The Art of Gratitude: Finding Fulfilment in Simplicity

I would have died yesterday, but God spared me for this! Erstwhile in 2003, a wise elder sat beneath the shade of an old tree, his gaze distant yet piercing, as if he could see beyond the veil of the present. A young man sat before him, filled with ambition and restlessness, grasping at life’s desires as if they might slip through his fingers. The elder, sensing the young man’s unease, leaned in and began to speak in a low, rhythmic voice, almost as if reciting a poem.

“Slow down, my son, and be patient with life,” he said, each word dropping like a pebble into a quiet pond, sending ripples of thought. “For every coin of wealth, someone begs for health; for everybody full of life, another lies beneath the earth.”

The young man was transfixed. The elder’s voice, like a gentle drum, stirred memories and visions of life’s contrasts. “Each time a mansion stretches toward the sky, know that a grave is dug beneath,” the elder continued, his words like brushstrokes on the canvas of the young man’s mind. “And every time you toss away a plate of food, someone else scavenges for crumbs.”

The elder’s voice was woven with both wisdom and sorrow, and as he spoke, he painted images that lingered in the air. “For every smile that breaks like dawn across a face, a tear is shed elsewhere, wetting the earth. Yes, in every child’s cry of birth, there’s a whisper of farewell at a graveside.”

The young man swallowed hard, the weight of the elder’s words settling deep within him. The elder saw the glimmer of realisation in his eyes and continued, his voice a steady tide, rising and falling.

“Be thankful for the water that quenches your thirst,” he said, his words infused with a gentle command. “Remember that as you drink, someone else clutches at dry lips. And every time you toss what you have as if it’s nothing, remember that the world gives only so much to each of us, and each blessing is fleeting.”

The young man sat in silence, feeling the subtle weight of these truths sinking into his heart.

A Dance of Shadows and Light

Days passed, but the elder’s words stayed with him, echoing in quiet moments, in the gentle fall of leaves, in the breath of wind through trees. And as he reflected, he felt a change stirring within him—a realisation that life was more than a race toward desires.

Life, he now understood, was like a river with two banks: joy and sorrow, abundance and want, birth and death. Each moment in the sun cast a shadow; every triumph held the seeds of loss. This duality wasn’t something to fear or flee from—it was life’s rhythm, a constant ebb and flow.

There was a strange peace in this understanding, a liberation from endless striving. It was as if he had been gifted a secret: true fulfilment lies not in gathering more but in embracing what already is. The beauty of life, the elder had taught him, lay in the spaces between—the brief moments when gratitude blooms like a wildflower, unnoticed yet radiant.

He saw now that life’s wisdom often came in whispers, like the elder’s voice that day, drawing him toward a quiet stillness. The world shouted for speed, for achievement, but true peace lived in the art of patience, in accepting both the roses and the thorns.

The Art of Gratitude

The young man now moved with a gentler step, a heart more inclined toward gratitude than desire. He saw the beauty in simple things—the sunlight breaking through leaves, the warmth of bread in his hands, the hum of laughter around him. And with every passing day, he knew that life was not a ladder to climb but a path to walk with eyes wide open and a heart ready to embrace whatever may come.

He held close the elder’s words: for each smile, a tear; for each gain, a loss. It was a reminder to cherish life’s fleeting gifts, to carry gratitude like a lantern through the dark.

And so he lived, no longer chasing the vanities of life but savouring its moments as they came, each one precious, each one enough.
I guess I am worth dying now, not so?