The Moment
I think Margaret Atwood’s poem “The Moment” perfectly compliments some of the themes we’ve been exploring of late in relation to gratitude – both in general as we approach Thanksgiving and in relationship to Luke’s story of Jesus and our Lord’s injunction to see and care for those in need.
A sense of ownership, of deserving, of having earned the good we enjoy in this life is, I believe, the mortal enemy of gratitude. For gratitude recognizes our empty hands and can only give thanks for what has filled them. Gratitude looks around in wonder at all that furnishes our life and feels no sense of accomplishment, only a surprised delight in good fortune. When we feel grateful it is hard to be mean or cruel or indifferent, for we perceive that all of life is a gift, and gifts make us feel special and capable and both responsible and responsive. How can we not give back when we realize how much has been given to us?
But the moment we’ve decided that we are not stewards but owners, not recipients but creators, not blessed but entitled, all the wonder and magic of the world vanishes, leaving us alone with our self-satisfied hearts, grateful to no one but ourselves, connected by no obligation of love or duty, triumphant in our loneliness.
May we never tarry in such moments for long. Not on Thanksgiving. Not at Christmas. Not even on our birthday or the day of our promotion or retirement. No, not ever.
Nature, and the God of nature, has blessed us, sought us out, and found us. And acknowledging that in grateful surprise is surely the beginning of both wisdom and happiness. Which, when you think about it, means that perhaps the most important words to say across the journey of our lives is not, finally, “I love you,” but the shorter, sweeter phrase, “Thank you.”
The Moment
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
by Margaret Atwood
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