my puppy anxiously anticipating the wet warm kisses of his love on my face never expecting dogs could bite. Running as fast as my small legs would carry me when my older siblings made it a game to try and catch me, not expecting to fall down and skin my knee. My older brother swinging me by my arms to that enchanting dizziness with no thought of becoming sick to my stomach. My mommy and daddy coming home from a night out, regardless of their level of intoxication, hearing them would mean hugs. Our first blessing, our soul, looks only to the good and knows the value for life itself regardless of the potential consequences of our choices.
As children, the aliveness, the core, the eternal occupant of our being did the very best to navigate us to a place of continued appreciation for life itself and to deliver us from fear. I recall the story of the small child standing at the crib of his newborn baby sister. His mother overhead him saying "tell me about God, I'm starting to forget". Shall it not be considered the same as gratitude. Tell me about the magical truth of gratitude for the simple things I feel at the center of my being. When do we begin to forget, this sense of truth, a truth that says there is good in all circumstances.
The knowingness at my center continually attempted to reform the negative impressions of life and living that society would continue to place in my path. Self improvement taught me to respect gratitude and to take my attention to it's healing benefits. Yet, all too often I fail to remember and the teaching begins again. What can be done to heal the teaching.
To be continued . . .
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