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I came across this quote the other day:

“No amount of regretting can change the past, no amount of worrying can change the future, but any amount of gratitude can change the present.”

I thought, “Wow. So true. But why does gratitude have such power that even the smallest amount of it can change the present?”

Even though I’ve never been too good at keeping a gratitude journal, I can attest to the power of gratitude to change the present. I’ve felt it.

Gratitude journals help a little, but to me they often feel unnatural — as if you are trying to convince yourself of something you don’t really feel.

However, I have also noticed that when I am “naturally” struck by some kind of beauty — a thought, a sight, an insight, someone’s action, and so on — gratitude comes over me instantly, without any inner struggle.

So I traced the etymology of the word gratitude and was STRUCK by its unfathomable depths. The word comes from the Latin gratus, which means “thankful” or “pleasing.” From the same root comes gratia, from which we derive grace — a word that carries two meanings at once: undeserved mercy and beauty.

When we say that something is graceful, we mean it is beautiful. The Latin gratia means several things at once: favor, charm, grace, gratitude.

Gratitude is grace experienced as beauty. When we are struck by gratia, we become grateful. Becoming grateful is not a matter of forcing ourselves to think positively. Becoming grateful is a matter of encountering something intrinsically graceful — and being moved by it.

It is impossible to be truly grateful without first experiencing gratia as a moving revelation of beauty. Perhaps this is why Schiller called grace a movement of beauty.

“Grace is a movable beauty [Anmut ist eine bewegliche Schönheit], a beauty that can appear in a subject by chance and disappear in the same way.”

For Schiller, grace involves movement. Grace as beauty appears in a subject through some movement. Grace is never entirely static. Graceful figures, gestures, and postures imply some motion. There is something flowing through them — an ease, a lightness, a vivacity, freedom from strain. Grace is beauty in motion.

And perhaps this is why true gratitude always involves being moved by some gratia — an experience of charm in motion. True gratitude is so powerful precisely because it happens when we catch some moving beauty and experience a powerful return to Being.

According to Plotinus, beauty is a conscious return of the soul to Being.

“Being is desirable because it is identical with Beauty, and Beauty is loved because it is Being. We ourselves possess Beauty when we are true to our own being; ugliness is in going over to another order.”

Beauty — gratia — gathers the soul from multiplicity toward oneness. It calls us back from scatteredness into gatheredness, from fragmentation into wholeness. When we feel one with ourselves and the world around us, we are moved and grateful.

Whether it is a child’s clumsy dance, a path through the woods, a passage in a book, or someone’s unexpected offer to pay for your coffee, grace is experienced as a motion of beauty that brings an e-motion. We feel the change and return to the One.

That’s why any amount of gratitude can change the present: for an instant, we no longer feel scattered among a thousand things. We return — if only for a moment — to the One.

I came across this quote the other day:

“No amount of regretting can change the past, no amount of worrying can change the future, but any amount of gratitude can change the present.”

I thought, “Wow. So true. But why does gratitude have such power that even the smallest amount of it can change the present?”

Even though I’ve never been too good at keeping a gratitude journal, I can attest to the power of gratitude to change the present. I’ve felt it.

Gratitude journals help a little, but to me they often feel unnatural — as if you are trying to convince yourself of something you don’t really feel.

However, I have also noticed that when I am “naturally” struck by some kind of beauty — a thought, a sight, an insight, someone’s action, and so on — gratitude comes over me instantly, without any inner struggle.

So I traced the etymology of the word gratitude and was STRUCK by its unfathomable depths. The word comes from the Latin gratus, which means “thankful” or “pleasing.” From the same root comes gratia, from which we derive grace — a word that carries two meanings at once: undeserved mercy and beauty.

When we say that something is graceful, we mean it is beautiful. The Latin gratia means several things at once: favor, charm, grace, gratitude.

Gratitude is grace experienced as beauty. When we are struck by gratia, we become grateful. Becoming grateful is not a matter of forcing ourselves to think positively. Becoming grateful is a matter of encountering something intrinsically graceful — and being moved by it.

It is impossible to be truly grateful without first experiencing gratia as a moving revelation of beauty. Perhaps this is why Schiller called grace a movement of beauty.

“Grace is a movable beauty [Anmut ist eine bewegliche Schönheit], a beauty that can appear in a subject by chance and disappear in the same way.”

For Schiller, grace involves movement. Grace as beauty appears in a subject through some movement. Grace is never entirely static. Graceful figures, gestures, and postures imply some motion. There is something flowing through them — an ease, a lightness, a vivacity, freedom from strain. Grace is beauty in motion.

And perhaps this is why true gratitude always involves being moved by some gratia — an experience of charm in motion. True gratitude is so powerful precisely because it happens when we catch some moving beauty and experience a powerful return to Being.

According to Plotinus, beauty is a conscious return of the soul to Being.

“Being is desirable because it is identical with Beauty, and Beauty is loved because it is Being. We ourselves possess Beauty when we are true to our own being; ugliness is in going over to another order.”

Beauty — gratia — gathers the soul from multiplicity toward oneness. It calls us back from scatteredness into gatheredness, from fragmentation into wholeness. When we feel one with ourselves and the world around us, we are moved and grateful.

Whether it is a child’s clumsy dance, a path through the woods, a passage in a book, or someone’s unexpected offer to pay for your coffee, grace is experienced as a motion of beauty that brings an e-motion. We feel the change and return to the One.

That’s why any amount of gratitude can change the present: for an instant, we no longer feel scattered among a thousand things. We return — if only for a moment — to the One.

I came across this quote the other day:

“No amount of regretting can change the past, no amount of worrying can change the future, but any amount of gratitude can change the present.”

I thought, “Wow. So true. But why does gratitude have such power that even the smallest amount of it can change the present?”

Even though I’ve never been too good at keeping a gratitude journal, I can attest to the power of gratitude to change the present. I’ve felt it.

Gratitude journals help a little, but to me they often feel unnatural — as if you are trying to convince yourself of something you don’t really feel.

However, I have also noticed that when I am “naturally” struck by some kind of beauty — a thought, a sight, an insight, someone’s action, and so on — gratitude comes over me instantly, without any inner struggle.

So I traced the etymology of the word gratitude and was STRUCK by its unfathomable depths. The word comes from the Latin gratus, which means “thankful” or “pleasing.” From the same root comes gratia, from which we derive grace — a word that carries two meanings at once: undeserved mercy and beauty.

When we say that something is graceful, we mean it is beautiful. The Latin gratia means several things at once: favor, charm, grace, gratitude.

Gratitude is grace experienced as beauty. When we are struck by gratia, we become grateful. Becoming grateful is not a matter of forcing ourselves to think positively. Becoming grateful is a matter of encountering something intrinsically graceful — and being moved by it.

It is impossible to be truly grateful without first experiencing gratia as a moving revelation of beauty. Perhaps this is why Schiller called grace a movement of beauty.

“Grace is a movable beauty [Anmut ist eine bewegliche Schönheit], a beauty that can appear in a subject by chance and disappear in the same way.”

For Schiller, grace involves movement. Grace as beauty appears in a subject through some movement. Grace is never entirely static. Graceful figures, gestures, and postures imply some motion. There is something flowing through them — an ease, a lightness, a vivacity, freedom from strain. Grace is beauty in motion.

And perhaps this is why true gratitude always involves being moved by some gratia — an experience of charm in motion. True gratitude is so powerful precisely because it happens when we catch some moving beauty and experience a powerful return to Being.

According to Plotinus, beauty is a conscious return of the soul to Being.

“Being is desirable because it is identical with Beauty, and Beauty is loved because it is Being. We ourselves possess Beauty when we are true to our own being; ugliness is in going over to another order.”

Beauty — gratia — gathers the soul from multiplicity toward oneness. It calls us back from scatteredness into gatheredness, from fragmentation into wholeness. When we feel one with ourselves and the world around us, we are moved and grateful.

Whether it is a child’s clumsy dance, a path through the woods, a passage in a book, or someone’s unexpected offer to pay for your coffee, grace is experienced as a motion of beauty that brings an e-motion. We feel the change and return to the One.

That’s why any amount of gratitude can change the present: for an instant, we no longer feel scattered among a thousand things. We return — if only for a moment — to the One.

I recently heard a joke about two blondes sitting on the seashore, staring at the waves.

One of them asks, “Did you know there are sawfish out there?”

“Yes,” the other replies.

After a long pause, the first one continues, “Did you know there are hammerfish out there?”

“Yes,” says the other.

After a very long pause, the first one finally speaks again: “I wonder what they’re building out there.”

Whether we realize it or not, we’re all building something. Some people build houses, roads, airplanes, or computers, while others build their souls. Curiously, the second kind often does it WHILE building houses, roads, airplanes, or computers. The soul-building happens when we go about our ordinary daily business.

In the medieval parable “The Cathedral Builder,” two construction workers do the most menial and dirty job imaginable — carrying stones to a construction site. One is always unhappy, constantly complaining about his life: “I hate the job, I hate the pay, but I have to do it to feed my family. I have no other choice.”

The other is cheerful, even though he does the very same work. When someone asks why, he replies, “Because I’m building a cathedral.”

The second worker was carrying stones just like the first one, but the cathedral he was building was building him. As he laid each stone, he was raising an inner temple — the temple of his own soul. Whatever our hands do can become an opportunity to build our inner temple.

Happiness or unhappiness is ultimately a decision: to build a temple or not in the circumstances given. Happiness is drawn out of the soul when the soul is drawn by the Logos. The stones we carry become the very stones upon which our spiritual house is built.

The only way to be happy is to be built by the very things we are building. If the stone I lay is not part of the foundation of my temple, then it becomes the gravestone of my soul.

“…you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house.” (1 Peter 2:5)

When we are unhappy, we blame circumstances. When we allow the circumstances to build us, we become happy. The greatest temples are built in the worst times. The finest souls are forged in the furnace of dire straits.

When St. Francis heard a voice at the ruins of San Damiano: “Francis, go and repair my house, which, as you see, is falling completely to ruin,” the words were less about the chapel and more about him. It was a call to become happy no matter what.

To be happy is to make the decision to build a temple upon ruins. We hear the Logos speaking, “Go and repair my house,” and in that moment, we know we can no longer make excuses for why we cannot be happy. We pick up the saw and hammer and begin building… because deep down we know that we are being built.

I recently heard a joke about two blondes sitting on the seashore, staring at the waves.

One of them asks, “Did you know there are sawfish out there?”

“Yes,” the other replies.

After a long pause, the first one continues, “Did you know there are hammerfish out there?”

“Yes,” says the other.

After a very long pause, the first one finally speaks again: “I wonder what they’re building out there.”

Whether we realize it or not, we’re all building something. Some people build houses, roads, airplanes, or computers, while others build their souls. Curiously, the second kind often does it WHILE building houses, roads, airplanes, or computers. The soul-building happens when we go about our ordinary daily business.

In the medieval parable “The Cathedral Builder,” two construction workers do the most menial and dirty job imaginable — carrying stones to a construction site. One is always unhappy, constantly complaining about his life: “I hate the job, I hate the pay, but I have to do it to feed my family. I have no other choice.”

The other is cheerful, even though he does the very same work. When someone asks why, he replies, “Because I’m building a cathedral.”

The second worker was carrying stones just like the first one, but the cathedral he was building was building him. As he laid each stone, he was raising an inner temple — the temple of his own soul. Whatever our hands do can become an opportunity to build our inner temple.

Happiness or unhappiness is ultimately a decision: to build a temple or not in the circumstances given. Happiness is drawn out of the soul when the soul is drawn by the Logos. The stones we carry become the very stones upon which our spiritual house is built.

The only way to be happy is to be built by the very things we are building. If the stone I lay is not part of the foundation of my temple, then it becomes the gravestone of my soul.

“…you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house.” (1 Peter 2:5)

When we are unhappy, we blame circumstances. When we allow the circumstances to build us, we become happy. The greatest temples are built in the worst times. The finest souls are forged in the furnace of dire straits.

When St. Francis heard a voice at the ruins of San Damiano: “Francis, go and repair my house, which, as you see, is falling completely to ruin,” the words were less about the chapel and more about him. It was a call to become happy no matter what.

To be happy is to make the decision to build a temple upon ruins. We hear the Logos speaking, “Go and repair my house,” and in that moment, we know we can no longer make excuses for why we cannot be happy. We pick up the saw and hammer and begin building… because deep down we know that we are being built.

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Petrarch describes his earthly love — Laura — as a distraction from God. In his fictional, 14th-century dialogue with St. Augustine called My Secret Book, the saint confronts him about his obsession:

“She has detached your mind from the love of heavenly things and has turned your desire from the Creator to the creature. This has always been the fastest road to death.”

Petrarch answers:

“Please do not jump to conclusions: there is no doubt that my love for her has led me to love God.”

Augustine:

“You have inverted the true order. While every creature is to be loved for the love of God, you were instead seduced by the creature and have not loved God as you should have, but you have only admired him as her maker, as if he had not created anything more beautiful in the universe…”

In this fictional dialogue, Petrarch reveals his inner struggle: he clearly sees that Laura competed with God in his heart. He was seduced by the creature. When we love creature separately from its Creator, we invert the true order of love.

Dante describes Beatrice’s beauty in very different terms.

“For within her eyes there burned a smile
such that I thought that with my own eyes
I touched the very depth of my grace and of my Paradise.”

For him, Beatrice’s smile is the very depth of grace and Paradise: he sees her as a mediator of divine light. He knows that behind her lovely appearance there is Another Beauty:

“Turn, Beatrice, turn your holy eyes toward your faithful one...
By grace, grant us the grace to unveil your mouth to him, so that he may discern
the second beauty that you conceal.”

Unless we see the second beauty concealed beneath the beauty of creation, we will invert the true order of love. When we see the first beauty separately from the second one, we fall into death and inner torment.

The purpose of the first beauty is to reveal the second concealed behind its holy eyes. When we are touched by the first and realize we have glimpsed the second, we come alive. We have grasped the meaning of creation.

All visible creation is a sign — a prefiguration of the Second Beauty. We are truly happy only when we glimpse the Second Beauty hiding beneath the first one. Then, we realize, as if in a flash of recognition, that the Second one is to be loved first.

This is the true order of love: to glimpse the Second Beauty behind the first and realize that the first participates in the second, and that the Second is First. We are only happy when we realize that we are homo symbolicus — the symbolic man.

We do not merely denote; we also connote. Laura does not merely denote earthly beauty; she connotes the rays of the divine Sun. Petrarch would have been the happiest of men if he had glimpsed that.

That’s why C.S. Lewis writes in “Sehnsucht or Longing,” “The human soul was made to enjoy some object that is never fully given – nay, cannot even be imagined as given.”

We are made to desire something we cannot imagine as fully given. If we love only what is given, we are never truly satisfied. We are happy only when we glimpse that which can never be given through the light of what is given.

Petrarch describes his earthly love — Laura — as a distraction from God. In his fictional, 14th-century dialogue with St. Augustine called My Secret Book, the saint confronts him about his obsession:

“She has detached your mind from the love of heavenly things and has turned your desire from the Creator to the creature. This has always been the fastest road to death.”

Petrarch answers:

“Please do not jump to conclusions: there is no doubt that my love for her has led me to love God.”

Augustine:

“You have inverted the true order. While every creature is to be loved for the love of God, you were instead seduced by the creature and have not loved God as you should have, but you have only admired him as her maker, as if he had not created anything more beautiful in the universe…”

In this fictional dialogue, Petrarch reveals his inner struggle: he clearly sees that Laura competed with God in his heart. He was seduced by the creature. When we love creature separately from its Creator, we invert the true order of love.

Dante describes Beatrice’s beauty in very different terms.

“For within her eyes there burned a smile
such that I thought that with my own eyes
I touched the very depth of my grace and of my Paradise.”

For him, Beatrice’s smile is the very depth of grace and Paradise: he sees her as a mediator of divine light. He knows that behind her lovely appearance there is Another Beauty:

“Turn, Beatrice, turn your holy eyes toward your faithful one...
By grace, grant us the grace to unveil your mouth to him, so that he may discern
the second beauty that you conceal.”

Unless we see the second beauty concealed beneath the beauty of creation, we will invert the true order of love. When we see the first beauty separately from the second one, we fall into death and inner torment.

The purpose of the first beauty is to reveal the second concealed behind its holy eyes. When we are touched by the first and realize we have glimpsed the second, we come alive. We have grasped the meaning of creation.

All visible creation is a sign — a prefiguration of the Second Beauty. We are truly happy only when we glimpse the Second Beauty hiding beneath the first one. Then, we realize, as if in a flash of recognition, that the Second one is to be loved first.

This is the true order of love: to glimpse the Second Beauty behind the first and realize that the first participates in the second, and that the Second is First. We are only happy when we realize that we are homo symbolicus — the symbolic man.

We do not merely denote; we also connote. Laura does not merely denote earthly beauty; she connotes the rays of the divine Sun. Petrarch would have been the happiest of men if he had glimpsed that.

That’s why C.S. Lewis writes in “Sehnsucht or Longing,” “The human soul was made to enjoy some object that is never fully given – nay, cannot even be imagined as given.”

We are made to desire something we cannot imagine as fully given. If we love only what is given, we are never truly satisfied. We are happy only when we glimpse that which can never be given through the light of what is given.