Sometimes the evil, slimy, self-pitying monster lying coiled (most of the time) deep in the soles of my feet slithers his way up through some path in need of repair, sneering at this whole gratitude thing all the way.
"Be grateful for *what*? Your debt? Your lack of independence? The relentless schedule you keep, just to hold it all together? Your mistakes? Your failures? Your laziness? Your lack of ambition? Ha! Good luck, there, girlie. Gratitude is a trend, a fad, a 21st Century New-Age version of the Grapefruit Diet."
And, man, that voice is so tempting--like Bond-villain tempting. You know what I mean--smooth and British, sophisticated and so seemingly logical. And so beautifully dastardly--like, drugs-in-the-veins kind of dastardly; he takes your pain for the briefest of moments, turning it into something you long to prod, like a loose tooth, regretting it only later and for so much longer.
But more and more often, I find counters to those tempting obstacles. I counter with logic, with hope, with faith, with sheer bloody-minded stubbornness that I lace up with my Duck boots before tramping around in the mud or the snow or the compost.
But really? I think the true evolution will come when I can stop objecting to the objections, when I can smile on the serpent, welcome him, make space at my table, and thank him for raising such valid concerns but, if he doesn't mind my saying, I've got the situation well in hand. And yes, yes, there is always, will always be a place for him; I'll abandon no part of myself.
His vote just won't count for much.