Gratitude as Resistance

It was 7:25 in the evening, five minutes before the regular evening newscast, except the townspeople of Swidnik were not watching the news. They were walking it. That evening, almost the entire population of 30,000 was out on the streets, strolling and chatting with one another, many of them pushing heavy television sets in old wheelbarrows or baby strollers. The “news-walkers,” as they came to be called, were protesting the Polish government’s propaganda by boycotting their daily broadcast, a measure that infuriated the authoritarian communist regime but left it powerless to retaliate. Going for an evening walk wasn’t illegal, and neither was wheeling around your tv set. When the government tried to tamp down the boycott by rolling the 10 pm curfew back to 7 pm, the town responded by taking their walk during the 5 pm broadcast instead. Within a month, the news-walks had spread to other towns and cities in Poland, where ordinary citizens continued to protest the regime until its eventual downfall in 1989.

Around the same time, miners in Chile called for a nationwide action against Pinochet’s tyrannical rule. Every evening, at 8 pm sharp, people all over the country took to their balconies to bang pots and pans; they sang in the streets, “He’s going to fall, he’s going to fall” (this annoyed Pinochet so much that he banned singing); and drove and walked at half speed on designated days. As in Swidnik, these protests helped the movement to topple the government, not least because they eroded people’s fear, which is what every dictator banks on to preserve their power.

Nonviolent movements have a long history, as does the use of “dilemma actions” like the ones described above. Creative—and humorous—protests force opponents into lose-lose situations, trapping them between two equally bad choices: allow the protest and undermine your own power, or squash it and appear overly cruel or downright foolish. Either way, the protesters win. Humor and low-risk disturbance are key ingredients of nonviolent movements because they encourage ordinary people to participate in actions they might otherwise avoid. Yet there’s a third, more subtle—and perhaps unexpected—ingredient that can also power change-focused action, and that’s the practice of gratitude as resistance.

A few years after the Polish and Chilean protests, the writer and Zen practitioner W.S. Merwin wrote a poem called “Thanks.” Read now, the poem feels prescient, though not uncannily so, given how reliably history rhymes. An excerpt reads: …in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators / remembering wars and the police at the door / and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you / in the banks we are saying thank you / in the faces of the officials and the rich / and of all who will never change / we go on saying thank you thank you. The original, which Merwin had written the previous year, was less subtle, and it’s impossible to know whether he was pressured to change it or whether he felt the need to soften it himself. In a country up to its chin in shame / living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you / in the banks that use us we are saying thank you / with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable / unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you. Commenting on the poem, one writer thought Merwin was being ironic. Another that he was mocking performative gratitude, calling out proponents of toxic positivity. I have a different theory, and it’s that Merwin was serious about every word he wrote. Neither performing gratitude nor mocking it, in writing “Thanks” he was showing us how to live when things don’t go our way—whether at a personal or global level. He was planting his feet firmly on solid ground while everything around him crumbled, staking himself on his ability to notice and give thanks, not despite of but because of the devastation. Because to give thanks in a world that will have us remain perpetually dissatisfied and seemingly powerless is an act of courage and disruption.

That other Buddhist-informed poet, Mary Oliver, offered us a similar view in her pithy poem “Sometimes.” It goes: Instructions for living a life: / Pay attention. / Be astonished. / Tell about it. When things go wrong, it’s easy to get caught up in anger or righteousness or recrimination. When we’re certain that we know what needs to happen and to whom, it’s good to be struck, to be humbled, by how much we don’t understand, how much is out of our control. It’s also helpful to remember that we always have more than what we’ve lost. The moment that balance shifts, we’re no longer living but surviving. But if we are fully living, then to acknowledge what we have is a powerful act of both remembrance and reverence. It’s a decision to stand on the ground of reality, and from there take the next step.

In the Maha-mangala Sutta, a deity of great beauty says to the Buddha, “Deities and humans long for goodness and wellbeing, and so they wonder about life’s blessings. Please tell me what you see as the highest blessings.” In response, the Buddha offers a short list of qualities, among them reverence, humility, contentment, and gratitude. “Those who master these,” he says, “are happy and invincible, and they can go anywhere safely. It’s these qualities that make for the highest blessings.” It might seem disingenuous to speak of reverence and humility in a world that seems so wanting, to invoke gratitude when there’s so much that needs to be set right. But the fact is that there are still people and communities who understand that without some form of reverence, without the consistent expression of gratitude for all the many gifts we continue to receive, we lose a bit of our humanity. We become consumers simply waiting for another startup to create and fulfill a need. Practicing reverence, humility, contentment, and gratitude, on the other hand, we acknowledge ourselves as recipients of an unbelievable bounty, recognizing that we have what we need and more. In doing so, we take our rightful place in the vast web of interconnections that is our universe—not at the top, but in the middle of things, where everything is equally important and equally bound to everything else. Giving thanks, we neither take what we have for granted, nor misuse it through neglect or disregard. I think of the recitation that the writer Robin Wall Kimmerer describes in her magnificent book Braiding Sweetgrass. Called the Thanksgiving Address, it’s a kind of prayer or invocation used by the Haudenosaunee Confederacy at the start of any important gathering to thank the Earth for her many gifts. The children of the Onondaga Nation, for example, begin each school day by reciting the address, expressing gratitude for the continued presence of the waters, the fish, the plants and trees, the shrubs and fruit of the world, etc., and their commitment to keep meeting their “responsibility to the rest of Creation.” It’s a wonderful teaching that acknowledges the existence of each element, recognizes its longevity, and expresses gratitude for the fact that it’s still upholding its part of the bargain—it’s still fulfilling its function and therefore helping every other thing function as well. The implicit question, of course, is Are we?

What might this world look like if every single one of us began our days with a version of the Thanksgiving Address, offering thanks not just for the natural world, but for every blessing we’re fortunate to enjoy? This day of life, timely advice from a friend or a parent, another breath. The food on our table and the many labors that bring it to us. The clothes on our bodies, the relative clarity of our minds, our continued ability to do things like walk or swim or sing or speak. The absence of pain. A moment or two of quiet. I suspect that the world would look very different, that it wouldn’t be groaning under our weight.

My first Zen teacher, Daido Roshi, would often invoke the following thought experiment: imagine two individuals whose lives are fundamentally satisfying. They both have families, jobs, food, safety, and some degree of leisure. That is, they’re not worried about survival in any immediate sense. Now ask one of them to spend the first hour of her day giving voice to everything she’s dissatisfied with in her life, everything she feels is missing, everything she doesn’t like. Turn to the other and ask him to spend the first hour of his day expressing gratitude for everything he has, everything he enjoys, every last bit of goodness he can see in himself and all around him. Ask them to repeat this ritual day after day for a year and then assess the result. “When the time is up,” my teacher would say, “with whom do you think you’ll want to hang out?” It’s not difficult to see that our thoughts shape us into the people we become, so it’s curious that we’re often so careless with them. But if we do choose to take care, then we can let the first thoughts of our days be thoughts of thanksgiving. We can pay attention and be astonished, and find there’s no lack of things to be grateful for—so much so, that an hour might not be sufficient to do justice to our lists. To not leave anything out, we might find we need to spend whole days expressing gratitude.

Of the Thanksgiving Address, Wall Kimmerer says that it cultivates an “ethics of fullness” which, from a Buddhist perspective, is the perfect antidote to that soul-crushing feeling of emptiness brought on by craving. That’s why practicing gratitude is such a powerful form of resistance. It undermines the scarcity mindset that keeps our capitalist society humming, and us restless and distracted. When we clearly know who we are and what we have, we don’t need to go shopping for contentment. We know we can always find it exactly where we’re standing, and regardless of the circumstances. This, I believe, was Merwin’s message.

But how do we find joy within pain? How can we cultivate peace in the middle of war—inner or outer? How do we see unity in division, and feel love where there’s so much hate and violence? Nurturing our capacity for gratitude isn’t the only way, but it’s a reliable path. The practice of gratitude is a quintessentially joyful practice, another key ingredient of change. Without joy we can’t possibly sustain the work of caring for that which desperately needs our care. Duty will work for some time, but eventually our efforts will peter out because no one likes to feel perpetually bound—not even to ourselves. Anger can propel us into action, yes, but it also has a way of corroding the agent. In the Visuddhimagga (The Path of Purification), the fifth century monk and philosopher Buddhaghosa said that to get angry is like grabbing a handful of excrement or a burning ember to throw at our target. We too will get stinky or burned. If we want to effect and sustain change—or if we simply want to be consistently peaceful and content—we need something more reliable, something we can renew with little effort so we can use our energy where we need it most. Gratitude is an evergreen resource, and it’s always accessible. Even the most unfortunate of us would be hard pressed to say we have absolutely nothing to be grateful for. Expressing gratitude isn’t the same as crafting legislation, of course, or taking to the streets, or founding a non-profit to install solar panels in homes. But without gratitude, our activity becomes brittle. With it, we have the lubricant and the fuel we need to keep going.

To focus on what we have instead of zeroing in on what’s missing is a disciplined practice, however, given that we human beings are hardwired for negativity. As an evolutionary adaptation, negativity bias made sense. If I was out in the bush and I heard some rustling, I needed to quickly decide whether the noise was due to the wind or an approaching tiger. If I assumed it was the wind and was wrong, I died. If I guessed tiger and was mistaken, I ended up annoyed but alive. Hundreds of thousands of years of evolution have favored us bracing for the worst case scenario, a fact that has made negativity bias great for surviving but lousy for thriving. Fortunately, for that we have thanksgiving. When we make gratitude our baseline, we realize just how much we have to work with, how plentiful our life already is. The key is to not take anything for granted, to see what we have less as a right than a gift, and to treat it as such.

The Haudenosaunee call the Thanksgiving Address the “Words That Come Before All Else.” Although in the absolute sense no word is more important than any other, in the relative world some words are infused with great importance and power. To know what they are and how to use them is a privilege, a responsibility, an offering and a prize all rolled into one. When we’re careful with our words, we show we understand both their power and our commitment to their good use. As far as we know, no other creature has this ability. So why not pledge to use it well? Why not beginning anything important—which is everything—with words of power?

There are many ways to practice gratitude, the simplest being just enumerating all the things we’re grateful for. But if we also want to temper our negativity bias while reminding ourselves of the interconnectedness of all that exists, then we can get a bit more specific with our thanksgiving. Below is a sample practice that you can tailor to your needs. The exact words are less important than the spirit behind them. As you practice gratitude, choose those words that are most meaningful to you, and return to them time and again.

Gratitude Meditation

Sit upright with a stable base and relaxed shoulders. Rest your hands on your lap with your fingers layered over one another and thumbs touching, or place your hands on your thighs palms down. Close your eyes. Direct your attention to the natural rhythm of your breath, noticing the physical sensation of each inhalation and exhalation at the nostrils or abdomen. As you exhale, soften any tightness you might be feeling around the heart, chest, or eyes. Now bring your mind gently to this moment, releasing any lingering thoughts of the past or the future. Think of three positive events you remember from your day (or yesterday, if you’re meditating very early in the morning). Choose simple, concrete examples, like the pleasure of a sip of clean water, the coolness you felt as you rested for a moment in the shade, a good conversation with a friend. For each item, focus on the pleasant feeling that arises in your body as you think of it. Notice any warmth, openness, or ease in the chest or abdomen, and let is spread throughout the body and beyond it. Notice the calm that settles over your mind as you do this. Spend some time enjoying that ease and calm.

Next, take one of your examples and trace the web of causes that made it possible for it to arise. For example, that sip of clean water required a source—a river, a lake, or rainfall—as well as infrastructure to purify it, transport it, etc. To get to you, that water required the presence and work of hundreds of thousands of hands: all the many workers involved in getting water to your home, the clothes those workers were wearing, the people who made those clothes, as well as their materials, the food all of you have eaten and the work required to produce that, the soil and plants and water involved in growing it, and on and on. Recognize that your wellbeing is always the product of an immense cooperative—a gift supported by countless conditions and beings. If a single condition shifts, the whole balance shifts. Appreciate how delicate and wondrous this vast net of relationships really is. Then allow that sense of appreciation to build in you and radiate outward to touch all those whose work and presence touches you. In your own words, express gratitude silently or aloud for the many circumstances that made it possible for you to enjoy this water. For example, “I am grateful for water in all its many forms, and for the work of so many that allows me to enjoy clean, healthy water. It is thanks to their many efforts that I can continue to support my own life, and support others in turn. May the goodness I receive from this water extend to all beings, and may all those who lack the gift of clean water be quickly blessed with it.” Choose words that express your own sense of gratitude and reverence, but know that the more specific you can be, the more meaningful you’ll find this practice of thanksgiving.

When you’re ready to conclude, take a few deep breaths, slowly bringing your attention back to the space in which you’re sitting, and when gently open your eyes. Place your palms together in front of your chest in an expression of gratitude and respect, and give thanks for space and time and ability you have to spend in meditation. As the teachings say, to have been born human is a great gift. To have been born human and have found the teachings makes that gift immeasurable.

Photo by Ales Krivec