For example, one morning after Jamie had one of his regular appointments with his liver doctor, he still hadn’t called me by lunchtime. Finally I called him. “So what did the doctor say?”
“No change,” he said absentmindedly.
“What does that mean, ‘No change’?”
“Well, nothing has changed.”
Usually I wouldn’t have given this report much thought, but pondering gratitude and reading catastrophe memoirs made me realize—what a happy day. No news is fantastic news. It got a starred entry in my gratitude notebook. I was mindful of being grateful, too, for all the bad fortune that had narrowly passed me by: the near miss on a bridge on an icy road, the time Eliza dreamily walked out into busy traffic before I could stop her.
Blog readers recounted their experiences with their own versions of a happiness notebook:
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I started a journal of my own a few months ago, in the form of a private blog on my own computer. I’ve spent a lot of time writing in it the things that have bothered me, or things in my life that I feel I have botched, but far less time writing down what I have to be grateful for.
From my experience, a gratitude journal is a great thing—and it doesn’t really need to be a written journal. I tried a written journal for a couple of weeks, but it always felt artificial. Now, every day as part of my evening meditation I take some time to really become conscious of the things I am grateful for—and I intensify the emotion. Switching from writing down what I am grateful for to feeling gratefulness with my heart is a great thing. I learned a lot of that in Thailand, where many people have the habit of visiting temples and making merit. The first couple of times I went with them, I always asked them what to do and how to behave, and they answered you shall just pray with your heart, make gratitude for everything you experience a real heartfelt emotion. And this really made a big difference for me, from “a fake make-up gratitude” to a real, enriching experience.
I went through a terrible period when everything, and I mean everything, in my life went wrong. I had no self-esteem, no confidence in myself. So I started keeping a gratitude journal of things that I was grateful for about MYSELF. I was grateful that I had the discipline to keep exercising, even when I didn’t feel like it. I was grateful that I’d given up smoking two years ago. I was grateful that I managed to organize a birthday party for my father. Maybe this makes me sound conceited, but keeping that journal helped me not be paralyzed by self-loathing.
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But after two weeks of keeping a gratitude notebook, I realized that although gratitude boosts happiness, my gratitude notebook wasn’t having that effect anymore. It had started to feel forced and affected, and instead of putting me in a grateful frame of mind, it made me annoyed. Later, I read a study that suggested I might have had better luck with my gratitude notebook if I had kept it twice a week instead of every day; expressing gratitude less often seemed to keep it more meaningful. But by then I’d soured on the task. I gave it up.
Because my gratitude notebook didn’t work, I had to find other ways to cultivate gratitude. I tied the action of typing my password into my computer to a moment of gratitude; while I waited for my computer to wake up from its slumber, I thought grateful thoughts. This gratitude meditation had the same effect as a gratitude notebook, but somehow it didn’t bug me. (Speaking of “gratitude meditation,” I noticed that if I put the word “meditation” after any activity, it suddenly seemed much more high-minded and spiritual: when waiting for the bus, I’d tell myself I was doing “bus-waiting meditation” in the slow line at the drugstore, I was doing “waiting-in-line meditation.”) I worked harder to appreciate my ordinary day. This thought arose most naturally when I put the girls to bed. I give Eleanor her sippy cup of milk, then cuddle her in my lap as I rock her to sleep. With Eliza, after Jamie has read to her from Harry Potter for half an hour, I go snuggle with her for fifteen minutes or so. We lie together on her bed, her head on my shoulder, and talk. I tried to appreciate the seasons more, too—to notice, in the midst of concrete and cabs, the color of the sky, the quality of light, the flowers in window boxes. “There is, indeed,” wrote Samuel Johnson, “something inexpressibly pleasing in the annual renovation of the world, and the new display of the treasures of nature.”
When I was feeling a distinct lack of gratitude, I tried to cure it by applying my Third Commandment to “Act the way I want to feel.” Could I turn complaints into thankfulness? When I felt annoyed at having to take Eleanor for her pediatrician’s checkup, I told myself, “I feel grateful for taking Eleanor to the doctor.” The crazy thing is—it worked! How disappointed I’d be if someone else took her. One sleepless morning, I was wide awake at 3:00 A.M., and at 4:00, instead of continuing to toss and fume, I told myself, “I feel grateful for being awake at 4:00.” I got up, made myself some tea, and headed to my dark, quiet office. I lit my orange-blossom-scented candle and settled in—knowing that I’d have no interruptions for at least two hours. Instead of starting my day feeling frustrated or groggy, I started my day with a feeling of tranquility and accomplishment. Voilà! A complaint turned into thankfulness.
I’d been spending a lot of time thinking about trying to be more grateful. Then one hot Sunday afternoon, when we were at the pool with Jamie’s parents, Eliza said to me, “You know what I was just thinking? ‘I’m in the pool, it’s summer, I’m seven years old, I’m wearing a very cute bathing suit, and my grandmother is asking me if I want anything to eat or drink.’” By which she meant: Life doesn’t get better than this.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I replied.
IMITATE A SPIRITUAL MASTER.
One of the most universal spiritual practices is the imitation of a spiritual master as a way to gain understanding and discipline. Christians, for example, study Thomas à Kempis’s Imitation of Christ and ask, “What would Jesus do?” In the secular world, I believe, people often read biographies for spiritual reasons: they want to study and learn from the example of great lives, whether those of Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, Oprah Winfrey, or Warren Buffett. That desire had certainly been one of the reasons why I’d wanted to write biographies myself. Now I decided to study and imitate a new spiritual master—but whom? I asked blog readers what spiritual masters they followed.
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I greatly admire & have learned a lot from 2 Zen teachers (although that’s not a tradition I practice). Norman Fischer is a person of wisdom, patience & common sense. My favorite Jewish Zen grandmother (not mine), a woman of great wisdom, eloquence and candor, is Sylvia Boorstein. And lastly, from my own tradition, Rabbi Charles Kroloff.
Vincent Van Gogh. I know, I know, how could someone whose legacy involves cutting off his ear be a spiritual mentor? (Well, first of all, he didn’t really cut off his ear…) All you have to do is read his collected letters, DEAR THEO, to see how spiritual Van Gogh was, and also, to gain inspiration from the life, thoughts, ideas, philosophies, and perseverance of this incredibly talented man, both in the art of painting, and also in the art of transcendence, self-empowerment, and self-belief.
Charles Darwin. Fantastically dedicated to finding out why the natural world looked the way it does; he didn’t teach, he showed. His insights were down to long deep thought and lots and lots of hard work. There are several very good biographies that tell of his unexceptional childhood, his voyage on the Beagle, and how he deliberately chose to earn scientific respectability before he published his world-shaking ideas, backed by huge amounts of examples. It turns out that he was a fairly nice gentle man too. Anyone that looks that clearly at the world merits profound respect.
Anne Lamott because she is so honest and Rabbi Wayne Dosick even though I’m not Jewish.
Two that come to mind: Dr. Andrew Weil, an integrative medicine practitioner and author of many books on the subject. He discusses how people can feel better mentally, physically, and spiritually and his advice always resonates with me. Another is Natalie Goldberg, author of th
e popular writing book, Writing Down the Bones. It’s a zen approach to writing, but as she points out, her advice can really apply to many things. To me, what’s central to her ideas is self-forgiveness.
Actually, I would name the natural world as a spiritual teacher (I don’t like the term “master”). Western culture assumes that only a human can teach spirituality, but in Indigenous worldview, any creature, any natural element can be a teacher. We can learn a lot if we learn to listen to and observe the natural world.
Viktor Frankl.
I’m not sure I’ve found a spiritual master, though the poetry and passion of Saint Paul have captivated me. My husband finds inspiration in the life of George Orwell.
The Dalai Lama. Just seeing a photo of him makes me happy. I never considered imitating him, though. Food for thought.
I’ve picked one and plan to learn more about his fascinating life. He’s none other than one of our founding fathers—Ben Franklin. I just read the Wikipedia on him and it states—“A noted polymath, Franklin was a leading author and printer, satirist, political theorist, politician, scientist, inventor, civic activist, statesman and diplomat.” I do remember reading that he did all these things but to this day I still can’t figure out how. I have to do more research here.
Lama Norlha Rinpoche (www.kagyu.com if you’re curious to know about him. Tibetan Buddhist like the Dalai Lama!). He’s been my meditation teacher for over 25 years. The way he teaches is, in a way, the opposite of emulation, though he is very inspiring himself (funny, I first wrote that as “inspiriting”). It’s more like he’s trying to free me to be myself, in a deep down positive way.
I know this is weird, but I’m going with Dan Savage (the sex advice columnist). He’s not so much a spiritual master as an ethical one. And yes, he’s a self-admitted potty-mouth, but he also advocates honesty, love, and respect. And he’s just so quotable, i.e., “it’s a relationship, not a deposition.” As you always say, we don’t choose what we like to do, only what we do…and I might not have chosen to elevate Dan to that level, but it’s how I genuinely feel about him.
Henry David Thoreau sprang immediately to mind. Also, Nature. This quote from Saint Bernard says it well: “You will find something more in woods than in books. Trees and stones will teach you that which you can never learn from masters.” Perhaps I should research Saint Bernard…
Hermann Hesse. While I never thought about him as a spiritual guide I suppose he is, as I have a collection of all his books, memoirs and poetry. A quote from him I think you’d find interesting is “Happiness is a how; not a what. A talent, not an object.”
Mother Teresa and Gloria Steinem!
St Francis of Assisi has taught me so much about accepting things that might appear as my enemy. Instead of hating, I can reframe a situation. For example, instead of hating mosquitoes, I remind myself how they feed the birds and they too have a purpose. I still dislike them, but I don’t hate them like I used to. I love many things about St Francis and try to emulate him.
I work with people who—among other things—are seeking happiness. However, rather than encouraging them to model themselves on someone—a spiritual someone—I ask them to consider several persons of their own gender whom they admire. It could be a figure from history, literature, the cinema, or someone they personally know, a figure from politics, a mentor, a family member, a celebrity. It really makes no difference who it is, as long as these two or three persons are individuals that they admire.
Once they have named those people, I ask them to identify specifically those characteristics that they admire (not their looks, please!).
Then I tell them this (very Jungian, but very useful to know): whatever it is that they admire in these individuals (and generally the characteristics tend to coincide for all the people they have mentioned) is something that is nascent in themselves, but that they have not yet brought into being.
That—the fact that it is still in the nascent and unrecognized stage in themselves—is the real reason why they admire it in the others. Once they have begun to bring these characteristics forth in themselves, they will begin to admire something different in others, in order to continue the cycle of growth into inner freedom and happiness.
Knowing what you admire in others is a wonderful mirror into your deepest, as yet unborn, self.
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These suggestions were intriguing, and I was reading stacks of books about various figures, but I didn’t feel a particular affinity for anyone until I came across Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. I’d become interested in Saint Thérèse after I saw her praised in Thomas Merton’s memoir The Seven Storey Mountain. I’d been so surprised to see the cranky, monkish Merton write reverently about the sappily named “Little Flower” that I was curious to read her spiritual memoir, Story of a Soul. That book fascinated me so much that, without quite realizing it, I developed a mini-obsession with Saint Thérèse. I bought one book about her, and then another, and then another. I reread Story of a Soul several times.
One day, as he saw me trying to cram my latest Saint Thérèse biography onto the shelf (between The Hidden Face of St. Thérèse and Two Portraits of St. Thérèse), Jamie asked with a note of disbelief in his voice, “How many books about Saint Thérèse are you going to buy?” There are few topics that would interest Jamie less than the life of a Catholic saint.
I looked with surprise at the shelf and counted the biographies, histories, and analyses of Saint Thérèse. I’d bought seventeen, and I’d read every single one. I also had a videotape and a used book that was nothing but Saint Thérèse photographs—for which I’d paid $75 (“Indulge in a modest splurge”). Light dawned. I had a spiritual master. Saint Thérèse was my spiritual master. But why was I attracted to this Catholic saint, a French woman who had died at the age of twenty-four after having spent nine years cloistered with some twenty nuns—Saint Thérèse, the “Little Flower,” known for her “Little Way”?
After I thought about it for five seconds, it became perfectly obvious.
I’d started my happiness project to test my hypothesis that I could become happier by making small changes in my ordinary day. I didn’t want to reject the natural order of my life—by moving to Walden Pond or Antarctica, say, or taking a sabbatical from my husband. I wasn’t going to give up toilet paper or shopping or experiment with hallucinogens. I’d already switched careers. Surely, I’d hoped, I could change my life without changing my life, by finding more happiness in my own kitchen.
Everyone’s happiness project is different. Some people might feel the urge to make a radical transformation. I was vicariously exhilarated by these dramatic adventures, but I knew they weren’t the path to happiness for me. I wanted to take little steps to be happier as I lived my ordinary life, and that was very much in the spirit of Saint Thérèse.
Thérèse Martin was born in Alençon, France, in 1873. Before her parents’ marriage, her father had tried to become a monk and her mother a nun, but both had been rejected by religious orders; her five sisters who survived childhood all became nuns, and Thérèse became a saint. Thérèse tried to enter a Carmelite convent at Lisieux at age fifteen (two of her sisters were already there), but the bishop wouldn’t permit it because she was too young. She traveled to Rome to ask Pope Leo XIII’s permission personally, but the pope stood by the bishop’s decision. Then the bishop changed his mind. When Thérèse was in the convent, her “Mother” was her older sister Pauline, who instructed Thérèse to write the story of her childhood, which became the basis of Story of a Soul. In 1897, at the age of twenty-four, Thérèse died an agonizing death from tuberculosis.
While she lived, no one outside her family and convent had heard of Thérèse. After she died, an edited version of her memoir was sent to Carmelite convents and Church officials as an obituary notice. Just two thousand copies were printed initially, but the popularity of this “Springtime Story of a Little White Flower,” as she’d characteristically titled it, spread with astonishing rapidity; just tw
o years after her death, her grave had to be placed under guard to protect it from pilgrims seeking relics. (It’s hard to understand how such a short, modest account of childhood and youth could have such spiritual power—yet of course I feel it myself.)
Accordingly, in a suspension of the ordinary requirements, Thérèse got a fast-track canonization in 1925 and became “Saint Thérèse” just twenty-eight years after her death. To mark the centenary of her death, in 1997 Pope John Paul II made her a Doctor of the Church, the elite category of thirty-three supersaints that includes Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas.
To me, the fascinating aspect of her story was Thérèse’s achievement of sainthood through the perfection of small, ordinary acts. That was her “Little Way”—holiness achieved in a little way by little souls rather than by great deeds performed by great souls. “Love proves itself by deeds, so how am I to show my love? Great deeds are forbidden me. The only way I can prove my love is by…every little sacrifice, every glance and word, and the doing of the least actions for love.”
There was nothing outwardly striking about Thérèse’s life or her death. She lived an obscure existence, much of it without stepping foot outside her convent, and though she was born just one year before Churchill (while she was dying in the convent infirmary, he was fighting as part of the Malakand Field Force in British India), she seems like a figure from the distant, quaint past. Thérèse didn’t overcome a dysfunctional family or monumental difficulties; she had loving parents and a tender, indulgent upbringing in prosperous circumstances. Although Thérèse confided in Story of a Soul that “I want to be a warrior, a priest, an apostle, a doctor of the Church, a martyr…I should like to die on the battlefields in defence of the Church,” she didn’t perform outstanding feats or undertake daring adventures; indeed, except for her trip to petition the pope, she stayed in her neighborhood and with her immediate family for her whole life. She wanted to suffer and to spill her blood for Jesus, and she did, but in a little way—not in a glorious confrontation in war or at the stake but by dying in agony, spitting up blood, as a pitiful tuberculosis victim.